The Cure for Overly-personal Confessions

I have found that the cure for overly-personal confessions is to make sure I write in my journal first, before I decide to open a new blog posting with whatever happens to be banging around in my mind, though it has its drawbacks. The confession that comes after journaling often feels censored, forced, and a bit lackluster. I wish I knew how to find a happy medium--ah, the great quandry of my life...a happy medium.

Today's confession was going to involve something about singing and crying and trying to pull it together, first in front of about 500 people and then again the next day in front of about 20. But I journaled that all out and found that, minus the emotional commentary, all that was left was one embarrassing situation of almost falling on my way back to my seat because my legs were shaking so badly, and then another of losing it right before I was set to sing in front of a small group (which, I should add, is more terrifying to me than singing to a hall full of people). Terribly uninteresting.

So, instead, I'm going to confess to something else. Something less...emotional.

In the mornings, after I run, I go down into the basement to stretch and lift weights. Usually I'll put on the classical station (since it's still early and I don't want to wake the roommates above) and listen to a few pieces while I go through my usual routine.

At home, one of our Thanksgiving traditions is to watch White Christmas or Holiday Inn. This year it was White Christmas' turn. However, what everyone at home forgets is that not only do I turn in fairly early when I'm in DC, but that when I'm in California, I'm still on DC time for the first few days. Therefore, if you turn on a movie at 9:00 p.m. it's almost guaranteed I'll be asleep in the first five minutes. This year I made it through 30 minutes before I gave up, and Mom still leaves me exactly where I fall, even at age 27. I woke up at 3 a.m. with a numb butt and shoulder in an empty living room. I'm pretty sure I stepped on Tom (who was sleeping on a mattress on my bedroom floor) as I climbed into bed. Sorry Tommy.

ANYWAY, all that to say that I decided the only way I was ever going to finish the movie was to watch it in 15 minute increments in the mornings while I stretch. Today I got to my favorite dance number in the whole movie: Abraham. It's also one of my favorite numbers in Holiday Inn, but for entirely different reasons. Vera-Ellen is one of those dancers who blows my mind. I'm not sure I'm going to have time to get through Holiday Inn in the same way, so if anyone is interested in joining me Thursday night to get it in one shot, I think that's when I'm going to do it. Just let me know. :)

I know, lame confession this week, but I really really love White Christmas and have loved having it as a little morning treat for the last week. I can't wait for Holiday Inn. Fred Astaire...mmmm...

Revenge of the Dove

Our family usually buys the Christmas tree on the first Monday after Thanksgiving. Mom bakes Christmas goodies (haystacks, rocky road, sugar cookies, Christmas coconut bars, blond brownies, Russian tea cakes (blech), puffed rice balls, and fudge), heats up apple juice and calls it cider :) and we turn on the Osmonds...always the Osmonds. We happily sing along to the entire CD as we put on the lights and ornaments. Sometimes we listen to it twice.

Mom and Dad were never picky about what ornaments went on the tree, or in what location various things were placed. I'm pretty sure Mom silently rearranged things in the days following to even it out, but so long as they weren't too broken or huge, everything that could went on the tree. One year my Aunt Jeanne made these cute clothespin reindeer. Each reindeer had the name of a child written on it. Our favorite part of the tree decorating was finding our own and putting him or her in the row of reindeer right across the front of the tree. We converted a See's candy wagon into a sleigh and recruited the gumby Santa from a box of sugar cereal for a full set! Our tree topper for as long as I can remember has always been two (very sad-looking) doves. They always drooped a bit but Mom really liked them because they represented the Holy Ghost (am I making this up? possibly).

Then, once upon a time, the Christmoose was gifted to our family. I'm actually really not sure where he came from, but he appeared sometime during my late childhood/early adolescence. The Christmoose is a moose that says, oddly enough, across its chest "Merry Christ-moose!" He has little suction cups on his four legs and is frankly, kind of funny. I think he may have spent one Christmas attached to our front window, but after that he was graduated to the tree.

I'm not sure exactly how this happened, but with our houseful of boys (and tomboyish girls) something is always being hatched as far as Christmas tree "themes". One year it was the the overthrow of the Christmas tree. You see, the Christmoose wanted to be the tree topper, dethroning the doves. Mom refused. We begged. She didn't budge. So what did we do? We started the Christmoose's slow ascent up the Christmas tree. It took nearly 10 years to get Mom and Dad to acquiesce, the Christmoose taking a stealth position, teaming up with other ornaments, creeping further and further up the tree, year after year. Finally the Christmoose was too close to the top of the tree for them to deny us a tree top war between the Christmoose and the Dove (the other Dove finally fell apart a few years before). They did, however, put their foot down when we proposed the moose attack via a zip line across the living room.

