Laundry woes

A small part of me died last week. My favorite khaki vest. It has basically taken me seven days to feel emotionally capable enough to blog about this tragedy.

In most aspects of life I am a pretty easy going person. However, when it comes to laundry, I am completely neurotic. I trace this back to my first real experience of doing my own laundry. I was getting ready to move away to college. I am embarassed to admit it, but I had never washed my own clothes. My mother told me it was time that I learned to do my own laundry, and so I gave it a go. This wasn't so bad, I thought. What was the big deal anyway? I pulled my clothes out of the dryer and to my complete and utter horror, everything had shrunk. Cabbage patch doll size. As a young (yes, somewhat materialistic) eighteen year old, I was inconsolable. I honestly cried. For a couple of hours. From that day forward, I was never the same.

I am very particular about my laundry. I wash everything in cold/cold water on a light cycle. Instead of using dryers, I hang everything to dry on a drying rack. I am also extremely picky about what goes into each load. As a result, I usually wash about 7 loads each time I do laundry. Yes, I acknowledge the fact that this is slightly high maintenance, but I have never had an article of clothing destroyed since that first disastrous experience. That is, until last week.

Now to my beloved vest. It was a great vest. I found it on a trip out to Washington D.C. last October. My friend Tricia and I were walking through the shops near Georgetown one night and immediately it caught my eye. I had to have it. It was the only one of its kind. Since the day I bought it, it's been a wardrobe favorite. That vest and I were made for each other. Seriously.

The other day I was in the middle of doing laundry. A new, burgandy shirt (which was still bleeding shades of red) was lying on the drying rack. My khaki vest was in the middle of a wash cycle (alone, because I didn't want to chance washing it with anything else). I left the room for a while, and when I came back my vest wasn't in the washing machine. I found it lying on the drying rack. On top of the bleeding burgandy shirt. I bolted across the room to try to remedy the situation, but it was too late. The damage was already done. My khaki vest was covered in burgandy spots.

I was devastated. I wanted to cry. I wanted to yell at whoever was responsible. But I didn't. Maybe this is a sign of newfound maturity. I tried every trick I knew to remove the blood-like stains, and when nothing worked.... I simply had to give up and quietly mourn my loss. One week later, I am slowly recovering. I am still heartbroken about the unexpected death of my khaki vest. I am quite certain that I will never be able to find an adequate replacement.

Janice, It really hurts

This video brought more joy to my soul than I ever thought possible. I am so blessed to have found it. Please enjoy.

My getaway to Santa Fe

I went on a little getaway this past week with the parentals. We went to Santa Fe. Some people questioned, "Of all places, why Santa Fe?" Well, why the heck not? Besides, who else goes there?



I fell in love with New Mexico. Santa Fe was so dreamy. The charming little city boasted art gallery after art gallery, delicious restaurants, and exquisite, high class shopping. I highly recomend a visit there to any of you art lovers. I found a fantastic painting... next time I have $28,000 lying around, I think that I'll buy it.

Rain Day

Today when I woke up to the pouring rain and thunder, I decided to forget my alarm clock, roll back into bed, and make the day mine. Lately I've been feeling super overwhelmed. Probably in more doses than ever before. It's ironic, because my life is disturbingly simple right now. I have already detached myself from most of the components that would normally produce stress. I decided to take this day to do a little unwinding and reconnecting: spiritually, emotionally, and mentally.
I took a walk in the pouring rain while listening to Sia's song "Breathe Me." It proved to be just the fix I needed. It's the perfect rainy day song because it is so raw and packed with emotion. It made me feel validated in every way.

Yes, that's right... I'm an animal hater

Today I opened up an email from a friend that had pictures of cats. They were all in really weird, unnatural positions. I almost lost my lunch it was so gross. I thought about posting a picture for you to see, but decided against it. Be very thankful.

