brown paper packages tied up with... twine



I splurged on wrapping accessories today. Tissue, ribbon, twine, bags, and vintage cards.  In planning my wedding I stumbled across a gem of a store in the Sodo neighborhood of Seattle called PS.  This is the site of today's debit card massacre.

Like quick sand for someone, like me, with no decision making skills whatsoever, this store is the mother-ship for the detail-oriented.  And given that the store isn't that large, I wander, retracing my steps over and over, shuffling around in the same general 30 foot radius.  Lovely displays invoke feelings of inadequacy, how could I ever replicate such cleverness?  And before I can do that, how can I possibly decide between the 500 of spools of ribbon? 

Despite the turmoil this store sparks in my heart and soul, I can't ignore the beautiful gold-flecked bags, and fabulous jade polka-dot tissue paper.  And then there's the mother of all indulgences, spools of candy-cane twine.  240 yards of bliss.  

Ironically, I am likely to incur more joy from these packaging details, than their assumably ignorant recipient.  Merry Christmas to me.

early risers



5:45 am was the time that the alarm clock went off this morning. Confusion strikes, "my pillow is trying to say something to me... I can't quite make it out... No, no, wait. That's my phone underneath my pillow. But who would be calling me?" Silly sleepy girl. That's your alarm, telling you it's time to drag your wilted and heavy body from beneath the covers to trudge through the darkness, down the hall, and into the shower (remember to take your clothes off first). But in order to accomplish this, you have to open your eyes, that is indeed essential. 

I've gotten far too used to my schedule of waking up whenever my husband leaves for work, and then proceeding to fall back asleep.  I then ashamedly crawl out of bed at 10:30... "my body needed the rest," I reason.  Now I'll be productive. After I watch the Today Show. And New Day Northwest. I'm only mildly embarrassed by this confession because in a few short weeks I hope to be gainfully employed and getting up at a reasonable hour with the rest of the world.  

Now, here I sit behind the bar at Kakao.  Still sleepy but aided by an americano and the cheerful faces delighting in the knowledge that it's friday.  Oh, and the anticipation of the pampering that will accompany a haircut this afternoon isn't hurting.  Take that 5:45 am. 

Santa's little workshop.



Turns out this year, Santa is working with limited storage space for presents (i.e. hiding places), as well as limited time to covertly wrap said presents with festive paper and ribbon.  Recipients of aforementioned presents are constantly underfoot (or hovering about a foot taller than me).  No wonder the North Pole seemed like a prime piece of real estate. That jolly old-man was sly I tell you.  

Normally Christmas would be beckoned in by the completion of finals and research papers.  The slow sigh of a 'hallelujah' with the realization that the all-nighters are over and weights have been lifted off your shoulders.  However, this year the season has slumped in day by day, one hour at a time.  I feel as though I am still waiting for the final buzzer to sound and the Christmas season to officially begin.  Where's the alarm, where are the jingle bells? 

This sounds silly given that I have been indulging in Bing Crosby since before my wedding at the beginning of November.  And I'm surrounded by an adequate assortment of decorations. There are lights hugging the molding that surrounds our front window.  A small fir named Francis adorned with ornaments (dutifully watered morning and night) complete with a porcelain angel perched on top.  I've done my shopping, both safely online and bravely amidst fellow hardy/grumpy shoppers.  But the spark is absent.  I'm afraid the holiday will come and go this year leaving me a cloud of wilted mistletoe and pine needles. I don't mean to say that I'm not excited for the day that approaches. I just wish I could lasso it and make the coming days drift by like a dusting of snow. Slow, to be savored bit by bit, until it has gently settled around us. I'm sure I'm not the only one.  

However, though that seems unlikely and a bit naive, I'm going to toast to Christmas and the craziness, with an eggnog latte in hand, and enjoy the ride, whether or not I 'hear those sleigh-bells jingling'. 

And away we go.



Home.  A simple, yet pliable word.  I've now resided in my new abode for approximately two weeks.  My body, mind, and senses have adjusted to the point of recognition, and I'm becoming comfortable with the term "we" rather than "you" (i.e. do 'you' have oregano? - I really asked that).  In essence, I'm beginning to feel like a real human being again.  Not a bride, not a graduate, just me, an adult.  I'm finding my space. 

Throughout the past four years I have often pondered the meaning of personal space, particularly while living with fifteen other college students [for all four years].  My life could be packed up into an assortment of tubs and cardboard moving boxes in a matter of hours... to be transfered across the hall, up the stairs, or down south about 60 miles.  I moved every 3-4 months and lived with over 12 different roommates.  A constant, albeit quaint, reminder that home, in the earthly sense, is not constant.  The heavenly is constant.  

First gathering in my new home to take place tomorrow evening. A girls' night soirĂ©e, if you will.  What to serve still to be determined, but the important thing to take away is that I am having guests.  House guests. I'm old enough to entertain my own house guests. Can you say 'woah'?  Not in itself a significant right of passage, but it makes me wonder... what else am I old enough to do?  What am I not old enough to do (besides rent a car without incurring an additional daily fee)?  Can one ever be too old to do 'something'? I say nay.  I think age is on my side.  

one month married.



Beautiful plan-b dinner at Luc in Madison. 


Santa, I believe.



"I'm not just a whimsical figure who wears a charming suit and affects a jolly demeanor. You know, I... I... I'm a symbol. I'm a symbol of the human ability to be able to suppress the selfish and hateful tendencies that rule the major part of our lives. If... you can't believe, if you can't accept anything on faith, then you're doomed for a life dominated by doubt."

Miracle on 34th St. 




Word of the wise: hot yoga... definitely not the same as hot hawaii. One is amazing, the other one wants to kill you. 

Mr. Eliott West.





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