Happy smells make happy people

I smell really good today. I'm not sure what makes today different from any other day. I washed my hair with the same shampoo, used the same soap, same lotion, same everything. But for some reason, I can still smell my soap (9 hours later), which is one of my favorite smells in the whole world. Maybe because it makes me think of newborn babies. I wish they bottled that smell, because I would carry it around with me all day, every day. But that might get awkward because when I smell that particular smell I want to cuddle and nuzzle and kiss and....what? Isn't that everyone's instinct when they hold a newborn? I digress.

I thought today about some of my favorite smells and why they are my favorite. Some I know why, others I don't. I've tried to put them in order, but of course it all just depends on the day.

1. Dove soap, the original white kind. See above.

1a. Newborn baby. I think this might be the same smell as Dove but I'm not sure. See above.

2. Fresh cookies. I know, I know. It really says something about Dove soap for it to be #1 and cookies to be #2. I'm serious about my love for that smell.

3. Ocean air. This is smell and feel combined, though.

4. Men's deoderant/cologne. I don't know why. I don't have a particular favorite "scent." I just like the sporty-smelling deoderant. And not on me. Not that I've ever tried them on. I'm just saying that this one might also be smell and feel combined. Not feel, but object-related. Nevermind. As far as cologne...I know there are a couple of smells that I love no matter who they are on. I just don't know what they are called, which is really very tragic.

5. Red Christmas spice(?) candles. The cinnamon ones, I think. I don't know what exactly they are, but they are red and I love them. I feel like the Christmas season has really started when this smell begins to waft through the house.

6. Pot roast on fast Sunday. No joke. There is nothing better than coming in the door from church and being blasted by the heavenly aroma of pot roast slow-cooking in the oven after having been without food for a solid 24 hours. Mmmmm.

7. Wet cement. Usually right after it starts to rain. Or on a hot summer day when you've been playing with the hose and you shouldn't have been because we're in a drought and we've been in a drought for the past 8 years...[sigh] Seriously, I think the drought lasted my entire childhood.

8. The new shed. The shed doesn't smell good, but it smells like hiking and camping since that's where we stored all the stuff. That's the smell of adventure.

9. Cleaning products. I do love me a clean bathroom and kitchen.

10. Chlorine. More specifically, the way I smell when I get out of the pool. Sometimes (when I swim regularly) I start to smell like this all the time, no matter how many showers I take. I actually really like smelling like the pool. I remember the first time I sat in my car on a hot day the day after a particularly long and hard workout. I sniffed and thought, did I leave my towel in here? Looked around. Nothing. Sniffed again. It was me. In that moment I felt so tough, I can't even tell you.

Favorite smells? Anyone? I know I can't be alone in my love for Dove...

Calvin may have had it right...

"Nothing helps a bad mood like spreading it around." ~Calvin

I feel better already. My apologies to my blog audience.

Meh

I know I've been blogging a lot lately but work has been slow and I've been feeling a little sassy. The sassiness caught up with me, though, and turned to a really foul mood sometime last night. I don't get in these moods very often, but when I do I hate it. I don't like feeling icky. I usually do everything in my power to squash it right away. Yesterday, however, I wallowed in the sick delight of a rotten mood for about an hour--tops--and then I was done. Maybe it's the indulgence that did me in...

I was doing mostly fine until I came home last night and started watching Hotel Rwanda. It's been on my list to see for forever, but it has always felt like one of those movies I needed to watch while someone holds me. I always want to watch those kinds of movies, but feel so vulnerable and sad during and after. Hence the need for human touch. Well, I really decided that three years was long enough to wait so I sucked it up and started watching it by myself. I think that's where I went wrong. I should never be allowed to watch these kinds of movies alone in my room with pop tarts (my current comfort food, and, last night, my dinner)...

I only got through about 20 minutes before I had to head to institute. By then I was beat from the day (when you get up at 5:30 it feels like bedtime should be around 8...) and not in the mood to have a somewhat remedial conversation about truth and revelation. Me=grumpy. I went home in a bad mood, went to bed in a bad mood, and woke up in a bad mood. I almost didn't go running this morning, but I knew to skip that was to subject myself to yet another reason to be disgusted with the day. So I went. Usually that is enough to dispel the mood. No dice. So I tried praying. Eh, marginal return (it was pretty proportional to my effort, really). I got a ride to the metro this morning. Nada. I got to work to discovery the tech guys had finally replaced my mouse. My pleasure lasted about as long as it took for me to discover that I no longer had to cajole my mouse to do its job. Once that was ascertained, my joy dissapated as I remembered I was at work. Zip.