Finally, the Christmas before Brian went on his mission, the Christmoose took his place at the top of the tree and has reigned there for the last 5 or 6 years; the Dove sits on the branch just below. And of course, there is always drama going on with Santa and the reindeer, such as last year's reindeer rebellion where they made Santa pull his own sleigh.

Just last night, I received this email and pictures from my brother John. (He and his wife and daughter are staying with my parents and my oldest brother Bruce is visiting while he remodles the bathrooms. Mom told me last night that the boys came up with this by themselves...John is almost 30. Bruce is 41. I'm just sayin'...)

******

Hi Everyone,

As you may recall, there has been an ongoing saga of the moose trying to catch the dove on the Christmas tree. Last year the reindeer rose up in rebellion against Santa Claus...In a bizarre turn of events, as punishmentfor last year's rebellion, Santa Claus tied up his reindeer, put them under guard and promoted the Dove to guide his sleigh!

The moose of course is still hanging on tight to the sleigh, trying to catch the dove...more to come as the events unfold...

Love, John, Dagmara, Piper, Mom, Dad and Bruce

************

I could not stop laughing at the narrative and then when I opened the attachment and saw the pictures... It's just so funny, especially since I've grown up with all of these ornaments. I just love the pathetic look of all the reindeer all tied up and being guarded by that freaky ornament. Thanks John and Bruce! This is a tree to remember!

A Real Confession

I love Kabob Palace. I know this may not seem like much of a confession, so let me explain.

I have lived in Crystal City for five years. For the first three years I refused to eat at the Palace. In my mind it was totally sketch. It's right next to the 7-11 and the only nudie bar around. The place is open 24 hours, so it's a popular spot for cabbies. The whole block it's on is just dirty looking. I just wasn't interested in eating there. Then I went to India.

When I returned from my almost-month-long trip, my visiting teacher wanted to go out to dinner and hear about my experience. I let her pick the joint. She chose Kabob Palace. Since I had let her choose, I didn't feel like I could say no. Plus, in comparison to what I had just come from it suddenly didn't seem so bad. So we went.

And I fell in love. So much so, in fact, that I became a regular, one of the Palace community. They knew my order (#1, no salad, chick peas and spinach), my schedule (Friday nights, usually), and my name (it's on the credit card receipt). Last year during Ramadan, my favorite guy came and sat with me one night to break his fast. It was the moment I knew I had arrived. We sat and talked about India, his mother country, and about his journey to America. I love these men who run the Palace. It's like Cheers, but with ethnic food...and without the bar...

It's been almost two years since India, hence, two years since I started going to the Palace almost weekly.

It's so bad that when I got really sick this summer and was banned from lots of foods, including meat and anything spicy (and, frankly, anything that tasted good), for months, it still didn't stop me when a friend texted to meet at the Palace in 20 minutes. I went...and ordered bread and water. I actually had to sneak out of my house because I knew my roommates absolutely would not trust me to behave in the Palace. But honestly, I was really sick. I actually had no desire for meat or spicy food at that point. I just wanted to go to the Palace and feel normal. I love the eclectic crowd it draws. I love the sense of community. And I love their food.

I love Kabobs. I love the Palace. I ate there tonight. My tummy is full. I'm still a little hiccupy from the spices. It was hot tonight. And I loved it. And that is my confession.

Do you like tacos?

One night earlier this month I came home from something rather late in the evening. I don't remember what it was. I just remember that I was beat. I went through my normal routine: dumped my purse by my bed, kicked off my shoes, and booted up my computer while I changed into my pjs. I saw I had new email (that always makes me happy) and saw that one was from my friend Shawn. Shawn doesn't email me very often (we are gchatters more than anything) but whenever he does, it's always something good. Sure enough, the subject line was "I found the perfect t-shirt for you..." and I opened up the email to find this: "...I think you might really enjoy it and need to get a few for your Tuesday night festivities :) Enjoy!!" Included was a link to an online t-shirt store called TorsoPants (pants for your torso, apparently). Their humor is a little...funny. I opened the link and found that Shawn was 100% correct: he had found the perfect t-shirt for me.
In case you can't read it (or if you want to buy one for yourself...who knows, maybe this could be my fanclub t-shirt! jk), click on this link: http://www.torsopants.com/store/product.php?productid=5033.

