tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24876164342212557782024-03-18T15:57:56.656-04:00HEY NATALIE JEANNataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.comBlogger1339125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-22727277009301287462022-08-09T01:47:00.004-04:002022-08-09T02:02:49.888-04:00I Want You To Know That It's Okay To LEAVEI can't believe I'm doing this right now, but also I couldn't rest until I did this, so I guess this is what I'm doing right now! So hi! Hey! Here I am! Hey, kittens!!!<div><br /></div><div>Oh my gosh, I've missed you!</div><div><br /></div><div>This is my TL:DR: I want you to know that I'm here.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here specifically because of recent news that came out about our church (lol "our church"), the "Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints" as they call themselves these days (please call them MORMONS still because that's both more fun AND more accurate), and because <b>I don't want anyone to feel like they're going through this alone,</b> or that their only options for going through this with others involves them going to places they're not ready for nor comfortable with.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here to make this OUR space. A safe, marshmallow space in which to talk about things (use the comments!) I know you're there, so let's make this ours. Yeah?</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here because of the girls from my Beehive classes of 2003, 2004, 2007, 2008, 2009, and 2010.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here because of both my baby sisters, who I'm SO proud of, who both left the church on their own terms, as truthfully and boldly and brashly as they could have. I am in awe of both of them. ❤️</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm also here because of the readers who emailed me way back in the day when I was blogging. I'm here because of one reader in particular, who emailed me to say she'd stopped cutting herself after finding my dumb blog because she suddenly felt less alone. I wanted her to know then and I want her to know now, wherever she is, that she changed my entire life, and that I am here entirely, fully, 100% because of her. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here because I pulled my family out of the church once I realized that if Huck were a girl, I would never, ever, under <b>any</b> circumstances, allow him to graduate from Nursery into Primary. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here because once I realized that, I upended my life to honor gender equality as best I could, and I left the church well behind me, and I am SO GLAD that I did.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here because THIS SUCKS.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here because I know that leaving is scary.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here because leaving was THE BEST THING I EVER DID, and because I'm so excited for all of you to experience it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I"m here because no one should have to leave alone, so I am here to leave with you.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm here because if you decide to stay, I'm here to love you and support you just the same.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>In the comments, if you feel comfortable, please share how you are feeling. </b></div><div>(I will kick the shit out of any of you who show up with antagonism FYI)</div>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-28625824470722738202019-06-10T11:26:00.001-04:002019-06-10T11:33:55.410-04:00I WROTE A THING!<img alt="image" height="640" src="https://hips.hearstapps.com/hmg-prod.s3.amazonaws.com/images/period-tried-to-kill-me-v3-1559836002.png?resize=480:*" width="640" /><br />
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Hey hi hey! What is up party people!?<br />
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I wrote a thing for Cosmo, I'm so excited it's finally live & I can share it with you. They made this outrageously amazing artwork for me to accompany it. Could you just cry? I could. (As my brother pointed out, <i>diamond tears</i>, oh so good.)<br />
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I'm so super proud to be part of Cosmo's all-periods all-the-time celebration of all of us and all our red women. Check it <b><a href="https://www.cosmopolitan.com/health-fitness/a27724313/pmdd-symptoms/">HERE</a>. </b><br />
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(As always, the bios are the hardest parts to write. But I like how this one landed.)<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5twWurD7TEo/XP54RL5nngI/AAAAAAAArF0/vrWzQqv5Hsk-ESf1tVwYdqye8-GIkB60gCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2019-06-10%2Bat%2B8.32.36%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="408" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5twWurD7TEo/XP54RL5nngI/AAAAAAAArF0/vrWzQqv5Hsk-ESf1tVwYdqye8-GIkB60gCK4BGAYYCw/s640/Screen%2BShot%2B2019-06-10%2Bat%2B8.32.36%2BAM.png" width="640" /></a><br />
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Xs & Os, ya hotties.<br />
