Our Anniversary: The B&B and Zion

Sam carved our initials into a log. How romantical!

Here's a photo journey of our anniversary weekend. After spending two fun-filled nights at the Lambson's for all the graduation festivities, we left on Saturday afternoon to go camping in Zion. But the weather was terrible on the way down--bitter cold, snowy, and windy, so we stopped in Cedar City. When I was 18, I lived in Cedar City for one summer playing bass for the Utah Shakespeare Festival--it was my first time living on my own outside of school. I have a lot of good memories there, including all these really cute bed and breakfasts that I would pass when I went out jogging (back when I actually went jogging).

Anyway, Sam and I changed our plans for one night because of the weather and pulled in to a really cute B&B, the Big Yellow Inn, and I just loved it. Loved it! I liked it more than the Grand America, where we stayed on our wedding night. Not because our wedding night was bad by any means (although some people aren't so lucky), but as far as location, B&Bs have so much personality, and that's what I like. We stayed in the "Bon Voyage" room, which was fitting because we were planning to go to San Francisco and didn't, but we had our fair share of nautical accomodations. (Notice the live saver ring says San Fran on it. Perfect!)
We watched Meet Joe Black from the B&B library, which we both liked. I'd never seen Brad Pitt in a movie before--somehow I missed that whole craze, but I was impressed. In the morning we had a great breakfast with two other older couples visiting from Alabama, and then we left for a hike in Kolob before going to Zion proper in the afternoon. Here's the reincarnated wedding cake my sister made for us. Beyond the freezer-burned exterior, it was as good as ever! We ate it on our first hike. Mmm. Year-old cake.

Zion was beautiful. We did a lot of birdwatching on our hikes and saw some great birds Sam had never seen after his semester in the birdwatching class. There was a big hullabaloo that involved me petting squirrels and an old woman yelling at me about rabies and Sam getting mad at me and him and this old lady telling me to stay away from my little friends. So the whole squirrel thing hung over our heads throughout the afternoon, but whatev. We had a great time.

Peace out,
Liz

Rejection and Self Prophecy

It is nice to be unforgettable.

At least by one person. Or two including God. This weekend Sam and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary—a big day. Today I’m looking back on my journals and am seeing how awful it can be sometimes to be single and dragged down by the anxiety of unrequited love and lack of commitment. I feel very, very lucky to have found someone who is my best friend, who I love spending time with, and who shares in a healthy, reciprocal, and loving relationship with me. It seems so simple, so ordinary, and yet so phenomenal to have found my match. Our days pass one by one together and they are very good, so peaceful and satisfying. There is a completeness in our life together. I only hope that everyone will be so blessed as we are, but I also know that not everyone is so lucky in this life, and I don’t know why or how I find myself with such a wonderful companion as my Sam.

We’ve had a very good year together full of lots of adventure and change and goodness. That always what I’ve wanted in my life, underlying every other unfounded or impractical desire: goodness. There are so many other temptations, but it seems worth the sacrifice to have peace of mind and real joy.

Here’s another woeful tale following a rejection from two years ago, similar to the one time I went out and bought a new dress to go to the symphony with a boy I liked, and the night before the concert, I called him and he said something like, “About that . . . I have to do laundry.” Laundry, really? Did he think I was so dense?

This was the last entry in the journal of change that I talked about in My History of Writing. What I think is interesting about it is that at the end, I talked about how I felt ready to find my companion after years of fighting it—this was after telling myself at one point that I wouldn’t date anyone from BYU at all, and I had plans to graduate and be a traveling musician/hippie in the Northwest or something. I think life brought about a better option. And at any rate, we’re off to the Northwest anyway. I think the hippie part may continue to develop.

Sometime down the road I’ll have to publish The Story of My Life that I wrote this same summer; it was my prophecy of what I thought would happen in my future, and it’s amazing how many of the details have already come to pass in just the way I imagined them. There is real power in self-prophecies. So you can see at the end of this entry that I hoped to find someone, and at the end of the summer I met Sam. So there you go. It happens.

Monday - July 23, 2007

Things don’t always go as planned, I guess.

I woke up nervous and daydreaming about my evening-to-be with ___ and a movie. I fixed my hair and picked my clothes. I had trouble focusing all day. I was so excited I could hardly eat.

When the time came to call him after FHE I called and . . . and he forgot about me—he didn’t even call me to tell me he couldn’t make it—he didn’t even call.

I’m having a good day because I am so beautiful inside and out now—I feel so pure, so worthwhile, so beautiful, and yet, it’s still . . . forgettable to someone who hasn’t ever seen me that way.

“About that . . .” he said. The fateful line. The joke from last summer on the way home from Mexico. About that . . . .