I about died laughing when I saw it. My first thought was, "Why on earth would anyone make a t-shirt like this?" I mean, do these people even know what "tacos" MEANS ? Tom and Brian, I hope you guys especially got as much of a kick out of this as I did (and still am). I mean, how much more perfect could it get, right?

If enough of you are interested, I think it might be time to share the real story behind Taco Tuesdays. But in the meantime, isn't the t-shirt awesome? This website has all kinds of entertaining shirts. And every time I have typed that word tonight I have almost typed a swear word. It's time for bed. Long live Taco Tuesday.

Do you like tacos? I do. I wish every day was Taco Tuesday. [sigh]

Once There Was a Snowman

This isn't really a confession. Well, yes it sort of is. But it's about my family as a whole, not myself as an individual. Well, I guess since I'm part of my family, and participate and even initiate, it is an individual indictment. But it's also collective. Mostly collective.

Mom says no one should know about this game while I'm still single, and has forbade us kids from playing it around any unsuspecting male I may bring home until I'm safely married to him. However, today I'm feeling a little nostalgic and I'm missing my brothers and sister a little bit, so I'm going to rat out the family.

I don't remember when this game debued, but I remember who introduced it. Scott. Who else? It was before Megan (Scott's fourth child) was born, so it was Scott and Wendy and their three, very active boys. All under the age of 4. Seriously. I don't actually know that for a fact, but there's not a lot of space between the kids, so they were all very young at the same time. I think the unveiling was at a family home evening. Family home evening tradition is first, an opening song, then opening prayer, then talent performances. Everyone had to share a talent, whether it was to tell about a good grade they received, played something from their music lesson that week, or sang a song. It was good performance practice for us, and Mom and Dad felt like they were getting a return on their investments (at least as far as music lessons were concerned). Then we'd have a lesson, then games, then treats. This was our format, with rare deviations, if any.

You'd think this "game" would have been introduced during the game portion of FHE. No, no. It was Scott's family's "performance" when they were visiting one Monday evening. It goes something like this. You all know the song. In case you don't, let me post what the church's website has on this song:

“Once There Was a Snowman,” Children’s Songbook of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 249

Playfully

Once there was a snowman, snowman, snowman,
Once there was a snowman, tall, tall, tall.
In the sun he melted, melted, melted.
In the sun he melted, small, small, small.

Improvise actions as suggested by the words.

When looked at in a Bradshaw context, the italicized portions of this excerpt are particularly hilarious: The song is to be sung "playfully" and singers are to "Improvise actions as suggested by the words." In primary, we crouch "reverently" in front of our chairs, beginning as a small ball, then grow tall, and then shrink back to small. Usually the majority of the primary is lying on the ground by the end of the song (or at least that's how it was in ours). So when Scott told us they were going to perform "Once there was a snowman," this is what we expected. Little did we know a new Bradshaw family tradition would be born out of what we actually saw.

They all stood up in a circle. Scott started them off: "oooooooonce there was a snowman, snowman, snowman..." but instead of staying stationary, they ran around the living room as fast as they could in a circle. They sang the entire song together at top speed, racing around the living room, and when they finally got to "small, small, small," it turned into wrestlemania: the kids were bodychecking each other and putting each other in headlocks, finally ending in a heap in the middle of the floor. It was hilarious.