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<br />Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-48660172068303355952018-11-30T14:49:00.003-05:002018-12-06T18:00:46.797-05:00FRIDAY FAVORITES //<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://amzn.to/2E6iiw0"><img border="0" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="1069" height="424" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Flb7FPp-zNM/XAGGN9ufZsI/AAAAAAAAquI/LnGCUtsOXBU4Q1y3AyT8azzUgeIJE-skwCLcBGAs/s640/everlane.jpg" width="640"></a></div>
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<i><a href="https://rstyle.me/cz-n/dbvuiyk9yn">one </a>// <a href="https://rstyle.me/cz-n/dcth8wk9yn">two </a>// <a href="https://rstyle.me/cz-n/dcthy6k9yn">three </a>// <a href="https://rstyle.me/cz-n/dcticjk9yn">four </a>// <a href="https://rstyle.me/cz-n/dcticjk9yn">five </a>// <a href="https://rstyle.me/cz-n/dcthu3k9yn">six</a></i></div>
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And now for a few things I've loved this week.<br>
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<a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2018/11/friday-favorites.html#more">KEEP READING ></a>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-21770901461424457952018-11-06T15:32:00.001-05:002019-01-03T18:20:23.481-05:00MOSCOW ULTRA MIDNIGHT SHADOW<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T5nYdOzFg_I/W-H2qaVngmI/AAAAAAAAqog/oLcfenMVF20NACSCq-v-zYVXq_kGn-XewCLcBGAs/s1600/File_004.png" width="480"></div>
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<a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2018/11/moscow-ultra-midnight-shadow.html#more">KEEP READING ></a>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-92118080391641802712018-10-30T19:41:00.000-04:002018-11-29T17:38:10.147-05:00STYLE ICON // CLAIRE BEAUCHAMP<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="742" data-original-width="564" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cH2gTIXswz0/W9IuZf2A43I/AAAAAAAAqlk/TBaYr-wU5Y8hDc4CnqNGlve35iaqGXPcACLcBGAs/s1600/15d5bfbe112505cb67cebe19a202e8bf.jpg" width="486"></div>
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<a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2018/10/style-icon-claire-beauchamp.html#more">KEEP READING ></a>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-27742476523514711142018-10-09T22:54:00.000-04:002018-11-29T17:36:06.638-05:00WON'T YOU BE MY ALLY?<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Not to be extravagant about it (EXTRAVANAUGH ABOUT IT), but these last two weeks have been the pits and I am SO super over it.</div>
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</div><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2018/10/wont-you-be-my-ally.html#more">KEEP READING ></a>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-60218196460010333542018-09-25T12:00:00.000-04:002018-11-29T17:40:25.131-05:00STYLE ICON // ANNIE PROFFITT<img border="0" data-original-height="994" data-original-width="1600" height="397" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hpOt2-Uq9Hw/W6pnRZ6asaI/AAAAAAAAqGs/7vdjgCrXPCITfBOnbLVEMkp3Z0NkykDdgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_0925.JPG" style="text-align: justify;" width="640"><br>
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<a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2018/09/style-icon-annie-proffitt.html#more">KEEP READING ></a>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-85756003677170946732018-09-21T18:56:00.001-04:002018-09-21T18:56:06.067-04:00FRIDAY FAVORITES //<img src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EJh8s4OmVpU/UjjltfpuP1I/AAAAAAAAUek/1SH4T4sWAUk/s1600/pumpkin.jpg" /><br />
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<i>scroll down scroll down scroll dowwwwn</i></div>
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I think I'm finally ready to roll out my "fully committed dad gum it to blogging" already, all the way. Maybe. No, this time I mean it! ;) I think I had to fully rule out all my other options and choices, heyo Libras, but now I think I'm ready. No, now I <i>know</i> I'm ready! Full on! Editorial calendar and all! I'm going to focus on a series of... series, to start. Dipping the toes in lightly. So, chime in if you have a suggestion, 'cause I'm taking requests! Of both oldies and new...ies.</div>
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I was going to have a style post all raring to go, but I'd forgotten how long it takes to put them together, so here is a Friday post instead. All the things I've loved this week, to take you on into the weekend.</div>
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// The New Yorker is really pulling it off this week with the insect content. This one, <b><a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/09/17/when-bees-go-rogue-call-the-nypd">When Bees Go Rogue</a></b>, about bees, and this one, <b><a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/09/17/what-termites-can-teach-us">What Termites Can Teach Us</a></b>, which has alerted me to the tragic under representation our termite population endures. #TermitesToo! (Did you know the New Yorker already has a section for these, titled "Annals of Etymology" ??)</div>
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// Dave Matthews Band, and <b><a href="https://www.thecut.com/2018/07/i-think-about-this-a-lot-dave-matthews-band-poop-bus.html">Poopgate</a></b>. So good.</div>
