What I want(ed) in a guy

I recently found a list I made in high school titled “What I want in a guy.” The date on it is 2003 — either my junior or senior year. I remember my friends making fun of me for it, then making lists of their own. None of them even came close to my list, though; 210 things is hard to top.

The first thing on my list was “strong relationship with God/Christian.” Others included “doesn’t criticize my driving” and “can match clothes.” Here’s a peek at what I wanted in a male counterpart 10 years ago:

#2. Respects me, my family and my friends.

#5. Strong — mentally and physically (nice muscles never hurt).

#8. Likes dogs.

#10. Doesn’t smoke.

#13. Not obsessed with fake women, such as Britney Spears, Pamela Anderson, or any other diva, pop star, Baywatcher, or pin-up.

#20. Looks in my eyes, not up, down, or away.

#22. Brushes teeth on a regular basis.

#25. Doesn’t rush me. Patience is everything.

#27. Picks out his own mother’s cards.

#33. Rides roller coasters.

#35. Never tells me I look bad, fat, rough, dirty, or any other unacceptable adjective.

#46. Doesn’t tell stupid jokes to the point I can’t even pretend laugh.

#47. Has goals and perseverance.

#48. Encourages and supports me.

#51. Not constantly on a computer.

#63. Laughs well — not loud, breathy, gaspy, silent, through the nose, high-pitched, or too long.

#65. My height or taller.

#67. Has nice hands —  not rough or feminine.

#70. Doesn’t need an umbrella.

#71. Doesn’t go to strip clubs or Hooters — even “for the wings.”

#76. Doesn’t always call for a reason, but always has something to say.

#78. Never says, “I didn’t mean to lead you on,” especially when he knew perfectly well what he was doing.

#82. Has good taste in music — no screaming songs.

#88. Sociable.

#101. Thinks of more unique dates than dinner and a movie.

#106. Likes color.

#109. Puts the dishes in the sink, not on the counter beside the sink. The dishwasher is better.

#112. Likes to travel.

#113. Loves life and takes pleasure in the small things.

#117. Makes me a better person; good influence.

#127. Has decent feet.

#128. Wears sunscreen, and doesn’t go to a tanning bed.

#135. Modest.

#157. Remembers Valentine’s Day and my birthday.

#159. Open-minded and has own opinions, but doesn’t force them on others.

#161. Doesn’t leave shaving cream/hair/toothpaste in the sink/bathtub.

#167. Prays often.

#180. Knows what he’s worth; confidence.

#181. No dandruff.

#190. No weird diseases or hereditary dysfunctions.

#196. Doesn’t leave bugs in the floor after he kills them.

#197. Runs nice.

#203. Not a previous criminal.

#209. Can manage money.

#210. Has a plan.

I came across this list shortly after Pete and I got married and he asked me how he stacks up to The List. I have to say, he meets most of them, like #69. Looks great in a baseball hat, and #148. Knows about cars. … Not #36, though; “has nice handwriting.” But I love him anyway.

Other things I noticed is that it took me until #129 to list “smart,” and that my taste in some things has definitely changed since ’03. Like #162. No beard or mustache. … I was the one who told Pete not to shave before our wedding.

While my list is a tall order for anyone to fill, my favorite is #192. Not too picky.

The mundane

A co-worker shared an article on her Facebook page a couple of weeks ago, and I could really relate to it. It’s called Instagram’s Envy Effect. Here’s a snippet from the author:

My life looks better on the Internet than it does in real life. Everyone’s life looks better on the Internet than it does in real life. The Internet is partial truths—we get to decide what people see and what they don’t.

She talks about how community doesn’t happen when we share edited photos, but when we share our real lives — the unedited version. She also says we typically check social media when we’re bored or lonely — the worst time to see someone’s vacation pictures at the Eiffel Tower.