I'm not sure what it's going to take. Maybe I need that hug after all. And maybe a kiss. And, while whoever's doing the hugging and kissing is at it, maybe a cookie as well.

Book Snob

Okay, I admit it. I'm a book snob. Someone once accused me of it and I was offended. And now I'd like to say I'm sorry I was offended. You were right.

Book recommendations are a tricky thing. My taste sometimes falls into mainstream and sometimes falls into quirky. Most of the time when people ask me for book recommendations I hem and haw until they get tired of waiting for me and end up changing the subject. In fact, I think I sort of bank on the fact that they won't wait for my response. Why? Because most of the time the books I love other people hate and it hurts my book self-esteem when someone bothers to come back and tell me they just couldn't get into one of my favorite books. I mean, it's fair enough. I find sort of random things funny. I identify with characters on strange levels and for strange reasons (they aren't strange to me...people just look at me real funny sometimes when I say what I really think about certain books. In grad school I could do this and be thought of as a valuable contributor to class. Now I'm just the local book snob.).

Well, here comes the snobbery for all to see because I have a rant. It's a rant against mediocre fiction. The last two books I have read have been terrible. Not just sort of bad, but really awful. Now, I do have to take some responsibility for my actions at this point. I have this annoying trait of finishing something I've started. I could have, at any point, put these books down. I was disgusted enough with them both that I should have. But I didn't. Why? Because I had to know if there was going to be any redeeming moment in them at all. I have this unfailing hope and faith that somewhere in the 400 pages of awfulness, evidence that an editor actually read the manuscript would come forth and the book would stop careening down the path of cliche and unoriginality!! I know this sounds harsh, but honestly, I want my time and money back. I'm not even going to admit which book was the first one I read. It's not even worth mentioning. All I can say is that I read it out of a "needed to know" obligation. The End.

The second book was a book by Shannon Hale, an author I really feel is very creative. I like her children's literature and have found it to be some of the most original and delightful fantasy I've come across (The Goose Girl and Enna Burning - the second one is particularly good). I recently came across a new-ish book she wrote in the non-kiddie section (I typed "adult section" but that sounded kind of wrong). I thought, hmmmm, and opened up the front cover. The prologue had me intrigued. It appeared to be about a girl who was obsessed over the Colin Firth version of Pride & Prejudice and was determined to rid herself of her fantasy obsession. The prologue was biting and I thought, ooooh, a good satire. I love a good satire. And since Hale had a good record with me, I bought it to take with me to the beach. What a disappointment.

The idea had such potential, but my biting satire instead turned out to be wish-fulfillment, and not even well done at that. I kept reading until the end, hoping for some ending other than the one I knew was coming. Even during the airport scene (which could have been so much funnier than it actually was) I kept thinking, there's no way this guy is getting on the plane. She wouldn't do that. But she does. I chucked the book across the room.

Now, please don't think I'm a cynic. I'm not. (I prefer to describe myself as an optimistic realist.) That being said, it's not that I didn't want the dude to get on the plane. There just wasn't nearly enough precedent for him to get on the plane. It was weird. It felt forced. I found myself examining my own writing, questioning what my own first story would be, if I were to finish writing it. Would it get caught in this weird place between satire and wish fulfillment? Maybe. Hopefully I'll have the good sense to never try and publish it. I'll lock it away in a drawer and pirate it for material 10 years down the road, not subject already vulnerable women to unlikely (and ultimately unentertaining) scenarios.

[sigh] Okay. Rant over. I'm returning to non-fiction for a while. I've had a lot of good luck with that genre this year, thanks to some excellent recommendations. (My friend, you know who you are, you have not failed me once. Thank you. You're at the top of my list. Don't blow it.)

N.B. I realize this may deter many of you from ever recommending a book to me again. That is not my intention. I love book recommendations. In all fairness I should point out that these books were not recommended to me. I chose them all by my lonesome. I wonder what that says about my own judgment... It reminds me of the time I rented P.S. I Love You and was mad the whole time and am still talking about how much I hated the movie.

