To My Dad

There are lots of things that come to mind when I think about my dad. I think about how funny he is and how people, if they don't take the time to talk to him one on one, often don't see that side of him.

I think about how he's a different person when he gets away from the city. When he's in Nevada/Southern Utah he takes on a boyishness that I love to see.

I remember the family home evenings we would have, and how he and Mom insisted on having them every Monday night, no matter where we were. I loved that he would dress up with us and tease mom and all of us kids.

And we would tease him (this was taken after we'd accosted him outside the new bathroom...)

Some of my greatest outdoor memories of my dad involve the hatchet.

He really could make a perfect bonfire that would smolder into perfect s'mores coals.

Hahaha. More FHE pictures. This was from "hat night". We were just getting ready to play "the basketball game" (I have no idea what it's really called).

Evidence that Dad can fall asleep anywhere, anytime.

A trait he passed on to most of his children

Just another crazy night in the Bradshaw home.

I love how my parents never hid their affection for one another in front of us kids.

We have this amazing backyard with delicious fruits and vegetables, due in large part to Dad's research and execution of proper pruning and nutrition of plants.

We were just getting ready to go apple picking in the backhoe (Dad's idea - shocker).

This time last year, when Dad was diagnosed with cancer, I made a spur-of-the-moment trip home. It was one of the best decisions I made last year.

I love this picture of my parents. It says so much with just one image.

I love that Dad loves to laugh. I love it when he gets laughing so hard sometimes he cries and that it often happens during family prayer. He's usually the one who has to leave the circle to wash his face before we can continue in reverence. Usually it was something fairly innocuous to set him off; but his mind gets going on a tangent and he can't stop laughing.

I love that he loves to be surprised and delighted by unexpected things

I love that Dad loves to play a good practical joke.

I love telling Dad stories that involve my feistiness. His reactions are always perfect.

I love that he's a good listener and will talk for as long as you need to talk.

I love that he has spent so much time becoming who he is and gaining so much experience which he then shares freely.

I love that he wanted to have a big family.

I love that he wants to see his kids succeed and does all he can to that end, even when it means letting us tough it out alone.

I love Dad.

Happy Birthday, Dad! (I miss you...)

Hair Talk

I'm thinking of going back to this haircut:

Any strong opinions one way or the other?

Tiffany's and BBQ Sauce

I've been having this really funny conversation with my roommate today regarding adult jewelry.

Those who know me well or who spend a bit of time with me know that I can be a bit of a clutz. I am constantly cutting myself, spilling things (an entire glass of water on the counter this morning), tripping, losing my balance (last time a guy kissed me on the front porch I lost my balance in my heels [sigh]), or experiencing other epic failures (spilling almost an entire container of BBQ sauce from Chick Fil A in my crotch on the way down to Duck Beach last weekend...yes, you can all laugh heartily now).

When I confessed this morning that there is this ring from Tiffany's that I've wanted ever since I was in college, I quickly followed it up with the disclaimer that I would never buy it. [Tiffany's won't let me copy the picture, so here's the link: http://www.tiffany.com/Shopping/Item.aspx?fromGrid=1&sku=GRP00107&mcat=148204&cid=287466&search_params=s+5-p+17-c+287466-r+101323338-x+-n+6-ri+-ni+0-t+ ] I don't know why I've wanted it, but I just have. I saw it on a friend of mine probably 7 years ago and have thought about it ever since. I told my roommate today that I could not justify spending $200 on a ring for myself for several reasons, the most important one being I would mostly likely lose it. I just would. It would go down the sink or in the toilet or down a vent. Like BBQ sauce to the crotch, I would lose this ring. But I still kind of want it. Strange, since I don't usually want jewelry of any kind.

So, out with it friends. Most impractical want. You know you've checked out the Tiffany's website. Spill.

To All Aspiring Gentlemen:

Read this. The whole thing. You'll thank me for it. Chances are, if we're friends, you already do (or have been taught to do) most of these things...though a little brush-up never hurt anyone.

(p.s. Many of these rules apply to women as well, so have a good read, everyone!)

Some of these are positively heartwarming. I love discovering new blog treasures.

To My Great-Uncle Wilford

This morning I got up with the sun and went for a run/walk.  I went to the beach for the weekend (sort of against my better judgment) and felt some sadness this morning that I had removed myself from all of the wonderful memorials this city has to offer on such an important weekend.  I felt a great desire to go to the WWII memorial to lay a flower at the base of the Utah pillar in honor of my great-uncle Wilford, but instead I made do with a walk in solitude.

