where is home?

When my little sister Kate was 7 or 8, she started calling me a hobo. It was unthinkable to her little child brain that someone would move around as much as I did...not that I really did, but being a college student always seems to warrant frequent moves. Since we were married, T-rav and I have lived in 8 places in 9 years in 5 different states (and 2 countries if you count the summer in Guatemala), and, as most of you know, much of that time has been spent in Utah. But Utah never really felt like home. It was always a place I was living temporarily until we moved to our "real" home. Wherever that was.

In truth, I've felt in-limbo for a long time. Although I don't really want to choose a place to settle down (ah, the dreaded word settle. It sends shivers through my spine), I sometimes think it might be nice to have a place that was my place. A place where I belong. Because if I can't spend all my time wandering around the globe, I'd like to have a little house with a grand yard and chickens and the best garden you've seen in a long time. And maybe a few goats. And fruit trees. 

This past week when I was back in Utah visiting my sister and her new baby and all the friends I left behind when I moved to DC, I thought that I might feel a little like I was returning home again. But I didn't. Not really. It was lovely to visit, and in many ways I felt like I had never left, but I didn't feel that sense of belonging that I was searching for. 

So did I feel like I was home when I returned to DC? Not particularly, though more so than in Utah. I'm starting to think that perhaps I have the wrong idea of what "home" means (and please don't tell me that "home is where the heart is" because my heart is generally in Italy or Ireland or the Falkland Islands). Usually I feel like my home is where I grew up, my parent's home, but my father usually tries to make it clear that it's not my home any more (particularly when I'm contemplating a house remodel without him). So where is home? What makes you feel like you're home?

Update: T-rav accidentally suggested that I might feel more at home if I had a dog (accidentally because he really doesn't want one). I think he's right. I need a dog.

proof I exist

After my cousin Molly passed away last year, I spent a lot of time going through all of the pictures she had amassed on facebook (my sister and I made a memory book of her photos and memories from family and friends). And my oh my did that girl have a lot of photos. Like many teenage girls, she vacillated between narcissism and self loathing, but still she took pictures of everything she did, everywhere she went, everyone she loved. Of course we will always carry our memories of Molly with us, but it's nice to have so many of them down on paper (or rather on the computer). It's easy to get more than a glimmer of her impish personality from those pictures. It's proof of how she lived, laughed, loved.

It made me start wondering what kind of memories I've left behind. I'm terribly bad about keeping a journal (this blog is about the closest thing to one I've ever had), and apparently I don't really take pictures either because as I went through many of the photos I'd taken since I left home 12 years ago (twelve years! I can't believe it), I was a little shocked to find how few there were. Of all my adventures, there were only a handful of  small folders of pictures, many of which did not include any people. And it made me a little sad. All those memories, lost to the past, evident only in what I can remember and may/may not write down at some point.

So I made a resolution, one that I've really not been that great about keeping thus far: to take more pictures. I want to be able to look back at my life and see how I lived. I want my children to know who my best friends were from more than just 1 or 2 pictures (and preferably know them in real life). I don't want to forget. And I don't want to be forgotten.

a note from my (grammar) student

Ms. Zirker,


Thank you for teaching me. My English grammar become much better than before. I learn a lot and have a happy life in Georgetown University. Thanks again!


Should I be pleased or shed a tear?

how good is your British?

You know I'm a bit of a language nerd, particularly when it comes to English. So please indulge me as I present to you this little quiz on some British English words that don't mean quite the same thing in American English.

Match the British words below with their American counterparts. Check the comments for the correct answers and tell me how many you got right/wrong. Please. A little entertainment will make this last week of school go by so much easier. 