Assignment: Please leave a comment about any of the following: Rants about books you hate/were disappointed in (and why - I'm curious). Praise for books you love (and why - I'm curious). What wish fulfillment literature does for you (love it? hate it? indifferent? it serves its purpose?). Or anything else you want to say (but try to be nice...or if you can't be nice, be articulate.)

The Adventures and Life of...

I remember the first journal I was ever given. I was young--7 or 8--and my sister gave it to me for my birthday. Inside was an inscription and a photo of the two of us in front of Big Thunder Mountain at Disneyland (the scariest rollercoaster I was old enough to ride at the time). It replaced my old journal, which was just a red-covered spiral notebook. In that journal I recorded some of my first spiritual experiences; it is a sacred book to me. The journal my sister gave me is also sacred in a way. I remember being so excited at the idea of having such a beautiful book in which to write down my thoughts and observations. This journal is probably one of the best of my collection because there was no hint of a self-conscious, censored writing style. This journal is filled with cringe-worthy confessions, such as my delight in my secret hiding place (my tiny closet), my feelings of jealousy of being left out of activities with my brothers, and my ideas of how life should be enjoyed. It also recorded some very tender moments, such as when my brother Bruce returned home from his mission. These events are recorded with the priceless candidness of a child. It is sometimes hard to believe that child was me.

I only recently became aware of the fact that over the years my writing has become increasingly censored. The last two journals I have kept feel stiff and lifeless, recording events but little emotion. I look back on days I know I felt things deeply and yet the page feels lifeless. There are bursts of excitement, there are moments of sorrow, but they are guarded and articulate. This week, as the ending of this particular journal loomed, I thought about how I arrived at this place in my writing. How is it that I am so candid in my discussions with my best girlfriends, feeling free to expose my follies, my girlish hopes and dreams (many of them utterly ridiculous), my deepest fears and sorrows, but I can't do so when left alone with myself and my journal? My time with my journal should be my most safe, and yet I am afraid to commit those thoughts to the page. Why? After some thought, I realized with more than a bit of sadness that I am afraid. I am afraid of being disappointed, and I am afraid of appearing foolish to myself in the next few months or years, that when I reread these entries (as I often do) I will shake my head at myself and think, "Silly, Julie. Was it really this dramatic?" Somewhere along the way I lost my ability to be accountable to myself for those thoughts. I have them and are aware of them, but the moment I start to write about them, I reign myself back in, exerting all of my control to remain level-headed and cool on the page. The undertone of the writing is an alternate Julie saying: don't shed tears; don't show weakness; don't be angry; don't get too excited. What nonsense! Because in reality sometimes I am crying. Sometimes I am weak. Sometimes I am angry. And sometimes I am way too excited. I wonder when exactly my personal writing took this turn.

I always like to give myself a little epilogue at the end of each journal, a little record of what I feel I have learned over the last few months (5 months in this case). This time around, though, I instead spent the last page writing what a week ago I would have called drivel. I tried to make a greater effort to capture the reality of my feelings inside of the facts. I quickly realized it is going to take some time to get back into recording life honestly. Even as I was writing this week I felt embarrassed, and I even wrote that I felt embarrassed and that I was going to stop writing before that feeling got any worse. But then, days later, I went back and read some of those things, and I wished I had gone into even greater depth. I wished that I had captured what was really going on in my head and heart. So this morning I tried again. It came easier. In fact, so much so that my writing got smaller and smaller as I tried to milk the last of the pages out. It felt like the relief that comes after holding your breath to the limit. I was disappointed when the last page was full and I had to stop. I wanted to keep writing, afraid that if I stopped I would unconsciously stop breathing. Again. (Metaphorically, of course.) They were the most honest words I had written in months. I reread them. They were terrifying. But they were also empowering. It was no formal epilogue, no goal setting for the next journal, no self-conscious assessment of growth. But for some reason what I wrote rendered all of that unnecessary. What I had written seemed to sum up the theme of this particular journal very well. It was the culmination of a long five months, full of trials as well as joys. It showed the result of patience and longsuffering. It showed that after all that has transpired in these months, hope is still alive, probably more so than it has ever been in my life. Of all the things I have been blessed with in the last few months, finding a greater hope in life is the best of them all.