I know some people are quite transparent on the web — whether through Facebook, Twitter, blogs, Instagram, live journals, etc. — but for the most part, I notice that people put positive things from their lives on the web. You might share a sad news story or something, but when it comes to posting pictures of yourself, you’re probably not sharing a picture of yourself home alone on a Friday night with a Cheerwine in one hand, a Redbox in the other and tears running down your face because you’re lonely. And you’re far more likely to post that you had a blast at some concert than the fact that your team lost the 8th basketball game in a row.

Again, there are exceptions, but that’s my experience as a daily Facebook user.

I read a similar article last summer called Facebook Lies: No One is Really Having That Much Fun. Here’s one magazine editor’s response to the article:

Facebook fosters the worst type of coveting–craving our neighbors’ (or friends’) lives. We see pictures full of smiling faces and amazing experiences and we assume that our friends spend every minute of every day in that snapshot of bliss. Meanwhile, we struggle with broken relationships, insecurity and feelings of inadequacy. But no one posts about that kind of thing on Facebook. So we think we’re the only ones experiencing those things. Everyone else has a picture perfect life, at least on Facebook.

I’m guilty of the same thing. I see people on a boat in Florida with sunglasses and new tans and think, “Man, I wish I was having that much fun.” Or I see a friend who just ran a marathon and wish I looked like her. Or I see smiling couples and think about the argument Pete and I just had instead of the many other days we are happy and don’t have arguments. And what do I do? I post the same kind of pictures. Because who wants to see all the mundane things I do? And who wants to hear about my crummy weekend? Plus, I’m generally an optimistic person and I sometimes get annoyed with posts on Facebook that are always negative, always complaining, always pessimistic.

Like the first article says, social media can be great for sharing parts of our lives, staying in touch with people, getting a friend’s recipe or rallying together for a cause. And remember, I found the article I’m talking about on Facebook! But it also causes us to compare ourselves to our friends: She has a nicer house. He makes more money. So-and-so has everything together.

After reading the Instagram article, I decided to do a little project. Over the course of two days, I took pictures of all the mundane things I did — things that would never make it onto Facebook. And I compared them to more glamorous pictures portraying the same, or opposite, things. Here you go:

I came home to dirty dishes and washed more dishes not pictured.

I sat in traffic on my way to work. As opposed to whizzing by on the open road.

I worked. … This lady didn’t.

It was gloomy and I was in a bad mood.

I got pollen all over my car.

I had lunch with some ladies from work. … OK, this part was fun.

It rained. I had to take this myself because Pete wasn’t home yet.

I got gas. Unlike actress and model Audrina Patridge, I wasn’t greeted by a fan.

I bought groceries. But didn’t eat my fancy dinner outside with perfect hair.

I passed a cool tree on my way home. I did not, however, pass this sunlit haven by a bench.

I got behind this truck, instead of Ryan Gosling rolling down his pant legs.

I fed the dogs. Outside, not out of a dish with their names on it.

I vacuumed. I did not wear a dress, apron and black pumps.

I rested on the deck. I did not rest on the hammock.

And I walked the dog.

After taking all the pictures, I have to say that while I don’t find my life particularly glamorous, overall, I am pretty darn happy with it. On my Facebook page I have a quote that says, “Just remember that at any given moment, someone would love to be in your shoes.” While I might wish for sunshine instead of rain, or envy someone who’s traveling the world, there are plenty of people who would love to have legs to walk a dog, or who wish they had a job, or who don’t have money for a pollen-covered car. Or worse, who don’t have friends to share lunch with. I’m pretty fortunate.

I <3 the ’90s

Our church is having a book fair, and Sunday there were shelves and shelves of kids’ books in the narthex. I even saw some oldies like Clifford the Big Red Dog and the Berenstain Bears.

I’ve mentioned this before, but I miss being a kid. I miss Amelia Bedelia books and field day. I miss my pink Skip-It, my glittery trash bag kite and the Magic School Bus. Oh, and Schoolhouse Rock. I still remember the animated Pilgrims arriving at Plymouth. (I think the animated version is a tad happier than the real-life one.) And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention “I’m Just a Bill.” Sitting on Capitol Hill, of course.

