Out of the rain

I'm going to yoga again and it's great.  Just the limber up and calm down I need, with a healthy dose of sweat and spandex thrown in for good measure.  Tonight, I met Maria for a class - I always like going with Maria because we can roll our eyes together at the yogis going for crazy poses and appreciate the Zen of bits of advice - and afterwards we were going to sit and chat at a nearby coffee shop.  We were two strikes (three if you count the behind-construction-lines accidental detour) out when an old lady told us that the Starbucks just closed, and could she trouble us for a ride to the bus station? It's a good 20 minute walk and the sky is so gray there's sure to be a downpour any second.  How awful that my reaction to politely decline to help came in close second to my impulse to close my purse and mentally review everything in my car just in case she was trying to scam me.  The lady was 72 years old and clearly harmless, but I still conversationally quizzed her on the authenticity of her story on the walk back to my car.  Hail started about ten seconds after we got in the car (which barely started due to low fuel and had a backseat full of worthless clutter [3 pairs of shoes, paperwork, sweaty yoga gear, and ingredients for the taco salad I was going to make for the fiesta potluck we had at work today but didn't, to start] just in case she had some sort of weapon on her).  We drove the 10 blocks to the bus stop under bursts of hail and 'Oh Lord!'s from our new friend and received in return the blessing of 'everything we need for trusting and providing, Amen', and the reminder that little old ladies aren't out to get you and sometimes people just need a ride.

Dancing with Orcas [August]

Um, have I mentioned that I saw whales last summer?  Not from land, from tour or at SeaWorld; I saw count 'em FOUR whales, ORCA whales, in fact, some 40 yards away! 


That's me on the left and Orcas right at the front of my kayak

 It all started with Maria's purchase of a sea kayak.  I would say damn her and her always cooler than mine purchases, but this particular buy led to the fulfilling of a dream vacation of mine: kayak camping, so at least today I'm grateful.  Six of us launched from a dock near Olympia (Boston Harbor?) with two potential itineraries, a short, easy route and a longer route that required some against-the-current paddling if we were feeling ambitious.  Lucky that my man knows a thing or two about navigating the high seas (or low seas, whatever the ocean water is in the South Puget Sound).  After a quick potty break on a deserted Native American island (which turned out not to be so deserted- we got pretty well yelled at by a NA standing guard on his speedboat nearby.  No, sir you probably wouldn't come pee on my front doorstep, but my doorstep isn't 12 sq. miles of empty forest.  But whatever.) we opted for the longer route. I only regretted the decision for about a half an hour when 10 strokes seemed to get me nowhere and a quick break meant moving backward. 



We commandeered the only campsite left (the smug kayak Meetup group who made it pretty clear that they were faster/better/more badass than us were relegated to small space near the camp's woodpile.  Suckers.) and I quickly regretted thinking that my sleeping pad was too bulky for my boat's storage space.  (If I've learned one thing about kayaks from this trip it's that the trunk space is beyond spacious.  A sleeping pad fits.  Extra food fits.  A full Coleman stove would fit and a team of immigrants to man breakfast would fit).

Turning in for the night at Jarrel Cove

When we woke up, Russ built us a fire, Trent serenaded us with Sunday hymns on his harmonica (a surefire way to make a Sabbath Day was holy), Porter, Maria and I slowly prepared for the day while Daniel told us that he swears he heard whale sounds in the middle of the night.  Some fellow campers had been whispering about whales in the area the night before but there was no sign of them.  Whales are frequently seen near the San Juan Islands but rarely, if ever, did they congregate in the South Sound. 

Lounging

After convincing my poor arms that another day of paddling wouldn't actually be akin to torture, we headed out, due north, to make our way around the Hartcene Island.  Man alive, the open water is amazing.  I wish I could bottle the blue-gray water against a white or blue or gray sky and unleash it any time I'm feeling sad or frustrated or anything even remotely angry.  Psychologists say that water is a great source of serenity.  I'm on that train. 

Turns out potty breaks are bound for trouble, because on day 2, we parked for lunch - this time on a decidedly open and non-Native American beach- and had to cross 200 yards of barnacles for a semi-secluded squat site. No need to get into TMI, but my feet were hating my bladder.  Now that I think of it, I'm not sure why I didn't have shoes to come along with me.

It was just as we were coming up on the southern quarter of the island that other kayakers and boaters seemed to be congregating.  Whales. ORCA WHALES.  Paddle paddle paddle, as fast as my jello arms could bring me.  I had to get near them.  And I did!  There were two whales, putting on a show, frolicking around.  After a while, there was another jumping behind the wake of a speedboat.  What??

A fellow kayaker noted that he's been paddling the south Puget Sound for 15 years and has never seen any Orca pods in the area. 

I'm not going to try to paint a picture of the majesty of these whales in this setting, so unexpected.  It was majestic and amazing and way more incredible than I could try to describe.