Possible answers: 

cotton swab, mohawk, dark chocolate, trampoline, tic tac toe, crossing guard, bangs, electric blanket, cotton wool, slingshot,  large mugs, TV, beet, fanny pack, fender, coveralls, suspenders, candy salesman, tights, tube top, rutabaga, sponge bath, a lawn game, eggplant, zucchini, undershirt, spoiler, milk chocolate

1. aubergine
2. bowls
3. blanket bath
4. boob tube
5. braces
6. boiler suit
7. catapult
8. cotton bud
9. fringe (relating to hair)
10. lollipop man
11. noughts and crosses
12. plain chocolate
13. swede
14. vest
15. wing (on a car)

For a more complete list of differences (and the source for these words) check out this website.

moist

There are certain words that one should never say out loud. The kind of word that make your hair stand a little bit up on end or make you feel like you've just revealed something personal that you didn't mean to share with the group. Like moist, for example. The one good thing about it, however, is that when you're trying to take a family picture with several people who are typically not very photogenic (ahem. me), and your slightly, or maybe more than slightly, crass brother shouts the word "moist" at the top of his lungs, everyone doubles over into a belly laugh that cannot be contained, which actually doesn't result in the best pictures for some of us, but it's better than an uncomfortable grimace, right?

Other words on my "banned words" list include: panties, bulbous, gyrate, (which one of my professors managed to work into almost every lecture for a whole semester. Sometimes he even acted out the verb for us...) pimple, and several words that, while pure in and of themselves, connote various body parts or functions. I'll leave those to your imagination. 

While you think of words that make you squirm, please admire these pictures of my adorable nephew at his 1st birthday party. Please feel free to share any of your most hated words.

Meet B.O.B

T-rav has been saving every penny and scouring the internet for a reasonably priced bike trailer. To his delight (no really, delight. Or maybe giddiness) he finally found one on ebay at a price that led him to believe that something just had to be wrong with it (there wasn't), and soon B.O.B showed up on our doorstop in a jumbo cheese wedge-shaped box (T-rav wanted to keep the box for memories, but really, when would one ever need to pack something in a wedge box?). Once B.O.B was fully assembled, T-rav was itching to him for a spin...preferably farther than around the block. So Saturday we hitched B.O.B to T-rav's bike and pedaled our way to a nursery to buy some plants and soil for our garden. 

We went 25 miles. B.O.B did very well and never once tipped or bounced in an unseemly way. Our plants were happily protected in the back, and T-rav claims he hardly even noticed B.O.B's added weight (I thought I should have bought more and I was right. My garden still has plenty of space for some leafy greens or something...as long as it's not long and viney. Suggestions?)

Twenty-five miles isn't too far. But it's definitely farther than I've ridden maybe ever, and there were loads and loads of hills. Really steep ones. The kind that threaten to make you and your bike tip over because you can't pedal fast enough to keep yourself upright. I may have had to walk once or twice.

Two points to anyone who can guess what B.O.B's name stands for. And no cheating! 

are you proud to be a woman?

The past two weeks have been ridiculously busy at my office job, but the project in which I've been busily engaged has been less that mentally stimulating. More like dull as rocks. The good thing is that I've had plenty of time for self-reflection and philosophizing, mostly about the role of women in society and in the Mormon church and as human beings. I have more questions than answers, but I've been thinking about what I think about my identity as a women. Maybe you can help me sort out my thoughts.

When I was 18 or so, I remember proudly asserting that I had more guy friends than girls because girls could be so hard to get along with, that I preferred being friends with guys to girls. And there are several things wrong with that.

First of all, I changed my tune about preferring male friends a long time ago. I suppose it was around the time that I got married (and most of my male friends suddenly disappeared). But I realized that my girl friends understood things about me and about my life that most men never will. And more importantly, they understand things from a female perspective. Trivial things like the trial of finding jeans that fit one's bottom and having sore bosoms at that time of the month, or more important things like sexism and discrimination or childbirth (which I obviously can't completely empathize with at this point, but the fact that I could in the future I think gives me a leg up on any man). So why would I say something like I did? I've always considered myself a feminist, even back then. Equal rights for all, just don't make me hang out with women, please! There's something dreadfully wrong with that sentiment.

Maybe the root is in our patriarchal society, the media, and maybe even women themselves. Men dominate, they believe they're superior to women (consciously or subconsciously) and therefore men demean women, so women demean women to be accepted as "one of the guys" (which is totally what I was doing...trying to impress some guys, I'm sure). I'm not one of those annoying girls. I'm a guys' girl. I'm cool. I'm tough. I'm unemotional and strong. I don't need women. And this is such a damaging attitude. Damaging because it's built upon false pretenses: strong is only a manly attribute; women are overly emotional, women are annoying, women aren't cool. Damaging because it's a woman belittling womankind.

