Strange Package

Once upon a time, I am ridiculously spoiled. (again/still)

I've been in pursuit of the perfect black leather boots for years. At some point John got in on the search. He has probably gotten more obsessed with it than I have.

I want simple, plain, black leather boots. Shouldn't be hard, right?
It is.
Go, search. Try it.

The criteria: 
Black, leather (authenticity negotiable)
      (so far so easy)
Height just below the knee
      (totally doable)
Roughly 3-4 inch thin heels, no more than half an inch platform, rounded toe (my usual criteria for favorite heels)
      (give us a real challenge)
Very fitted
      (yeah, we can do that)
Absolutely no buckles, bows, weird seams, ruffles, bunching, or any other unnecessary accessories.
      ...good luck.
Under $200?
      (Now you're being ridiculous)


Yep. This is why I don't have them already. You'd think so much simplicity should be easy. It's not. For whatever reason, people don't make plain black boots.

He got me ones he thought were pretty dang close for Christmas. He figured if they were perfect, then that's awesome, but if they weren't perfect then we could replace them with the perfect ones. He was expecting to replace them so it was fine that I didn't love those boots....but I did love that he got them for me.

But as we searched more, we both understood how hard it is to find the dang things. I figured it would take years until we found them, so we got me other boots that I loved and weren't anything like my perfect black leather boots.

And that's when John found them.
But I told him that we'd already gotten me boots so we could wait because we really didn't need to spend even more money on boots for me right now.

But they were on sale and he was scared he wouldn't be able to find them again.

I adore my husband. I'm pretty sure he adores me too.
I don't adore him because he gets me all the stuff a girl could ask for. I adore him because he wants to make me happy.

But I am pretty sure at some point I should stop getting spoiled. I've had enough to last me a few years.

Thank you for all the presents. It does make me feel loved.

Material Girl

Last weekend my dear, darling mother-in-law took me shopping. This is dangerous. My mother-in-law loves to buy, buy, buy, and I don't know how to say no, no, no.

Luckily I realize this, which means she hadn't taken me shopping in about a year and a half. But it was time.

I came to the conclusion that John's mom has bought me more clothing in the past 3 years than my own mother has in my entire life. This shouldn't be surprising since my mom knew how to say no for me, and most of my clothes growing up were second-hand (I am the youngest of ten belonging to an elementary school teacher, after all). 

I don't want to get you the wrong idea. I love Carol and I love shopping with her. I had a blast spending time with a woman I adore. And let's face it, I'm not perfect; I thoroughly enjoy being spoiled rotten to the core.

Okay, hopefully I'm not rotten to the core.

But I am definitely spoiled.

Two hours in the dressing room and I am exactly

6 cardigans, 7 dresses, 10 shirts, 4 pairs of jeans (one coral colored), and 3 pairs of shoes more spoiled.
That's just attire.
And that's with me saying "I don't think so" a lot.

Oh, and see the heels on the right?
These:

That's right. I own sparkly heels.
This makes me muy happy.
I would never have bought them for myself. I just don't need them, so I simply wouldn't buy them. Carol, however, has no such inhibitions. I tried them on just to try them on, and she insisted I get them.
Isn't she cute?


I gave John a fashion show the next day:

This would make my Sarah Lynn proud (even if there is a lack of scarves)


I bought while with Carol something that John and I have been searching for: a comforter.
We painted our bedroom purple and cream and have been trying to find the right bed spread to go with it. We've found plenty of purple comforters, even in King size, and for a good price. But there's always been something wrong with them. Too "90's," too silver, too tan...so we had finally decided we might need to settle. But then the magically perfect one showed up.

Isn't it purdy?
We've been loving it.

I love our bed. I convinced John that we needed a King size. He thinks it makes us too far apart and he'd be perfectly happy with a double. Ugh. I'm glad I convinced him. Though our bed is somewhat...enormous. We got my brother's old bed frame when they switched, so it's free even if it's not what we would have picked out. But now we have our comforter and our purple sheets (several sets) and as soon as we get the all right pillows it will be perfect.

Almost there.



There is a vague point to all my ramblings here -- surprisingly enough.
As I skipped giddily around my house this week I realized how happy having nice things makes me. This is weird because I don't consider myself very material...and yet clearly I am. So I thought about it more.

Yes, I am a material person. I value material things.
Material things give me happiness, even lasting (time-wise) happiness.
My huge house continues to make me happy. My painted walls continue to make me happy. My gadget-stocked kitchen continues to make me happy. My collection of books continues to make me happy. Some of my random purchases from the dollar store continue to make me happy.

However, my happiness does not hinge on material things. I am quite happy without all these things, and was before I had them. All of these things are just added bonuses on an already wonderful life. That's how I see them. And that's why I think my life is amazing.