I even miss my ribbon dancer and all 15 feet of it’s “shimmering satin ribbon.”

“Ribbon dancer all around, dancin’ in the street! (Come on and do it!) Ribbon dancer up and down, dancin’ to the beat! (Jumpin’ through it!)” … You eventually run out of things to do with a baton and a long piece of ribbon. I could have made one with a stick and a streamer for a lot less.

I also miss my Easy-Bake Oven and Baskin-Robbins Ice Cream Maker. ”I scream, you scream, we all scream for BASKIN-ROBBINS ICE CREAM MAKER!”

I still give my parents grief for selling the Easy-Bake Oven. The new ones are more modern-looking, so maybe I’ll find an excuse to bake tiny cakes again.

Beware of jump rope

Last week, I was talking to a co-worker about exercise and she mentioned using her own jump rope during a fitness program. The last time I jumped rope was back in the fall during a work trip (I borrowed it from a different co-worker), but before that, it had been years. I can’t remember the last time I owned one.

I was reminded what a great workout jumping rope can be, plus it’s easy, portable and takes up minimal space, so on my way home that evening I picked one up while I was at Target.

I got the kind with weighted handles, so it’s definitely the fanciest jump rope I’ve ever had. I used it when I got home that night and felt like I was back in elementary school, wearing my turquoise sweat suit with a teddy bear on the front, listening to the coach talk about Jump Rope for Heart. Holy moly, this is great cardio. Zoey was entertained, too.

Then I read the piece of paper that came with my jump rope. Everything has to have a warning, doesn’t it? This one in particular made me laugh. I can only imagine the blank stare I would get if I consulted my medical practitioner about the potential risks of jumping rope.

Slice of life

I’ve always lived near cows and railroad tracks. It’s not uncommon to pass a field of black and white cattle or grazing horses on my way home, or to hear a train whistle in the distance at night when the air is otherwise empty. Not that I don’t like those things, but someday I’d really like a house by the water. A lake would be nice. The beach would be better.

I don’t know that I’d want tangly beach hair all the time or sand in my kitchen floor, but there’s something about the beach that draws me in. I don’t even like to swim in the ocean; I just like the miles of shoreline stretched out before me, the warm breeze and the way bare feet sometimes uncover a unique seashell as the foamy water washes over my toes. When I was little, my family used to go to Myrtle Beach and I would crane my neck in the backseat to get that first glimpse of the ocean. So big, so endless. It was such an accomplishment to finally arrive at the end of the earth. I still scan the gaps between hotels and weathered rental homes on stilts to get that first look at the salty blue water.

It’s not just the beach that calls me, either. It’s going places in general. That’s why I like airports; everyone has somewhere to be, and their accents, clothes and tagged luggage all mingle in between concourses like a sophisticated, yet comforting Italian recipe, filled with a bunch of different, colorful things to make one great big tasty dish. I love the way everything mixes together: the currency, the clothing, the bits of conversation. Everyone has their own boarding pass and their own companions, yet they’re all together in one place, playing out their lives so you can sit and watch and not get bored. It’s like the Discovery Channel, but in person.

Last time I was at the airport, there was a man playing the community piano. He was playing “Put on a Happy Face,” and a guy passing by on the moving walkway started whistling along. I liked that two strangers could be so quickly united through a simple tune. And when you think about it, we’re really not that different in an airport. Everyone is scrambling to get their shoes back on at the end of the security checkpoint. Everyone is looking at their iPad or iPhone. Everyone is people watching back at you. And everyone is paying too much for airport food.

If you have known me for any length of time, you know I want to go to Ireland. I like that it’s green and hilly and has old, crumbling castles. I’d also like to see Greece for all the domed buildings on the side of cliffs, overlooking sparkling water. But really, I think I’d agree to go almost anywhere, except the really dangerous places. (I’m on the fence about India. Everyone I know who has gone came back sick.)