Uncle Wilford was only 19 when he fought in the Battle of the Bulge in WWII.  He was my maternal grandmother's brother.  She didn't talk about him a lot, but when she did it was always with love and a little bit of sadness.  Whenever I think about Wilford, I think about how much life was lost so young.  I tried to picture what it would be like to lose a brother in war, and thought about how many people are living that reality today.  I felt gratitude this morning for the service the military renders, but also thought about a day when wars won't be fought, when there will be peace on earth, and wondered how that will ever happen.  And when.

I didn't make it to the memorial today, but I will this week and will take a moment to pause under Utah, to say a prayer for peace, and leave something in remembrance of Uncle Wilford's sacrifice.  I am grateful for the knowledge of eternal families so that I can hold on to the hope of meeting Uncle Wilford someday.  

Milkshakes and The Excited Feeling

I was falling asleep at my desk today. I mean, literally head in my hands asleep (pretending to read whatever paper I had on my desk, of course). When I snapped awake at the ringing of my phone, I knew I had to get moving. So I went downstairs to Potbelly's to get a milkshake. Why not a cookie? Because it's hot outside and I was feeling a little thirsty. (However, I did buy their mini-cookie bag so I could at least have a little taste of cookie with my milkshake.) Let me tell you, though: milkshakes are always a bad idea. I mean, they are delicious, don't get me wrong. They are creamy and sweet and chocolatey and COLD and wonderful. But I'm lactose intolerant. Dairy = FAIL. Epic fail, even. I do such a good job of avoiding all other types of dairy. Why do I feel like my intolerance does not extend to milkshakes?! Because guess what. It does. I will pay dearly in about 2 or 3 hours...if not sooner. And it's not like this is a hit and miss kind of reaction. It happens every time.

To better understand this behavior, let's visit why I was so tired in the first place. I have a bedtime that I'm usually pretty good about keeping but have failed miserably to do so the last week or two for various reasons. Last night I was all set to make it on time because I was getting up at 5:30 to swim and was determined not to flake. But then I started chatting with friends , and secrets were being shared, and before I knew it, it was midnight. At some point somehow the conversation turned to The Excited Feeling and how it's a deceptive friend. You know the Feeling I'm talking about. It's the one where you meet someone really great and you feel like you click and you are really attracted on multiple levels (or maybe just one...) and you start making irrational decisions and jump headlong into a potentially (and likely) 2 feet deep pool. Or, to use last night's example, crash a speeding vehicle into a brick wall. I argued for a while on the side of giving into The Excited Feeling. I felt the reasons for killing The Excited Feeling were cynical and constituted an abandonment of hope. I argued that it was better to feel than not to feel, better to crash into the brick wall than to never approach it at all, better to experiment and fail than to never even try. Halfway into my argument I saw my faulty logic (a common occurrence), but I didn't want to admit that giving into The Excited Feeling is a mistake, because (1) I usually can't help myself, and (2) I'm not very good at admitting certain kinds of mistakes. But as I followed the logic of the opposing argument, I realized they weren't advocating killing The Excited Feeling altogether; they were merely saying that you can't trust it to guide you to good decisions, that it must be felt and tempered and that no decisions should be made based solely on that Feeling, because those ones are usually the mistakes. And not just hit and miss mistakes, but consistently bad choices.

Conclusion: Easy in, easy out. If you want something lasting, you do your homework, date for real, let The Excited Feeling give you momentum but don't let it drive!!! Let it out in small doses.
Like milkshakes.

If I have one or two sips of your milkshake, it's going to taste really good, but it won't hurt me. I don't need to feel the pain a full one would cause. In fact, I will arguably derive more satisfaction from two sips than I would from an entire one because even though I will have a tasty treat for longer with a milkshake all to myself, the consequences for that poor choice will last a long time. However, if I have one or two sips, I get the yummy taste and refreshing feeling without the consequences.

As I considered all of this last night and today, I realized that as I've gotten older, I've actually converged to this way of living without really realizing it. At least over the last few months I've noticed a difference. My feelings are tempered. I'm more patient. I'm more rational. There is still life in me, but I'm not engaging in self-destructive behavior. In other words, I'm MATURING, people. Goodness, I never thought it would happen. And it only took a Potbelly's chocolate milkshake on a sleepy afternoon to realize it.