Have any of you ladies (or gentleman) noticed this or is it just me? How does one teach women (or teenage girls) to be proud of being a woman because they are women. Not because they're "nurturers" or beautiful or dainty or whatever. I think one's identity as a woman has to be something more than that. But what? Ladies, what makes you proud to be a woman? Or are you proud to be a woman? Thoughts?

I'm adding another question after the fact: how much of what makes you a woman is based on cultural constructs, and does that even matter?

My lovely cousins Sarah and Jane came to visit this weekend.
Happy Easter!

the kite festival and laryngitis

 I lost my voice yesterday somewhere between the kite festival and my third episode of Bones for the night. Or maybe it was during Much Ado About Nothing. Either way I've been whispering when I've found it absolutely necessary to speak, which is rather disconcerting since T-rav has been trained (by me) to respond when I squeak, shout, holler, or yelp, and a silent burst of air being expelled just doesn't have the same attention-getting qualities to it. Anyway, this has forced me to analyze the quality of what I'm thinking of saying before I actually say it. It goes something like this: Is this important? Is it going to engage me in a long conversation? How can I say this as concisely as possible? Is it worth heckling T-rav and possibly trying to goad him into an argument that I will have to whisper rather than rant? It's been interesting for a day at least. You might want to try it some time.

In other news, yesterday was the Kite Festival, part of the National Cherry Blossom Festival (no matter that the cherries are quite done). It highlighted handmade kites, had flight demonstrations and a showing of tricks, and culminated with a series of kite fights where the kite fliers try to cut the other kites out of the sky by strategically wrapping their string around the other strings and sawing until the other string breaks. It was very exciting. Although the weather wasn't quite as warm as I would have liked (especially since my nasty cold had moved from hot flashes to cold flashes), there were hundreds of people out flying their kites along with the pros. Us included. It only took us five, ok fine six tries to get our kite airborne (I don't remember it being so tricky to get a kite to stay up. I swear when I was a kid, I just ran and tossed it up and voila! Kite in the air).

Sadly, my cruddy camera does not capture the massive number of kites being flown. It almost looked like a plague of locusts buzzing around the Washington Monument (did I ever mention that the earthquake was nearly 9 months ago and construction on the small cracks that appeared at the top won't even start until this summer?! And then who knows how long it will take. Bah to bureaucracy!). Almost equally as sad is the picture of me and T-rav at the festival that is most definitely not pictured here. We're pale and sickly-looking and my hair is blowing everywhere and we're both squinting weirdly even though it wasn't really sunny. I do have standards, you know. Just enjoy the whale floating in the background and imagine yourself there with us. Visitors are always welcome!

It's Spring!

Team Molly

 March 18th marked the 1 year anniversary of my cousin Molly's passing. Molly being a crazy runner and all, running a race in her honor seemed like the right thing to do, so  last weekend T-rav and I trekked down to Virginia Beach with my dad and sister Kate, and Aunt, her family, and my cousins' boyfriends and family. Together we made up Team Molly.

T-rav and I ran the 8K (we had wanted to do the half marathon, but sadly registered after it was already full. I just need to make that clear because I felt like a big wimp only doing 5 miles). Aunt, uncle, boyfriends + family, and cousin Jane ran the half, cousin Sarah ran the marathon, and my dad and Kate cheered us on. We were kind of a ragtag bunch: I was still feeling rather ill and hadn't eaten in 3 days, uncle got a stomach bug the day before the race, Sarah had a seriously pained knee, and Jane's boyfriend had a torn ACL. And he ran anyway (with dr's permission). Now THAT is dedication.

Team Molly was a great success. Our t-shirts were quite a hit--Molly loved tie-dye and bright blue--and you could hear fellow runners (mostly teenage ones) whispering about our awesome shirts as we walked/ran around town. There was an exciting energy in the race that I haven't really felt since 9th grade track meets. And although the weather wasn't fantastic (I actually think it was warmer in Palmyra for once), being at the beach and enjoying what sun we had was exactly what Molly would have wanted. She was born with one toe in the sand and the other already running.

We love you, Molly!