A few months later a larger group of the family was together. I forget the occasion. It's not important. It was sort of a chaotic day; family night was falling apart with kids everywhere, and finally we gave up on any sort of order and moved onto the games. Well, Scott and his kids were there and requested we play "Once there was a snowman." The other grandkids didn't know what this was, but they quickly caught on. Pretty soon we had a full blown mini-WWF ring in our little living room. Slowly, while laughing at the situation, the adults stood up and started hanging around the edges of the room. This is usually an indicator in our house that more than one person wants to do something, but no one is willing to take the initiative. Everyone sort of hangs out until one person says, "let's do it," and then everyone's on board, just like that. So, the circling/lingering had begun and finally someone said, "Okay, this time it's an adults-only round." The mothers quickly grabbed their little ones and pulled them onto the couches out of harm's way (in theory - the living room really isn't that big). All of us circled around and waited for Scott to start singing: "ooooooooonce there was a snowman, snowman, snowman..." The entire house shook with the force of 5 or 6 grownups running in circles, arms pumping above their heads. We got to the end ("small, small, small") and I wasn't sure what was going to happen; my brothers and I are not kid-sized anymore. I wondered what sort of mischief would end the song, what piece of furniture would break, who would take out the TV, etc. I didn't have much time to think about it. The last "small" was yelled and the shoving started immediately, everyone a little bit uncertain as to how violent this game was going to turn. Shoving turned to bodychecking. Someone went down hard and before I knew it, my shirt was tugged forcefully and I was sinking towards the bottom of a very large pile of boys. As I tried to worm my way out (screaming for Mom the whole time), I felt someone grab my ankle and pull me back in. There was no escaping. Finally Mom called an end to it, afraid Brian (who was on the bottom) was going to be crushed. Her fear was probably not unfounded.

Now anytime we get together, we have to play at least once. We have a separate kids' round - we don't want them to get hurt playing with us - and really the only point is to not end up on the bottom. Bonus points if you end up on top. It seems, however, that usually someone is marked at the beginning of the game. No one says a word, but somehow everyone picks the same person. Well, almost everyone. Unfortunately for Brian, for years it was him at the bottom. ("You have been chosen!") I remember the day he got big enough to finally win one round! As the years have gone on, the shoving starts earlier and earlier in the song until someone reigns the group back in...

Some pictures to help you visualize the madness.

This picture was taken about 10 years ago. Notice how David has his hand on my shoulder, ready to take me down the moment we utter the last "small."

Here I am neither winning nor losing, merely surviving. Brian and James are not so lucky this round. Since Dad is holding a video camera, I'm presuming there is footage of this somewhere.

This picture was taken about 6 years ago. I'm pretty sure Brian (winning on top - quite gracefully, I might add) had just kicked me in the head.

Apologies in advance to any potential suitors. We don't expect you to play the first visit to our home. However, you are expected to fully participate in Christmas caroling. Winter Wonderland, anyone?

Mock Worthy Moment #2

Phobia
n. : a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it. Failure to avoid can lead to mock-worthy moments.

me + heights = panic
I don't like heights. Actually, I should clarify. I don't like unsecured heights. What does that mean? Ladders, trees, cliffs edges, and the like much above 6 feet or so are not my idea of a good time. It's not the climbing that scares me; it's the getting down. Or the fear of falling. That's probably more accurate: fear of falling--hard. Me and my lonesome, awful balance responsible for keeping myself from getting seriously injured...or killed.

Now, I love love love rollercoasters (the harrier the better - nothing, absolutely nothing, has beat the thrill of "X" at Magic Mountain), cliff jumping, and even rock climbing, if I trust my climbing partner. Why? Because the getting down in all those activities is all fairly secured and absolutely thrilling. Getting out of trees? Nothing glamorous or fun about that. Falling off a cliff onto jagged rocks below? No thanks. Slipping on a ladder rung and eating every step on the way down? Um, no. Falling out of the attic onto the new hallway floor? I'll pass, thanks. So when, at our family reunion in 2000, it was suggested we take a "Family Tree" photo in a large tree at Presidio Park, I was less than thrilled. The idea was to put Mom and Dad at the base of the tree and have all the kids sitting on a branch. Cute, huh? Yeah. Right. Everyone thought it was a great idea and jumped in the tree right away.
I was astonished at the recklessness with which Stephen propelled himself into the arms of David and James. Throughout my childhood, I had often wished for the physical confidence of my brothers. I don't mind having my body hurt in some ways, but blunt force trauma has always been something I've avoided (please see "Mock Worthy Moment #1" for more details). As I watched the combined family effort to get Stephen onto his branch, I saw myself attempting the same feat and falling out of the tree onto the exposed roots below. The boys (and even Karen) didn't seemed to be phased by any of it; they were all laughing and having a great time. I was even laughing, but that was because I was safely on the ground, laughing at Dad finally propelling Stephen into the tree via his backside. I wanted to be having fun in the tree, too, but I knew that just wasn't going to happen. I stood below and off to the side, looking for the lowest branch, preferably something three or four feet off the ground. No luck. The best I could do was one about two feet overhead. I did my best to put on a happy face.