So be jealous.  And go kayaking. 

Glamming it up

The day I purchased my wedding dress from the Seattle Wedding Expo, I was supposed to recieve a package from the Limited, where I had ordered a Final Sale dress that took my breath away.  Had I received it on time, I probably wouldn't have looked elsewhere because it's seriously adorable.  It arrived the following Tuesday, looked great on me, fit my body and personality and hung for weeks in competition with my Wedding Expo dress.  Maybe I could wear them both? 


In the end, I chose the Expo dress because it accentuated all the right feminities and took my style up a notch, as should be the case on that One Day 'you're supposed to be the star.'  It has a 50's Hollywood Glam thing going on and after deliberation with friend and hired seamstresses, alterations came easily.  [Alterations by Leanne in Lacey was well worth the drive to Olympia, btw.  She's a bit of an odd bird, but she was a more than fair price and is really talented].  And, as you can tell, with this beauty, I'd still have to find myself some shoulder covering, which just takes away from the dress.  But doesn't it just hang so beautifully?

A month before the wedding I set an appointment with the woman who has done my mom's hair for years, and mine intermittently as I've been around.  I needed a trim anyway and thought it would be a good time to talk out some ideas about how to go glam without having finger curls shellacked to my forehead.  The haircut was a bust, as was the planning conversation, and my sister reminded (slash scolded) me on my vent home that I always regret going to this stylist because she always gives me the same haircut (some variation of 'the Rachel') and I only like it when I've styled it myself, at least 3 weeks after the original cut (the cut looks great today, for what it's worth). 

Enter Christie, my beloved cousin, honorary sister (because she's got 6 brothers) and in this case, personal hair stylist.  Christie beyond saved the day with curlers, spray, and hair pins.  I've gotten more compliments on my hair than anything else, I think.  Because it looked awesome and perfect, that's why.

As for other primping, Seretta got me a gift card for a massage, which I took the Wednesday prior, I got a mani-pedi with Christie, and of course, make-up at Neiman Marcus.

It was surprisingly difficult to set an appointment at the makeup counter for me, Brooke, and Maria.  They expect you to know the companies and which lines you want.  Honestly, don't they all have eyeliner and a 30 shades of red lipstick?  I opted for Bobbi Brown, mostly because I've heard of her and think she's known for a natural look.  My makeup artist was also a bride-to-be, though she and her fiancee were opting for a just them Vegas wedding because her family is Luxembourgish and her man is from South Africa (wtf, I know) so they'll be celebrating on those other continents later this summer.  Totally normal.


I worried less about accessories than I probably should have (or maybe just the right amount since it all turned out). Mia made me some silk hair fascinators to go behind my vision of a sideswept bun. They were vetoed last minute for being too white against my ivory gown, but the gem center was the perfect bling, hot glued to a chiffon flower I had originally purchased with the intention of sending all my friends coordinating flowers to accessorize with (you know, one on a headband, one on a necklace, sash, shoe piece, etc.) but that didn't quite come to fruition in the busyness of other planning.


For jewelry, I seriously lucked out with a very last-minute run to Macy's 10 minutes before they closed.  40% off and just perfect.  I matched my mother-in-law's tennis bracelet (not sure if it's real or not but it sure is sparkly!) and opted out of a necklace.  

I forgot my bridal bouquet at home the entire time. 

All dun 'n purdy

Onto the recap

I've been reticent in my blogging lately, which I hate, less for the consistency of publishing and more because the longer I wait, the less I remember and the blurrier the picture I can write with words.  I'm going for a living memoir here, so accuracy and freshness is worth not having a completely fleshed out idea, and I need to remind myself of that.

Until then, I'm in recap mode, namely of my wedding, (including engagement, showers, and preparations) and all the normal life that happened in the meantime.

Goal is to write at least every other day in April so hopefully once the juices get flowing, I'll have made something resembling a habit of keeping record of the life of mine, which now, I'll be sharing with this dapper gent:

Warm jammies, Long day

11:11 pm and today was the most productive sick day ever.  I'm in my Christmas jammies because even though it seems to be warming up and drying out around here (4 straight days of blue blue skies, thank you), I'm still cold under my skin and the only thing that help is flannel/fleece PJs (with the collar popped apparently) and the inch-thick red socks my future Mother-in-Law gave me as a Christmas stocking this year. 

Yes, I have three piles of clean clothes to put away, but it means I got TWO very full loads done today, along with a number of errands that have been clouding up the back of my brain including, but not limited to depositing over $1000 in checks, getting in a quasi-fight with my financial planner about my life insurance policy, finalizing wedding invitations, tables and food with my mom, buying thank you cards and contraceptives, a Bikram yoga class that kicked my butt but sweat out everything toxic in me, and an episode of Lost to top it off. 

And I made my bed. 