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// If you don't buy <b><a href="http://t.cn/EPPfOKP">this pajama set</a></b> right now then I am going to have to, and I am not doing things like that right now, so please.</div>
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// Lately, before bed, Huck and I like to catch up on posts from <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/thedodo/">The Dodo,</a></b> this Instagram account that spotlights various animal rescues and heartwarming stories and super adorable pets. As a bonus, I've noticed the closed captioning has helped Huck learn to read more quickly and intuitively. Plus it helps him be a better and more patient steward to his many (way too many) pets. Two thumbs. Up. #snoutchallenge</div>
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// It's coming on Libra season, sweet moonbeams. Are you ready?? First, we have a New Moon in Aries on September 24th. This is our Harvest moon, kiddies, so set your early autumn intentions this week and then watch them as they come to fruition over the course of this moon cycle. </div>
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// While you're at it, do read <b><a href="https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/its-decorative-gourd-season-motherfuckers">It's Decorative Gourd Season Motherf*ckers</a></b>, as is tradition. </div>
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// Maybe even better than that one though, is this one: <b><a href="https://www.theonion.com/mr-autumn-man-walking-down-street-with-cup-of-coffee-1819574012">Mr Autumn Man Walking Down Street With Cup Of Coffee, Wearing Sweater Over Plaid Collared Shirt</a>. </b>No joking, the last sentence will make you cackle.</div>
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// SPEAKING OF DECORATIVE GOURDS! It's that time. So here is <b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2013/10/the-pumpkin-chocolate-chip-cookies.html">theee pumpkin chocolate chip cookie recipe</a>!</b> (<b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2013/10/the-pumpkin-chocolate-chip-cookies.html">THEEEEEE Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe</a>!</b>) It's <b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2013/10/the-pumpkin-chocolate-chip-cookies.html">right here</a></b>. <b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2013/10/the-pumpkin-chocolate-chip-cookies.html">RIGHT HERE</a></b>. Since you were about to ask for it. ;)</div>
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*By the way. It tickles me to no end that I've already getting tagged in a handful of #THEEEPCCC posts on Instagram. Please do that some more!! (I don't know, acronym-hashtag? Is that too much?)* </div>
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// Finally, speaking of pumpkin recipes! My <b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2011/11/nat-nests-kitchens-maiden-voyage.html">Pumpkin Sage Pasta</a> </b>is still a yearly favorite at this house. Tastes like fall in New York City. </div>
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Ok kids, there we go. Now be good and do your homework, wash your hands, and get your flu shot! Oh it is so flu season rn. </div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-72263988289744133192018-08-31T22:14:00.002-04:002018-08-31T22:14:37.846-04:00ON BLUEBERRIES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I think that a lot of my life might be marked by the curse of transition. Do you know about this feeling?<br />
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I've begun to suspect it might be part of my life's purpose to never stay still in one place for long enough for me to get comfortable. Maybe.<br />
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Maybe I'm like a robin, feverishly putting together a nest for a season that she knows will likely fall out of the tree within a week. Best case scenario, it keeps a couple of babies safe for a couple of weeks, and then they grow up and leave her, and then she's all, Now what?<br />
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I've moved around so much. I look around me sometimes and nothing feels like home. I've lived what has felt like so many different stories; maybe part of the same book series, maybe not, I'm not totally certain. I know it's all leading to good things, so I keep my wits about me, though a lot of the time it can be easy to feel a little bit frustrated about it.<br />
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But <i>then</i> I wonder, might this be coming from somewhere else, maybe? Like, somewhere I can't help. Somewhere deep. <i>Somewhere in my blood.</i><br />
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To cross plains and back, that takes a certain type, doesn't it? To seek out a better life somewhere else, to accept missions and callings and willingly strap your wagon to someone else's horse? Maybe that's the pioneer heritage I carry with me, as a former Mormon. (a foMo.)<br />
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You know what we did, we sang as we walked, and walked, and walked, and then we planted shit.<br />
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Maybe your Mormon ancestors drove their wagons to Utah and planted fruit trees and beets. Well, my ancestors took their wagoneers down to Arizona and planted air conditioning units. My other ancestors in North Carolina planted a love of music, as well as moonshine in the bathtub. My Stanger great-grandparents in Southern Oregon used to plant their garbage in their back yard . . . but I think that had less to do with growing things and more to do with . . . well, something else.<br />