Volume 17 begins today. I always love starting a new journal. As I end one journal and begin another, it seems to coincide with one phase of life ending and another beginning. The ending seems to come at the end of a certain trial, or at a moment of discovery, or at the beginning of a new adventure. I feel like this transition comes at a time of all three occurring at once. Isn't that exciting? I can hardly wait to record it all.

826 Valencia

I was first introduced to 826 Valencia by a good friend of mine. Days after we were discussing our respective ideal situations for employment, I received an email from him with the subject line "I found your dream job," accompanied by this link: http://www.ted.com/talks/view/id/233. He was right. Dream job. The clip is about 20 minutes long, but well worth it. Please watch it. You'll like it. You may love it like I do. At the very least it will make you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

In summary (for those who don't want to watch the clip despite my encouragement), 826 Valencia was started by professional writers who wanted to give back to the community. They moved their offices into a retail space in San Francisco and created a space for a tutoring center for kids. The space they rented out was zoned as retail space, though, and so they had to come up with something to sell. They settled on a pirate supply shop. And the project only grew from there. Seriously, watch the clip.

The first time I watched this video I was struck with the generosity of these writers. And their ingenuity. And creativity. There are too many homes where children are not receiving the attention they need to succeed in the fundamentals, let alone to inspire creativity. For these writers to recognize the need and to do something was enough to make me want to pack my bags and move to San Francisco (not that I'm a great writer, but just to be involved in a project like this...). It's not often you can get lots of kids to willingly engage in anything that appears to be even remotely related to school. But, put them in an environment where they are working side-by-side with professional writers, as well as other more advanced writers, in a fun environment (who desn't like pirates, I mean really...and even better...a pirate supply store!) and you can't keep them away! In addition to that, give them an opportunity to have their writing and ideas legitimized through publication and you've got a dynamite program. It is such an effective way to learn and grow.

These guys also understand that this goes beyond just helping kids be successful in school. It provides them with real life mentors. These one-on-one tutoring opportunities often go beyond the homework assignment. You can't help but influence those you serve. These kids are getting an opportunity they might not otherwise have. It not only increases the quality of their lives but also the lives of their families. And as Dave Eggers reminds us in this clip, happy families equal happy communities, happy communities make happy cities and a happy world. By small and simple things... ("it all comes down to homework" he jokes).

Take a look around 826 Valencia's website, especially if you like pirates. You can also look at the 826 National website to see their other writing centers around the country (the superhero storefront is my other favorite). If you live in any of these areas, I would encourage you to support their efforts, whether it be financially or with a donation of your time. I know I don't often push stuff like this, but I really believe in what they are doing and hope that others will catch the vision. It really is a brilliant approach. Kids feel less like they are in school and more like they are somewhere fun. The atmosphere inspires creativity. And when you have a speciality shop (like a pirate supply store) you are bound to get a mix of the delightful and the crazy. What better inspiration for writing than people-watching.

Also take a look at the store page. It's a treasure trove for great pirate stuff (you can order online!) as well as a funny log of the happenings in the store. I wish I worked there for so many reasons.

Oh, and for those who are familiar with http://www.mcsweeneys.net/, these are the same guys.
(Someone's gchat tagline with the John Hodgman 9/11 link reminded me that I wanted to blog about 826 but hadn't!)

Discoveries

It's a slow day at work. I could feel the oppression of nothing to do creeping in on me. My boss is out sick, deals are a little slow these days, and really I'm just too darn efficient at my job. So, I did what I always do when I'm going stir-crazy: I started throwing things away. I started with a pile of papers I created when I got back from my 2 month "vacation". They were papers to be filed but not with any urgency. I feel like my aversion to paperwork is a mix of my father and my mother. If I was 100% Mom, I would have filed the papers away the moment I sorted or received them. If I was 100% Dad, the bottom of the pile would date back to 2003, when I first started at this firm, and be 3 feet high. But alas, I am a perfect mix of aversion and address; I've only been ignoring it for two weeks and today was the day to get rid of it. I always think these projects are going to take me more time than they do, which is why I think I put it off, but it never does. I had the filing whittled down in about 5 minutes and, because I'm so organized at work, had it all in its proper place about 5 minutes after that. I only killed 10 minutes on filing and now my desk is clean. Now what?