I have everything I could need: a wonderful husband, loving and lovable family and friends, my basic needs taken care of
I also have everything I could want: A loving and successful marriage, a home of our own, time to spend with those I care for, financial security, health, the ability to learn and grow,
Then I get all these extras: A house we could never outgrow, an overflowing wardrobe (with a closet that makes it seem small), a gorgeous kitchen, the money to buy most whimsical desires, a cute puppy to keep me company

People who know me know I am a very happy person. I always have been. But I'm pretty sure everyone else would be too if they had my life. My life simply rocks.
Yet, that's not really what makes me happy.
Choosing to be happy makes me happy.
And I choose to love the small things.

My Valentine

My baby is making me dinner tonight. He was feeling sick yesterday so our Valentine's day was not up to his preparations. We just snuggled on the couch and started Star Trek: The Next Generation.

I'm fairly mellow when it comes to romantic expectations. I have yet to figure out if this makes me a really good or extremely unfair match for my naturally romantic hubs. (He still doesn't understand that he's successfully romantic, which, of course, is part of what allows him to be so romantic.) I think I struck gold with John. He's an idealistic husband in most ways. He's the kind of guy chick flicks are made about, except that those guys don't exist. However, I don't expect much of that. I don't need to have flowers on Valentine's day and I don't mind if my husband forgets when our Anniversary is.
Perhaps that makes it unfair, because John should have gotten a girl who appreciates his inborn talent. Or, perhaps it's give and take: neither one of us would really be like this if we hadn't been matched up.
Ah well.

In any case, Johnny B is adorable. He has been so excited to plan Valentine's Day evening for me. He wants to make it perfect (even if it's a day late). The thing that makes my Johnny special, though, is that he is like this for every occasion possible, and I know he'll continue to be like that as long as I encourage it. He's sincere and sweet and I love him.

But the sweetest part is that while he's making dinner he worries about making it like I do. It shows that not only does he pay attention to what I do, but he appreciates the way and the why I do them.
That is true love.

Delightfully Taught

I have to read roughly 20 short stories a week between my two Literature classes this semester. I thought I loved literature. I still do, but I've lost a lot of respect for it.

I mean seriously, can I someday have a  happy story to read? Would it kill these people to make a comment on humanity without making me entirely depressed or grossed out? The beauty of their words is rather overshadowed when I dread finding the results. Spurts of humor and innocence don't cut it when the air hangs with observational disease.


I need me some Jane Austen or something.


I used to adore Poe. Now I have to kind of put him in the same category as everyone else...if not pushed to the back. I've been bombarded with too much disgusting to appreciate his language flirtations.


Hm...and you can always tell when I've been reading a lot when I throw in words that would cause my dear friend Scottland to carry around his dictionary. Let's go back to normal, maybe. And fix the depression.

Once upon a time there was a little girl.

She loved ponies and rainbows.

She learned how to obey Momma and Poppa

and so got everything her heart desired.

She got married in a castle 

to a man she did cartwheels with.

And they had beautiful children

whom they played with every day.

Hm. So that's why these stories are so depressing. It's not easy. My story kind of makes me want to puke, too.

I shall write a happy story that realistically teaches something.

Or just steal one from the Ensign.

...I love being LDS.

Banning Baby Bandwagon

I'm pretty sure at least 15 people I know have announced in the past week that they(/their significant other) are pregnant, or have announced what the gender of their coming baby is, or have actually had the baby. Add another week or two before that and the numbers increase. I'm pretty sure at least a 1/3 of my facebook friends(/their significant others) are either pregnant or just had a baby.

I can't post this on facebook because then my family will jump on it and assume I am pregnant and I'm not in the mood to combat all that. (And yes, that means I am not pregnant)

The point is, why on earth did everyone have to make it a bandwagon? I hate bandwagons.
Okay, not really, I just hate it when something I want to do becomes a bandwagon. Because I hate jumping on bandwagons. It takes all the fun out of it. Not that I have to be original -- I just don't want to be just like everyone else.

Except really...having a baby is no fad. I know I'm being silly. Anyone who falls into the category determined in the first paragraph would tell me that the third paragraph has nothing to do with them. And it doesn't, really. No one intended to all get together and have babies this year. (At least I hope not.)

But if John and I decide to never have children, I'm still blaming it on the sudden abnormal increase of baby-ness in my acquaintances lately.

Silk Puppy

Dirty Toes

I apologize if the following picture makes you puke. 

It just makes me happy. 

To me, this is the epitome of childhood.

Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration. 

Shoes are an encumbrance to the joys of running and playing. 

They were the first things rid of when I came home.

What is structure and protection when you can feel the cool of freshly watered grass

or the squish of mud

or the softness of new carpet?

Then again, children don't think about all that.

Perhaps I should stop romanticizing and just admit it.

I love my taking pictures of my niece Ella, and I think everything about her is cute.

And there is just something about those dang toes.

And her fingers...

Oh wait, maybe I'm just thrilled to see what I would have looked like as a baby, with "tiny little snakes reaching out of the blanket" (real quote from my sister-in-law about the first time she saw me)