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Oh! Know what!? There's also a (long-debunked, I'm assuming) family legend about one of us Lovin predecessors who was traded to the gypsies for a sack of potatoes. For all intents and purposes, I'm calling that one gospel.<br />
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But I was thinking about this the other night as I was assessing the situation with my patio plants.<br />
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Look, it's not as if I'm a <i>terrible</i> gardener. This time around we all made it a full three months before totally crisping out! And am I so proud!? Yes of course I am so proud! Though now of course it IS a dead plant mausoleum out there, and I'm not sure how I wish to proceed just yet.<br />
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At the beginning of summer it was this lush and beautiful space. I was just getting a handle on our new place out west. The towels had found their closets, the spices made sense in the drawers they were in. It smelled amazing and sweet out there on that patio when I'd walk out into the chilly night air after putting Huck to bed. I'd feel maybe the smallest twinges of "NOW this is home," which is a twinge of a feeling I've think I've been ardently chasing for nearly all of my adult life.<br />
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This isn't my <i>actual</i> Portland home. Not in the slightest. It's a starter home, in a sprawling, slightly crummy apartment complex, and I'm wondering if I'll ever land in a house someday, or maybe an apartment downtown? And how terrible will it be when that day has to come when I have to pack up everything AGAIN and do this ALL. OVER. AGAIN? And how long do you think I can put that off, do you think? But how nice will it be when it's done and it's settled, and THIS TIME IT IS UP TO ME, and so that thought keeps me going.<br />
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And what if I could just chuck all these dead plants out over the side of the patio and forget they ever happened??<br />
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Three tomato plants, two baskets of lavender, one cherry tomato plant, a single pot of strawberries, and two bushels of blueberries. Plus an odd assortment of miscellaneous herbs.<br />
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Oh! And begonias.<br />
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The three tomato plants yielded four pathetic looking tomatoes the size of tiny apricots that should have tasted depressing but were actually pretty decent. The cherry tomato plant gave me six or so, they never even made it past the threshold of the door before being eaten. The strawberry plant hid her strawberries so well that they were always dried up by the time I even saw them, and then the itching after I'd pick them! Never again, strawberry.<br />
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And then there were the blueberries. Something like unto five heaping handfuls of blueberries I harvested this summer!! Blueberries in your cereal! Blueberries in your oatmeal!! Blueberries in your dreams!!!!<br />
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Blueberries the likes of which this world has never SEEN!<br />
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BTW, what is it with our president and that "the likes of which" nonsense? It fills me with so many questions whenever he says it (which is always). Is it wrong of me to assume that whenever I hear it from somebody else that they're probably KGB? It reminds me bigly of Tommy S. and his "eeeeeeven Jesus Christ" prayer endings, and the way it was quickly picked up by the rest of the apostles . . . .<br />
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Write your theories about this in the comments.<br />
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And then SMASH that Like button!<br />
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Huck is going to be eight this fall (dunking age!), and he is absolutely <i>rocking</i> the second grade. It was really hard for me when he was gone for the summer. I found my whole life schedule with him the day he was born, and ever since then life felt grounded. But any time he's missing now, I feel completely up in the air. All up, all up to me, nothing to tie me down, nothing to anchor me in place. Just <i>wafting</i>. It's very fun and freeing but mostly it is miserable.<br />
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He's been home now for the school year for two whole weeks. And it's been bliss. At night before bed we watch animals videos from The Dodo on Instagram, and then Huck will come up with some impressively dorky puns for whatever we're seeing. He's the wittiest kid I know, and sends me into genuine laughing fits at least once a day. He has terrible taste in YouTubers. He'll eat whole plates worth of asparagus and steamed broccoli, he loves Diet Dr Pepper, he doesn't like cheese, and he does his best to <i>only</i> pick his boogers and eat them when he thinks I'm not looking. I love this kid, oh my gosh, I love his freaking guts.<br />