I looked around at what else I could clean or throw away and my eyes wandered to the dreaded drawer, my one personal drawer amongst the other tens of drawers I keep for the people I work for. This drawer is pretty representative of one of my life's paradoxes: I'm really good at keeping other people organized. I'm also really good at keeping common space in my house clean; I love a spotless house (this is 100% Mom). However, my bedroom...[sigh] No matter how hard I try, I can't keep it clean for more than a few days. Somehow things get out of place and I can't manage to get them back to where they belong with any kind of speed. It turns into an all-day affair, usually on a Saturday when I'd really rather be riding my bike or something. I try to tell myself it's because I have a house full of things crammed in my not-so-tiny room, but really I think it's because I have too much paperwork I don't address, too many things that don't have a place, and too many clothes that I don't really care about enough to hang them up at the end of the day. Oh, and too much surface area to put those things without it terribly inconveniencing my daily routine. So, back to the drawer (I bet you forgot we were talking about my work drawer).

This drawer is the work version of my bedroom. I try to keep it clean, but it just keeps collecting things. (You like the passive voice there? That's me not taking responsibility for the bottomless pit.) I decided today to find out what exactly was in there. I was shocked and appalled at what I found. Ladies and gentlemen, a catalog of the work drawer:

1. Towing receipts from Percy's mishaps earlier this year: Why these aren't at home are a mystery to me. Oh, wait! No, no mystery. I don't have a fax machine at home, therefore they are here because after I faxed them to my insurance company I "filed" them away in my drawer(thus avoiding filing away paperwork at home...).

2. A technical writing book and course materials from an online course at BYU I started earlier this year. I never got past the first lesson: "Why Technical Writing is Fun." I totally forgot I was even signed up for this class until I saw the book. My experiment was successful: I have zero desire to enter into a career of technical writing.

3. La Sombra Del Viento, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.
Apparently to work on my Spanish at work.

4. A box set of C.S. Lewis' collected works.
Again, why these aren't at home is somewhat of a mystery to me. I must have bought them on a lunch break and not taken them home, perhaps anticipating a day like today when I would have nothing to do and would like nothing more than to read a little Lewis. This is a plausible explanation. It does not, however, explain numbers 5 through 8.


5. C.S. Lewis' Till We Have Faces.



See #4. Did I buy this book before or after the box set?

6. Hunger, by Sherman Apt Russell.

I was in the middle of reading this book when I got sick (though I don't think the two are related). It's a really interesting read. I need to finish it. Bought after the Lewis box set, I'm sure of it.

7. Church History in the Fullness of Times Institute manual.

I must have brought this from home, but who knows when. I've actually been looking for it and had recently convinced myself that I had never really owned it and just had it confused with some other institute manual.


8. The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss.
Recently bought, though I probably should have just checked it out of the library. Give me a Border's gift card and I'm dangerous. This was the only book I actually knew or remembered was in this drawer. Had I remembered I had Lewis, I may not have purchased. It's a different kind of style and I like it, but the subject matter...I'm not sold yet. The gamble of book recommendations.

9. A redweld full of drafts of my own book. I really should look those over and get back to work on it.

10. A letter I wrote but never sent to my mom. It wasn't very articulate, which is maybe why I didn't send it. I have a tendency to do things like that.

11. A letter I wrote to another individual but never sent. This one was actually very articulate and rather insightful. I must not have sent it because I was feeling self-conscious. Who writes letters anymore? I do, but most people don't, so when someone gets a letter, especially one with evidence of much thought, it can sometimes be taken as meaning something more than it really does. So I didn't send it. Funny thing is, even thought I wrote it in March, I still want to send it. But I probably won't.

12. Stationery and envelopes. For all those letters I'm going to write but never send.

13. A dusty nickel.

14. Two tampons. Must restock.

I'm not quite sure what this list says about my work life or, rather, my life in general... But the drawer is now organized (all books will remain until read) and my purse actually fits in it without requiring me to get creative.

It's like they're mocking me...

This showed up in my email inbox this afternoon...

Registration for 113th Boston Marathon to Open on September 3.

Online registration for the 113th Boston Marathon, scheduled for April 20, 2009, will begin at 9:00 a.m. eastern time on Wednesday, September 3. Held on Patriots' Day, a Massachusetts holiday, Boston is the world's oldest annual marathon.