Irene

There's this lady I work with at the temple, Irene.  I actually grew up going to church with her, though my only memory of her was that she was old and her husband was dying so we went as a youth group to clean up their house.  It's 15 years later now and she's got that wobbly head thing going on where it always looks like she's nodding in agreement, or maybe trying her hand (head) at a good old fashioned Indian head shake. She's about 4'10", maybe shorter with posture, and has the kind of wrinkles that I love shout that I want some day, because they show a life well-lived.  My mom says wait 'til I'm her age and I'll rethink the beauty of wrinkles, but Irene's skin and small pouf of silvery white hair make me think I could like aging, if I could end up as cute as her. 

I just noticed Irene again tonight, up close towering over her.  I don't think I've ever had 4" on anyone over the age of 10.  It's funny how old people, to me, feel made up, like they're out of a story or a movie or something.  I see the wrinkles and make up stories in my head of years that made them wiser.  Sure, they've had those years, but they've also had things like a pick line up their arm for weeks at a time and husbands dying and a lot of normal days full of dinner and errands.

When I first started at the temple, none of the ladies asked about my love life.  It's considered rude, I guess, to ask a young girl who might just be starving for a life partner about the presence of such a man.  But the first time Irene made the connection that I was a Knudson girl, Wendy's daughter, from her neck of the woods, the first words out of her mouth were 'So, you got a man?'  Tonight when asked questions that I would story up in my head to be answered like Nanny Wendy from Hook, instead, she was matter of fact and to the point.  Dark penciled eyebrows and no messing around. 

Just noticed and am still thinking about it.  I could be pretty happy to end up like Irene. 

Giving Up Explained

When I have something big to blog about, I have a tendency to hold off on updating my blog for a while because I wish I could update chronologically, fully, as things are happening.  I want to update with pictures and witty or thoughtful commentary.  Then I get back-logged and then don't want to post new items out of order.

This season's big news?



Oh, and my fingeres are red now...

Uhh what?

I'm freaking engaged, that's what.  

I met this boy and I love him and we're getting married.  Two months from yesterday.

Now I can post about all the goings-on with some context.

Soundtrack: C'est la Mort by The Civil Wars

This song was recommended to me by YouTube yesterday and I've probably listened to it over 50 times in the last 24 hours.  It's got that desperation of Phantom of the Opera's 'All I Ask Of You' and the sweet sentimental of 'Grow Old with You' from The Wedding Singer.  But it's got these haunting vocals, killer harmonies, and a message that sinks in so deep that I got light-headed the first 15 times on repeat. 

Whatever happens, wherever you go, in life and in death, don't go without me.

Giving up

I probably could have/should have/ would have posted this a while ago, but I'm a stubborn girl who hates to admit defeat. 



Let's just say losing isn't always a bad thing.

Hot Springs



Not looking forward to this



I really do loathe the cold.

I feel like that has to be a disclaimer to really appreciate how lovely it was to trek up to the Goldmyer Hot Springs yesterday.  I pretty much live in constant fear of potential cold and do my darnedest to prevent any from affecting my little body, so getting me out the door in the first place was a bit of a sell.

Once we got going, though, I realized that 1)  the trail riding form of mountain biking is WAY more fun and way LESS terrifying than downhill, slick-rock, and big jump mountain biking 2) there's a great sound I never knew of a bike tire slicing through the frozen layer on top of mud puddles, and 3) it is possible to continue on even as frostbite seems to be setting in to fingers and toes.



I've Arrived!



Four miles up a not too steep incline, the snow had gone from patchy to present and a little crispy on top.  We parked our bikes, checked in with the couple WHOSE JOB IT IS to man the electricity and real world access-free cabin at the Springs.  Lucky me, there was only one nakie in the hot springs (oh what, didn't I tell you it was clothing optional?) and I'm rill good at averting my eyes when man parts are sloshing about.

Goldmyer has three levels of hot pouring from the springs.  Super duper hot in the cave; hot tub hot just outside, bathtub hot just below.  I dabbled in hot tub, luxuriated in the cave.  Bathtub in the wilderness in the middle of November is a bad idea I would never consider.



On our way out, toasty on the inside and full on roast pork and PB&J Luna Bars (Porter knows how to pack a lunch), we passed a group of 12 backpackers headed up to the springs.  I'm just hoping they weren't thinking clothing optional. 



"12 naked backpackers in an enclosed bath tub!"



You win this time, Bratten.

First World Problems

Sometimes I go about hating on life and the little inconveniences that feel like they are destroying peace and ripping to shreds any semblance of joy and happiness.  Then one of the lyrics to this high school kid's homework assignment rap song pop into my head and I kick myself for my lack of perspective.  It doesn't matter that I missed my exit; it's not the end of the world that my socks are a bit rough even though I used fabric softener; that person eating with their mouth open or blowing their nose super loud doesn't actually affect me at all.

I've got some first world problems!