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Huck still sometimes doesn't fully understand what it means to have divorced parents.<br />
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"Yeah, you're divorced, but you're still married . . . you just live in separate houses."<br />
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"Do you think that you and my dad will ever get <i>un</i>-divorced?"<br />
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"Back together plz," he texted his dad from my phone one night.<br />
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Divorce is the kind of thing that's easier to explain to a four-year-old, I suspect. You get to stress the family-togetherness and the awesomeness of having two whole bedrooms, and their follow-up questions are usually contained to, "will you still love me the same?" and, "can I get the new Paw Patrol helicopter?"<br />
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These days the follow up questions are more complex, and I feel a stronger urge than ever to give him the straightest, most factual answers possible, while also being incredibly aware that at almost-eight, while maybe the almost-age of discernment and accountability and all that, I guess, it is actually still <i>so</i> very fresh and so very young and so vulnerable and naive. And sweet. And kids who can appear so confident and understanding on the outside can actually in fact be this whole tempest of confusion and fright on the inside. And I'm so keen on honoring his questions without over- or under-doing it.<br />
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Maybe "married" and "parents" are the two key terms here; one of them being temporary and one of them being permanent, and try as I might, describing his parents' former union as a piece of paper meant mostly to give us tax breaks and simplify health insurance benefits just isn't cutting it.<br />
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But then I found a way.<br />
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It was moving to Portland (for the company that quickly folded), that made the urgency of a real explanation seem true. Suddenly he was without one of his parents for weeks at a time. He was switching schools, leaving old friends, making new friends, and living in a new, rainy as hell climate, and I felt a layer of guilt that I knew to expect but still didn't know how to handle.<br />
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Until, one day, this spring, when we were at the Costco.<br />
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(Like all of my best stories, this one begins at shopping.)<br />
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Well, to start, first we gotta talk about the thing about the Costco.<br />
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The thing about the Costco, is EVERYTHING is sold in packs of two. Twos! Twos! And yes, this is the point of the thing when you go there and want the <i>actual</i> bulk, and yes this is a complaint that I've lodged to myself in my head at least a million times, because YES I WANT IT BIGGER, BUT NO I DO NOT WANT TWO OF THEM, THIS IS WHY I CANNOT BUY MILK HERE! DO YOU KNOW HOW BAD I WOULD LIKE TO BUY MILK HERE?<br />
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Look, we eat a lot of Nutella, but seeing two enormous jugs of it strapped together in plastic in my shopping cart makes me feel all sorts of gluttonous and American.<br />
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DDP or Diet Coke in two flats of 36, on the other hand . . .<br />
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Earlier this year, during late spring, when Huck and I were making a Diet Dr Pepper run, the Costco randomly had these buckets of blueberry and strawberry plants hanging out in the middle of the refrigerated cheese aisle.<br />
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"Huck!" I said. "Huck, are you thinking what I'm thinking?!" He was busy picking his nose and not paying attention, so I grabbed a blueberry plant and figured, hell! I'll only end up killing it, but at least it'll be pretty in the meantime!<br />
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At check out, eight million years later, the cashier asked me pleasantly if I already had a blueberry plant at home.<br />
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"No . . . why???" I asked.<br />
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Obviously I'm a single girl now, so my first thought is, Is this some kind of come-on???<br />
<i>So uh, you already got a blueberry plant at home to snuggle up to?</i><br />
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"Well, they won't fruit unless you have two of them. Do you have a second? Do you need to go and pick up another one before you leave?"<br />
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HELL NO I AM NOT GOING BACK IN THERE DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES MY CELL PHONE BATTERY HAS DIED WHILE I'VE BEEN WANDERING AROUND IN HERE?!??<br />
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AND OMG YOU GUYS THE ONE TIME A THING AT THE COSTCO DOES **NOT** COME IN A PACKAGE OF TWO!!!!!!!!<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=75rRs6fraUI">EXCUSE ME!</a> To quote Alex Jones. (<-- is="" it="" link="" p="" super="" that="" worth=""><br />