CONFESSION: I hate cats. Now that I've said it, I can't stop there. I HATE ANIMALS. So sue me. Turn me into the animal rights activists. Blame it on Scott L. and Alison C. Hymas. As a child I begged for a puppy but they told me that pets were gross, and smelly, and that they would buy me a swing set instead. Swings and monkey bars were much more fun than any pet would ever be.

Over the years I've developed a callous heart. I have turned into the adult I despised. I'm a full-blooded pet hater. This means I can't marry a pet guy. I just don't think it could ever work. End of story.

What is your dream job?

A few days ago we took a poll at work to find out everybody's dream job. "If you could have any job in the world, what would it be?" Jackie wants to be a cocktail waitress in the French Riviera. Carla wants to run a presidential campaign. Christena wants to be a photo journalist. Carlie wants to be a butterfly (I'm still not exactly sure what that means..)
Here are my top 5 dream jobs.
1. Fashion buyer/marketer
2. Host a show on the travel channel
3. Open my own bakery/restaurant
4. Singer in a band (actually I'd be willing to do anything...)
5. Own a bookstore

So.... what is your dream job??

Return of Polygamy?

The other day my boss asked me to drop off a script at a radio station. I was assigned to make sure that it was recorded correctly before it went on air. Not a problem. I got there, and right away the man I was working with gave me the creeps. I tried to dismiss the fact that he was blatantly hitting on me, and he was my father's age. 46. To make it even worse, he had pictures of his wife and kids all over his desk. At first I ignored his sloppy flirtatious remarks, until out of the blue he looked at me with crazy eyes and said, "You know, when polygamy is legal again, I want to take you for a wife." WHAT????? PERV!!!!!! Who says that? I was horrified. Quite honestly, it scared the living daylights out of me. I tried to keep my composure and replied, "That is absolutely disgusting." Two minutes later I was out of there. Needless to say, I won't be going back.

Here's to you Brooke

My mom gets annoyed with me because I call everybody my 'best friend.' She says calling everybody my 'best' friend diminishes the word best, and that I use the word much too lightly. Not so. I figure I have been fortunate enough to have many great friends over the years, and refering to them as a plain old friend doesn't do our friendship justice. Therefore, I have many people I identify as best friends.

With that said, I can honestly say that Brooke Svendsen is truly a best friend. This is no stretch. She would definitely make the top three list if I were forced to make one.

Brooke and I were destined to be friends. Our grandmothers, Darlene and Jytta, had been best friends for the past 40 years, until Jytta died this past summer. If that wasn't enough to seal the deal, we were randomly assigned as roommates in a London Film study abroad program a few years ago. Although I thought her high maintenance sleeping patterns (eye masks and ear plugs every night) rather odd, we clicked right off the bat. I put up with her drama, and she listened to me when I over-analyzed. I was intrigued by the way she viewed the world, and she laughed at all of my jokes. For the past three years, it's been a perfect combo.

Today I really missed Brooke. Maybe it was because I got a letter from her yesterday and started laughing so hard I had tears running down my cheeks. Or maybe becauase it was such a perfect autumn day, and normally we would have been rollerblading, bike riding, lounging on the grass on campus, or hitting up the swings at Kawanis Park. Not this year though. Today Brooke was in the jungles of Malaysia, shuffling along dirt roads in the sweltering heat spreading the good word. And I was stuck in an office, staring at a computer screen. Sound depressing?

So Brooke, here's to the good old days. Here's to dancing in the bookshelves in the HBLL with our ipods in sync. Here's to making music videos, and staying up talking until 4:00 a.m. Here's to journal writing, molasses cookies, and The OC. Here's to indie music, sundance films, and complicated love triangles. Here's to chocolate fountain parties, coldplay, and modern art. Here's to laying out at your pool, getting out of dates so that we could chill at home, and living in the Brimhall. Here's to fireflies. Here's to India. Here's to you baby.

Post Script: Wow... this sort of sounds like a wannabee love letter. I promise we aren't lesbos. Just BFF.