A speech like that deserves at least five cookies.

This is maybe too much of a confession for a Tuesday, but I've been sent a YouTube clip of how my psyche works and I felt it was only fair to share. Seriously, it's scary how close this comes to the truth some days...



Those who ran Ragnar Relay with me can attest to the single-tracked mind.

p.s. I haven't forgotten the fact that I never got my donut.

Another one about cookies

I can't help it.

Today I was thinking about a funny incident that happened about a month ago and started laughing.

A Sunday night in early April found my roommate Kim and me in my bedroom. I upgraded to a big girl bed (read: queen-sized loveliness) in January and my room has hardwood floors, so the bed is generally the place of congregation. Kim had a story and had just launched into it when she stopped suddenly and looked down at my bedspread. She picked up something from off of it and said, "Julie, have you been eating cookies in bed?" I started to deny it (quite passionately -- I don't eat in my room), when I realized she was holding up an animal cracker, the very kind I had bought the day before. I still denied eating cookies in bed, but I couldn't figure out not only how the animal cracker got upstairs but how it had sat in the middle of my bed without it coming to my notice before that moment (I had been in my room, on my bed for most of the afternoon). We laughed over it, and I tossed it into the garbage can across the room. Our laughter attracted Niki who came and joined us on the bed for storytime. Kim restarted her story only to stop in the exact same spot. I followed her eyes to find yet another animal cracker on my bed, only it hadn't been there a second ago!!! Even they admitted it hadn't been there. Our laughter only got louder as we considered the possibility that animal crackers were reproducing on my bed, a concept made even funnier by the fact that my bedspread is of Noah's Ark.

Emily was drawn upstairs by the laughter. We told the story of the animal crackers, whereupon she suggested there was some connection between that and the wacky dreams I'd been having (which will not be recounted on this blog, sorry to disappoint - I do have some boundaries...). Then someone remembered there was pie and ice cream downstairs, so down we went. Boy were we one one... ("Is there any ice cream?" [as someone looks in the oven.] "I know you don't spend much time in the kitchen, but that is an oven. The freezer is over there."... "Is this a pie?" [as I took a pie out of the fridge. In my defense I had meant to say "is this the pie," as in "is this the pie we are allowed to eat?"]...).

It took me three days to figure out how the cookies had made it upstairs. I got home late on Saturday night and had wandered into the kitchen to find something that might quell the garlic I'd eaten earlier in the evening. I must have grabbed a couple of animal crackers on my way to bed and walked upstairs with them and then gotten distracted and put them down on one of my blankets that I, on Sunday afternoon, eventually curled up with. Turns out they weren't reproducing after all, though that image still makes me laugh...

I love cookies.

I look like I'm having more fun than I am

There are many hazards that come with running. I've documented many of them here. Often. One that I haven't ever documented, though, is chafing (mostly because people feel uncomfortable talking about it). I'm not going to go into it in detail here (I'll spare you); I only mention it here because in the past two days I've been chafed not only by my swimsuit (it's been years since that's happened...maybe because it's been years since I swam as hard as I did on Monday) but by one of my running shirts. I have one nice scab and two nice bright red raw marks on my neck and collarbone. Needless to say I'm wearing a high-necked shirt at work today. This has happened before with my running shirts and the looks and questions at work are always uncomfortable. I wish I had a better story, but alas...

On another note, I had maybe the best peanut butter/chocolate drop cookie I've ever had last night, and that's saying something. Leanna described so perfectly what made the cookie perfect: there was just the right amount of chocolate to get a bit of it with every bite. Plus the chocolate was so creamy and the cookie didn't fall apart at any point. I have to go back to that bakery and get more.

Robin Hood Season 2 arrives tonight. I couldn't be happier.

Confession: Cookie Consumption

I've been so good the last month or so. I haven't even CRAVED a cookie. I've eaten a couple here and there, but nothing like what this blog has been filled with the last year or so. I attribute it to my intense workout schedule. I only have so much time to eat and I have been trying to make sure all the good stuff goes in so that I have the fuel I need for the craziness. But the last three days, I don't know what happened.

Let's analyze:

Sunday: I made cookies for the first time in weeks. I ate three (plus a shameful amount of cookie dough).