I feel so ready to love and be loved, and I know that’s a big part of my being so eager . . . Being turned down yesterday really, really shook me, but not in a down-to-the-hole-of-depression-and-deadness sense, but in the really satisfying sense of having my feelings hurt in a real way. I don’t think it’s unnatural or abnormal for a girl to feel hurt that a boy forgot to call her and even let her know he had other plans. It’s like the night ___ left me waiting at the door for half an hour because he was playing a computer game. The game was more important.

I guess if I pretend or propose to believe that people are more important than anything else, I should practice it myself regardless of how I may be overlooked in any given situation . . . .

Anyway, it’s almost noon and I’m still in bed—I’ve been rolling around just thinking about everything. After the movie last night I just lay there thinking and lying on the floor in the faint glow of the “unusable signal” glowing in red on a gray TV screen. I felt so beautiful, like Harold Crick, with a life worth saving and filling and loving, and yet I felt realistically alone again, alone in a room after such high hopes of spending a few hours with one young man. . . . but I don’t plan to drop everything for someone who doesn’t remember that I exist most of the time, or so I see it . . . I’m not angry with him, just disappointed—I usually set my hopes too high. . . .

It looks like I’ll be ending a beautiful compositional journey on a cliffhanger. And at the same time, this journal, this single notebook, holds in it one of the most divine keys I’ve molded for myself—this has been a book of healing, the discovery of my own existence, and the renewal of my own ability to feel alive. And I do feel alive and alert. I feel. I see. I want. I dream. I hope. I believe. I try. I do. I become.

In no way have I yet seen a failure in the past five weeks. This has been the season of overcoming.

. . . So as far as my current thoughts on love, as I lie here on this holiday afternoon—I still believe in it and desire it with all my heart. I look forward to the days when I will lie down to sleep and wake up next to someone who will be familiar with my fingertips, someone whose eyebrows I can trace with my thumbs and whose freckles I will know. I look forward to something pure, something without selfishness or greed. No one will take advantage of the other and no one will be forgotten at heart.

. . . But here it is. I’m still writing my story. Last night as I lay in the light of the “unusable signal,” I found myself swimming again in the whirlwind of possibilities; it was as if someone ran across the room swiping a long, smudgy line over the chalkboard of my plans—my story outline, and it wasn’t that I was left with nothing, I was rather left with an infinite opening of possibilities—there was and is so much to come, things I don’t see. People and moments I have never beheld.

But I still know what I want, and one of those things right now, in this season, is companionship. I know people want it—everyone wants and needs it, but after a year and a half of fearing it, feeling so far from even the thought of having it, I’m holding onto this glorious feeling of being ready, being willing to give of myself, being willing to take risks. And I feel it coming. I can see myself in the next year finding whoever it is I’m looking for. It could really be anyone, and I’m ready to choose one among many. I’m not afraid of making the choice . . . That’s part of the trouble in these parts.

But I’m not from these parts. I’m a voyager from heaven and a veteran of hell.

I would love to marry at the age of 22, next summer sometime, perhaps at the end of the summer. I know I can’t just schedule a date like that, but at least I have the satisfaction of knowing what I want instead of floating down some wandering river past the unfamiliar banks of no man’s land. I’m sailing in my own land now.

“Something new, I’ve needed something new . . . what’s it to you if I’m going to take the tide and sail to somewhere new?” That was the song from last summer, and here I am. I have sailed around the world and through the depths since then. The sea storm is far behind me and I’ve set foot on unfounded territory. It’s time to venture forward, building as I go, planting and discovering. I feel strong at heart again.

Go on, Liz.

__________

I have gone on, and I’m still going. Looking at the time since, it’s been a whirlwind, and things have settled down these days. No graduations, weddings, honemoons, moves, and joblessness all within the span of one week. That was last year.

At this point I’m working from home, babysitting Owen, and feeling content with my life, but wondering what’s next for me, and for us. Will I make friends in Portland? Will I find a job there? Will I find success in a musical career there? Should I get more education? Will I ever get that MFA in creative writing? Will this stupid writer’s block and lack of creativity ever leave me, or did I sacrifice my insanity for a big fat block instead? Maybe I’m not mature enough yet. Someday a story will come—or courage, or absolute craziness, or old age, or whatever does the trick.

In the meantime, here’s to my one true love, Sam, and one wonderful year, and to many, many more to come. Huzzah!

Sam & Syd's Graduation

The Graduate(s) . . . Hellooo, Mrs. Robinson!Family Photo: Cheri, Grandpa and Grandma Kirby, Sam, Liz, Syd, Chuck, and Paul

Sam and his MISM friends!

Sam and Sydney's new watches from Paul. Bling!Partying wears out my psyche. Elaboration to come. Maybe.

Liz Rhodes Circa 1992

Big Week!