Once I got into this position, I actually had no intention of actually righting myself on this branch. I'm laughing here because I thought I could get away with staying right there in that position for the picture. But no, I was to be IN the tree for the photo. Everyone was waiting. As I considered my position, I just couldn't believe what I was seeing: Bruce was perched in the tree, so calm, crouched down on his two feet, balancing on his branch; other brothers were switching places 10 feet above the ground like it was no big deal. And then there was me. James could see the panic in my eyes as Dad attempted to push me up and over the branch as he had done with Stephen. James reached out his hand, trying to gently coax me up, but I wouldn't budge. I was in the tree but I was definitely not having fun. The exposed roots seemed to be taunting me from below.

James promised he would not let me fall; all I had to do was give him one hand and he could get me up in the tree. It took a while for me to believe this, but then I considered all the years we had been swing dancing together and remembered that he had never once dropped me, and we had done some ridiculous things. So, I eventually let go with one arm--reluctantly--and gave him my hand. However, I had failed to release my death grip on the tree with my other arm.

"Let go, Julie!" Everyone was getting restless. James pulled so hard I had no choice but to let go and try to help, but I was useless. He had to pull up my shaking, reluctant, dead weight with two hands.

I was finally righted up on the branch. The protestations ceased; they were no longer needed--they had gone unheeded, and I was all the way up in the tree. What followed? Are you ready? Now, to James' credit, he never once mocked me for this moment. In fact, not one member of my family did. I, however, cannot look at this picture without laughing outloud.

This, my friends, is what we call pure, unadulterated panic, Julie-style.

Below is the picture they were going for (minus the parents - I couldn't find the real picture). Notice how James got me to smile even? It's because he's got me pinned between his right leg and left arm. Say it with me, friends: secured heights.

Needless to say, this family picture was not recreated during the 2006 family reunion.

"The Lost Art"

The Zebra F-402, fine point pen.
Resume-weight paper.
A writing desk.

These are my necessary supplies for a first-rate letter.

I love the scrape of weighted paper as it slides out of the packaging. The blank, textured sheet holds endless possibilities. As I grip my pen in contemplation, my mind starts constructing and organizing sentences; once the pen pulls across the paper, the words are committed--one of the joys of letter-writing. Thoughtful but raw. Planned but vulnerable to sudden shifts. I write a sentence, a paragraph, stopping to re-read, ponder, expand and explain. This is my most sincere and reflective writing. There is an air of romanticism about the entire process.

Letter writing has all but disappeared in our generation. The joy of sitting at a desk under a reading lamp with some soft music and one's own thoughts is something virtually unknown, unexperienced by many of my peers, and yet I have passed countless evenings in this manner. As I write in the late-night silence of the house, I labor over wording and penmanship, encouraged by the resistance of ball-point over texture. I read it over once, sometimes twice, and sometimes end up rewriting the letter altogether. Ultimately, the vast majority of these letters remain unsent. There is little to no precedent these days for such communication. I convince myself that its intended recipient would think the form archaic or might feel uncomfortable with the time spent on a letter when email would be more practical. The letter usually gets stuck in a journal (14 volumes at last count) or a drawer. Sometimes I wonder if I should send them.

Letter-writing is one of the richest forms of communication we have. There is so much more than words on a page. Letters immortalize handwriting, spacing of letters and lines, paper and pen used, and there is evidence of care or speed. People reserve special information for letters. Letter-writing, though it may consist of many of the same aspects as journaling, often has something more. When we journal, we are either merely recording events with little commentary, or are writing to make sense of certain events. Very rarely do we manage to strike a balance between the two. However, when we write letters we have to learn how to give both to the reader, so it often ends up being a more complete record than we might even have for ourselves. We also put things in writing that we may not ever say in person. And in hard-copy form, with the personality of the sender's handwriting, paper, pen and time, those words can be revisited again and again--for better or for worse.

There is a certain electricity in the air when I find a handwritten letter sitting in the mailbox or on the kitchen table. This happens less frequently now, especially with the loss of my weekly correspondent, my grandmother. It's been two years and I still miss writing to her and receiving her letters; I have her last one sitting on my desk. Every once in a while I pull it out and read the shakey handwriting, but mostly I just like to have it there to remind me what my desk is for, once I clear away my laptop of course. I have a ream of resume-weight paper just waiting to be used, with dreams of finding a faithful correspondent again (I told you; there is an air of romanticism about the whole process). My Zebra F-402 is currently out of ink, but perhaps with its replacement I may finally decide to start sending some of those letters. We'll see.