At work, I sit by a window and sometimes I get distracted by these things. Especially when it’s sunny out.

I think of all the places I could go and wonder what it would be like to be in Paris, Thailand or Tasmania at that very moment. What are people there doing? What would I be doing? Maybe if I were in Europe, I would be walking along some busy sidewalk with big sunglasses and a large tote hanging from one arm, looking for the nearest café to get afternoon tea and a scone. I would probably be wearing skinny jeans because a lot of pictures I’ve seen of Europeans have them dressed in those.

Or maybe I would be walking through a field of tulips in Holland, with everything around me still except an old windmill going around and around. I would take pictures of tourists and say things like “Cheers!” but in Dutch. Pete would be with me, of course.

Perhaps I would be boarding a subway in Bangkok, headed to the zoo with a friend to look at protected species like the Formosan rock-monkey or the black-faced spoonbill. We could carry umbrellas to shield the sun and buy key chains as souvenirs.

In Tasmania, I would wear boots and a hat while riding through the rainforest in a red Jeep. Maybe I’d take a tour along some river while making conversation with the person next to me about my latest blog post or rainforest adventures.

It’s hard to sit still and focus on the computer screen in front of me when I think of these things. Or to sit in traffic on my way home, then take the trash out and unload the dishwasher once I get there. Why can’t I tour the world AND have a house, husband, two dogs and a job? I can have both, right? I guess that’s what my Ireland fund is for. One step at a time.

I started an Ireland jar in college, but never had cash so it turned into a holder for my shower curtain rings. Today I decided it’s back. I’m going to make this happen. I wrote “Ireland Box” before realizing I should have written “Jar,” but oh well. (The jar previously held gourmet jerky for the dogs, but I washed it out so it doesn’t smell funny.) I also wrapped a picture around it that came from a calendar my grandmother had in 2001. I don’t know if it’s Ireland or not, but it looks like it.

 

27 and counting

If you’ve known me for any length of time, you know I like my birthday. Hm, like isn’t really strong enough. I LOVE my birthday. It makes me feel kind of vain since my birthday is basically a celebration of me, but I like having an excuse to do what I want to do, not do what I don’t want to do and get together with people I love to celebrate another year of life and look forward to the coming year.

On Wednesday, I turned 27, and the pit of my stomach tells me it’ll be a good year. Pete turned 28 on Friday, so we’ve gotten to do double the fun stuff!

Here’s the abridged version of what I did on my birthday: got a bunch of Facebook messages, texts, phone calls and well wishes in person — all which gave me that warm, fuzzy feeling; ate lots of good food; worked, but took Friday off; and had the best birthday I’ve ever had on the clock.

Here’s what I DIDN’T do: dishes, cleaning, pack lunches, complain or frown.

Here’s the past week in pictures, in no particular order because it’s too much work to organize them after uploading:

My beautiful bouquet from Mr. Jothen. He’s so good at picking out flowers. He even arranged this one!

To celebrate both of our birthdays. A yellow cake with chocolate icing on the left and rainbow chip on the right.

Amelie’s French Bakery in NoDa. We both got the salted caramel brownie. Thanks for the recommendation, Jen!

Inside Amelie’s

There’s so much to look at!

My family came to visit, and we went ice skating at the Extreme Ice Center near our house. It was Emily’s first time!

All the Facebook wishes made me feel special. =)

At my cubicle

What a handsome husband I have. We went to Zink near SouthPark for part of the Queen’s Feast (Restaurant Week) and had a 4-course dinner. Pete wasn’t feeling well, but still took me out. A trooper.

I took this from the car because it was really cold outside. There was a red carpet (OK, a rug) leading to the front door.

A couple of doodles from my co-workers inside a birthday card.

Celebrating with some of the ladies at work. My favorite ice cream, mint chocolate chip!

My main course at Zink. Trout and a shrimp dish with rice and tomatoes.

Being silly at lunch. Elizabeth looks ticked off, and I was apparently very happy.

Jessica didn’t want to look short beside me.