Monday: There were gingersnaps on the counter. I don't usually like gingersnaps but I was hungry and the fridge only had stuff in it that required work to make edible. So I partook. They weren't half bad. Then I went to FHE, where I usually avoid the treats, but I got embarrassed while telling a story and insisted on having a cookie before I continued. Then I had two more to follow it up, trying to wash away further embarrassment. I felt sick before I even got home.

Today: A friend/boss brought in her baby [sigh] which she gave birth to in Argentina, even though neither she nor her husband are Argentinian (long story). She brought me back some Alfajores...I couldn't resist....

This has got to stop. I feel so ill. What has happened to me???

Confession: I sort of wish I was Maid Marian

I really thought the confession well had run dry, but apparently as I live life, I continue to generate more confessions. I should probably be more embarrassed about aspects of this confession than I'm going to be, but the embarrassment is outweighed by my current enthusiasm. I'm sure in a few months it will wear off and I'll reread this blog post and blush a little bit, but for now...

Some of you know of my medieval...leanings. I studied medieval history at Cambridge for two summers during my masters program, did most of my masters work on Tolkien, have a penchant for King Arthur, love the brilliance of Monty Python and the Holy Grail and am generally drawn to other various medieval appropriations, whether in book, film, or song. [Side note: No, I did not go to BYU and therefore no, I was not part of the "medieval club".] My interests are primarily scholastic in nature. However, I have been known to indulge in the occasional guilty pleasure.

Behold:

Robin Hood.

Be still my beating heart.

I know he doesn't look like much here, but rent, check out, buy, whatever, this BBC series. Trust me, you won't be sorry. It's smart, it's funny, the music is great, and the cast amazingly stacked with talented, reprehensible creatures as well as surprisingly charasmatic ones.

I was up until 1:00 this morning finishing season one, and for those who know how strict I am about my bedtime on a weeknight know, it takes a lot to break that routine. But I just had to know what happened.

I can hardly wait for season two to arrive...waiting...waiting...not so patiently...

(If you're still not convinced (this reference is primarilyfor the ladies because most men I know have not seen North & South), Mr. Thornton plays the Sheriff of Nottingham's right hand man...so if Jonas Armstrong (Robin Hood) is not enough to tempt you, just think about that one.)

(Picture courtesy of Emily via email this morning. Subject line: "welcome to work ms. bradshaw")

Channeling the Spirit of Coach Barnett

I'm not gonna lie, this week has been challenging. I'm tired from my training, I haven't been feeling well (don't worry, it's not swine flu), my room has been a sauna (not the good Jamaican kind), I'm studying for my tests (which includes reading some books that I just don't get/enjoy), and juggling what feels like a thousand other small tasks and emotions. Wednesday night I could feel myself bending under the pressure but tried to keep a good sense of humor about it all. But yesterday, when I found out an attorney who works across the street from us had committed suicide in his office that morning, I lost it. Like started crying at my desk. Wow, Bradshaw. Pull yourself together. Mom said I should just go home and try to regroup, but, refusing to be defeated, I pulled myself together, finished my day, and went home on time like a responsible adult. But then I did what I do best when I need to cope: I went running.

Usually by Thursday, my body feels pretty beat up by the workouts of the week. I usually tell myself I'm going to do a speed workout but usually end up doing something long and slow. Yesterday, however, I decided I would never know how tough I was until I pushed through those feelings of fatigue. I pretended Coach Barnett was running the workout. There's no way he would give me the day off just because I was "tired." He would have laughed at me. He would have expected me to run so hard I thought my lungs would explode and my legs would ignite and crumble beneath me. He would have told me that was the only way I was ever going to have a chance of making it to the finals. So I decided to see how fast I could run a 10k.

When I finished the first 5k in 21:30, I thought, "A 5k time trial is good enough, right?" Then the image of Barnett popped into my head, screaming at me from across the track with arms waving and ponytail flying when he saw my turnover flagging and my arms creeping up towards my chest. I dug a little deeper, shook out my arms, pushed off harder, put my feet down faster, and settled in for another 5k.

In the end, I beat my old 10k PR by almost a full 2 minutes. I've always wondered what it would feel like to run one in 45 minutes. Now I know: it hurts. But it's possible. Suddenly my training didn't feel for naught; all that fatigue suddenly felt right and proper. Suddenly I'm dreading leg 3 of Ragnar just a little bit less. (But only a little bit.)