If Chocolate Were Lettuce

I'm going to be frank here. In the past year, I've gained about 20 pounds. I've also finished school. And worked in an office sitting on my bum. And been married.These factors may or may not be related.

But the gaining trend must not continue, by George! While dance aerobics and working out three times a week since October-ish has stopped the exponential weight gain I felt as a result of the sedentary life in the OC, the pounds creep in like dirty, flubbery, unwanted, rabid hippopotomus roadkill coming to life and sneaking into the wings of a Circue du Soleil performance or something that should not be glutinously overweight and--gasp!--I feel depressed and pitiful enough to actually . . . watch what I eat. Oh, what fateful circumstances are these! Oh, what troubled times! Oh, with reality TV pounding on the doors of my soul! Oh, the misfortune!

So, in my despair, I called my triathlete-Air-Force-Captain brother Jack, and he gave me a "helllooo" speech that how much I consume directly effects how much I weigh, etc., etc., stop eating so much, but be realistic about it, so on and and so forth . . .

Honestly, I don't think I'm "fat," and I don't mind my figure, and I don't have unrealistic expectations of myself, and who knows what I'll look like in my future, and maybe it doesn't matter, but I am seeing that to continue a trend of 20 pounds per year would only lead me stealthily to my grave with Toblerone and cheese crumbles in hand. When I do feel fat, Sam can testify that I start spewing out pathetic monologues about my sagging flesh sinking into the weakening springs of the mattress, etc., etc., and it just isn't very ladylike.

As I think I have healthy eating/exercising habits, the question seems to be not what I'm eating, but how much. This will not become a diet blog, but after starting my calorie counting exercise this week, this is what I learned:

Here is an example of what used to be my perception of the caloric value of my favorite foods:

Lettuce - 10 calories
Peanut M&Ms - 20 calories
Pear - 10 calories
French Fries - 20 calories
Hamburger - 30 calories
Pasta - 25 calories
Salad Dressing - 2 calories
Butter - 10 calories
Cheese - 20 calories

Here's the reality of foods I've eaten this week:
(I thank you, oh honest Google Calorie Counter)

1 Tbs Butter - 100 calories
1 Homemade Multigrain Apple Muffin - 140 calories
Pear - 60 calories
1 Measly Single Peanut Butter M&M Egg Thing - 12 calories
3 oz Ground Beef - 215
1 Cup Iceberg Lettuce - 10 calories
1 Cup Herbal Tea - 2 calories
1/2 Tbs Honey - 32 calories
1 Serving Pasta - 248
1 oz Cheddar Cheese - 112
1 Tbs Olive Oil -120
1 Cup Brocolli - 19
1 Serving Steamed Rice - 238
2 Tbs Salsa - 8 calories

It adds up very quickly. My brother told me girls eat about 1500 calories a day (I think I've been eating like twice that) and I can just do the math. So if I were to lose one pound a week, I should cut back about 500 calories per day. My goal this week was to start consuming about 1000 calories a day--I'm doing pretty well with it. So if I were to keep it up, that would lead me to lose my 20 excess pounds in about 5 months.

This will not become a pity/diet blog. But that's what I'm up to. I'll get back to you in September.

Yours,
Liz

Ella's 250,000th Birthday

This Saturday my car, Ella, the '91 LeBaron Convertible, reached 250,000 miles. We threw her a birthday party, and no one came, but that's okay because we slept through it anyway. But we did have chili dogs. Too bad you missed that.

Here's Ella in the early '9os. It's true, she was originally red, and it's also true that my sister and I once had really rad matching white rollerblades with HOT pink and yellow laces. I'm glad that HOT colors are coming back, because a color just isn't good enough unless it's "hot." My current wardrobe has a lot of catching up to do to get back to the late '80s. And yes, it's also true that we used to dress like this in all seriousness. For example, note the pink and white overall shorts to match the pink and white rollerblades. That's me.

Here is Ella today, with the brand new tires we got her for her 250,000th birthday.I might get dewey-eyed if I start going off on all the tender experiences we've had with this car over the years. But let me say, I had two professors--they were married (the Plummers)--who said everyone should have a convertible once in their lives, and I very, very, very much support, believe, condone, preach, and thrive on that sentiment. In fact, the thing is, once you have a convertible, you will never go back.

We're driving this car into the ground.

The Sweet Potato That Looks Like a Deer

I'm trying to think of something funny. Funny. Fun fun.

Not happening.

General update then. Babysitting = going well. Long day. Had my first fountain-diaper-changing experience this afternoon and decided that was the last straw for our rugs. They are already used, stained, burned, and hand-me-downs. I refuse to take them to Portland as I dream about and gaze at beautiful rugs on all of my travels--even at the mall.