Me and Tameka, who took a break from her meeting to come see me!

Burning my birthday cake candle while baking our birthday cake!

Sweet cards (and a decorated envelope) from the best co-workers ever.

Double the yummy smells.

Tickets to go see “Wicked” in March! This will be a late birthday gift for both of us, purchased with Pete’s birthday money because he’s too stubborn and loving to buy something HE wants with his portion. I bought a new comforter with my half.

Sins of an elementary school kid

It was a long time before I confessed to my mother that I used to steal Blow Pops from my first-grade teacher, Ms. Glandon. I sometimes wonder if Ms. Glandon knew, but was too occupied apprehending boys who took their shoes off in class to deal with my thievery. (You do, after all, see more signs requiring shirts and shoes than those warning customers not to steal bubble gum-filled lollipops.)

Ms. Glandon wasn’t my favorite teacher. She once made me put a “W” by my name in the grade book for taking too long to answer her question in class — it wasn’t because I didn’t know it; I was just that shy — and another time gave me the “W” (meaning “warning”) for writing my name in pencil on the bathroom door. I don’t remember which girl tattled on me, but I was P.O.’d. It was pencil, and I even erased it.

Maybe that’s why I resorted to taking treats out of her bottom file cabinet. I knew where the Blow Pops were because every week, she would open the drawer and pull out a handful for the lucky kids who spelled the bonus word right. The bonus word was always bigger than our regular spelling words, but lucky for me, I was a good speller. (I briefly wanted to be a meteorologist because I could spell it and because I liked putting the laminated, velcroed sun on the felt board during weather time.)

Eventually, I found that a weekly Blow Pop was not as satisfying as a daily one, so I devised a plan. I waited until Ms. Glandon got the last of the bus riders in line, then hid behind the long counter at the front of the classroom ’til she filed them out and turned off the light. Then I snuck into the drawer and picked out a watermelon Blow Pop. (Warning: If you’re a teacher, be sure you lock up your valuables, especially around those who get a “W” in the grade book.)

Sometimes, the drawer would be locked, but usually not. Typically, the only thing that kept me from taking one was if she was out of watermelon and grape. I wasn’t about to waste my time on sour apple. When Mom started to ask where I was getting all the Blow Pops, though, I figured I should scale back.

That wasn’t, however, the end of my mischief in Ms. Glandon’s class. I also remember one spelling test where she asked us to spell January. Well, being my birth month and loving my birthday, I knew good and well how to spell it, but I also knew that there was a piece of paper taped to all of our desks with each month written on it so we could write the date properly. Unfortunately, we all had a cardboard shade on our desks, the kind with three sides so no one could see our answers, kind of like a voting booth. I waited until no one was looking, then slid the cardboard forward so I could see the piece of paper. Yes, I spelled it right! (Like I didn’t know.) …

In third grade, I’d moved from robbery and cheating to denial. I remember having an eye exam that year with all the other kids in school, and the optometrist told me I might need glasses. (Sorry, Mom, I never told you this. I feel it’s safe now that I’m out of the house.) I thought my vision was fine and didn’t want stupid ol’ glasses, so I kept it a secret between me and God.

“All right, God, you don’t force me to get glasses, and I’ll repent of all those Blow Pops I took. Besides, I like Tootsie Pops better now. … Thanks for creating Tootsie Pops. Amen.”

(I eventually had to get glasses anyway and spent my freshman year begging for contacts.)

By fourth grade, I’d met a girl named Lindsay. I was jealous of her long, blond hair, so one day I took the purple rabbit’s foot off her backpack at the cubbies and put it in my JanSport. I mean, that’s the logical reaction, right? (Side thought: Who decided to cut off the feet of small animals and dye them various colors to make key chains that would adorn children’s school items?) I actually felt bad for that one because she was nice. I think I gave the rabbit’s foot to Emily.

After that, I think I mellowed out, or maybe that’s the year we focused on the 10 Commandments in Sunday school.