Speaking of rugs, how about this pug? This pug likes to chew on rugs.This is me and Ziggy Stardust, my mother-in-law's birthday present. That is Sam's laptop, his last birthday present. So my birthday is coming up . . . Looks like I can set my expectations REAL high, eh? Hmmmm? How about a $3,000 rug? Ha ha! Okay, how about a . . . um. Lettuce. I do love lettuce. My iGoogle calorie counter sure loves lettuce too. Annnd I like paper products. And . . . we lost two of our nice forks. Gosh. What do I want. Maybe I should post my birthday wishlist and see what magic rains from the skies.

Things Liz/Sam/we refuse to take to Portland:

-Rotting food, such as this alien/deer sweet potato:
Ha! Okay--that's funny. My work here is done. Many compliments to Sam.

My Morning in the Style of Jane Eyre

In the whisping torrents of fading dreams, I awoke this morning to the gentle pat-pat of soft drops caressing the panes from heaven; those cool spring showers lighted upon my foggy windows like the tapping of a thousand fable fairies. From behind the shadows of the soft, sheer curtains emanated a certain glow of blue morning mist and sleepy fog melting down from the mountains beyond.

As I lifted my head from my fading slumber, oh how I noted how quickly and ferociously the hours pass in the night and my nightmarish visions transform into gaity—daydreams that light my feet from my repose and send me softly to the warmth of the bath. How I revel in the warmth flowing from the pristine faucet above me, the source of such cleansing; a simple delight that I would feign but enjoy daily—if not eternally—with the sweet scent of honey almond soaps and sudsy creams lathering my senses.

Ah, me, how the hours pass so quickly, as Juliet would say to her beloved Romeo; it is how I feel, dear reader, as the morning passes and I submit myself to the duties of the hours forthcoming. To spend these precious minutes in services and practises only so worthy of these jewels of time is my only hope in such a world of unfulfilled promises; and yet, I thrive in the beauty and nature of such a glorious creation as this. Such a hopeful environment is mine in these ever-passing days; a torrent of indeed bearable duties mingled with pleasant tasks that bring me fulfillment and cause me to sleep soundly and ever so quietly when the day has gone by.

My New Pal

I haven't written since I've started watching Owen. This is my second week as a nearly full-time babysitter. Owen is my new pal for the spring season. You may see us strolling around Provo or hanging out in my apartment.

Meet Owen: a very well behaved baby, coming up on three months. Owen is learning how to make noise and giggle and eat more.Okay, so truth's out: I had never changed a diaper before. It's true. So while small children have intimidated me for a long, long time, I'm finding that they're not so scary. Does this look scary? I don't think so. Here's to my new friend!

My Pleasures: Healthy, Basic, and Guilty

Healthy Pleasures – What I like that makes me feel good and like a good person/ Potentially self-righteous interests/Stuff I talk about doing but don’t always do:

1. Healthy foods like arugula, whole wheat, almonds, and berries

2. Watering the plants

3. Reading Pulitzer Prize-winning literature

4. Faith

5. Cooking for people

6. Performing classical music

7. Public speaking

8. Serving others

9. Sewing

10. Writing in my journal

Basic Pleasures – What I like that provides simple feel-good status, not necessarily in a moral sense:

1. Brushing my teeth/Washing my hair

2. Practicing the bass

3. Keeping a clean home

4. Teaching young people how to play music

5. Watching people/babies/puppies sleeping

6. Sun warmth

7. Not feeling fat

8. Soaking my own beans

9. Tweezing my eyebrows

10. Doing dance aerobics like I’m Troy Bolton

Guilty Pleasures – What I like that is inconsistent with my “front”/Pleasures that may bring me shame or mild self-loathing/Possible indications of my true character/Stuff that’s not really that bad, but makes me feel less than good in one way or another:

1. Justin Timberlake

2. Wearing really high heels

3. Kraft Macaroni and Cheese

4. Excessive internet use, such as obsessive blogging/Facebook activity

5. Passive aggression

6. Staying in bed until noon

7. Sorrow

8. Vanity (clothing, bangles, earrings for my un-pierced ears, etc.)

9. Expensive massages and spa treatment

10. Flirting with radio personalities (lesson learned)

I am somewhere in the middle

I am somewhere in the middle

Why do books have to be sad. Heart wrenching. Controversial. Conflicted. Can’t we be happy? Why can’t we be friends? When I’m happy I don’t write. When I’m content I don’t write. When I’m sad I write. When I’m angry I write. When I’m in between, I think about writing and I don’t. Is there no other way? Must creativity and inner turmoil be so connected? Must I stifle that fire? How do you harness the universe? Why do I ask myself this same question so often? When you grow up, does your youth become a cobweb? Inaccessible energy? This is one question. This is many questions.

I am somewhere in the middle

I am somewhere in the middle