A few minutes of furious googling in the parking lot later, and this is what I learned:<br />
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Yes, a blueberry plant will grow just fine on a patio on its own, solo. Just one blueberry plant, even a huge blueberry plant, will flourish when well-watered and sunned. The leaves will grow bushy and tall. But you aren't going to get any fruit.<br />
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None. No fruit.<br />
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To get fruit out of a blueberry plant, you need to have <i>two</i> of them, situated far enough apart from each other that they can establish cross-pollination. Male and female blueberry plants. Can't be in the same pot.<br />
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Suckers need their space.<br />
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"Huck, your mom and dad are the same way," I explained to him the next day after I'd gone back for a second blueberry plant. And <i>you</i> are our fruit. You are our sweet, round-cheeked, priceless little blueberry (huckleberry, he points out, yes yes). You come from us, Huck, and every year we make you together.<br />
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We just can't be in the same pot and do it at the same time.<br />
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To flourish, we need to be apart.<br />
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And Huck, we want to flourish.<br />
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You are SO GOOD when we flourish.<br />
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And there you have it.<br />
And technically this is still August.<br />
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The end. </-->Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-45606037892219008252018-06-18T19:40:00.003-04:002018-06-18T19:40:53.789-04:00A PORTRAIT OF MY LIVING ROOM AS IT EXISTS RIGHT NOW<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" data-original-height="1197" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pVKLikx0bMs/Wygt8DzTQwI/AAAAAAAAp58/8Gk1Yvm_RBc9oEJxllxWkky_2lgaEQpdgCLcBGAs/s1600/File_002.png" width="800" /></div>
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As part of an all-out effort to avoid the paralysis of perfectionism over here at the Lovin -Holbrook household, Behold! Barrold the Great wishes to say hi. </div>
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This is a blog post! It is going to be all over the place. </div>
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There is an extension cord that is snaking all over the place in this photo, and I'm not even going to care. Hi, Barry from Barryville! Hi hey. </div>
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Barry's been upgraded to the living room these days. At our old place in Idaho he was relegated to the south wall of my bedroom, where he had no one to talk to but his own glassy-eyed reflection in the mirror. Poor puppy. Here he is constantly getting screeched at by a pair of asshole parakeets. I'm not sure if he'd consider it an upgrade or not. </div>
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You'll notice to the left there's an old Nugo wrapper left behind by Huck that I can't seem to want to throw away for the life of me because it reminds me that he lives here, even when he is with his dad for most of the summer, and because I am a ninny. </div>
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Today is my first full day as Not-Momming Natalie. She's the part of me that doesn't have to find a sitter in order to do things and can afford to forget to pack a lunch before bed because there is nobody really to pack a lunch for. She is a funny lady, and continues to refer to herself in the third person.</div>
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But here's what I've been up to lately, I've been carding and spinning! It's messy work but incredibly meditative. You can see my earlier attempts up top on the left, my most recent attempt in the second ceramic pot (I've gotten so much better), as well as what a professional gig looks like, there in the spools of warping below. Underneath that, I've been using those old metal slide holders to hold embroidery floss. They're the perfect shape and layout for thread cards and needlepointing on-the-go, and I feel like I spot them at antique and thrift stores here constantly. I'm thinking of opening up a shop one of these days and putting some of them in there? But not on Etsy, it turns out. They're being dumb I've been told. </div>
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Wow, this is a real stream-of-consciousness bit going on in here.</div>
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Hoo boy, did I mention my goal towards non-perfectionism? I said to myself this morning as I was making my coffee, Hey, my living room looks relatively tidy and well-edited today! Let's make this a blog post! </div>
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But I'd forgotten how once you take a picture of a thing you get to realize how very wrong you were about mostly everything your eyes were telling you, because this living room actually is clutt-ERED, the lighting is terrible . . . this will never do for a blog post. Also, it is grainy as hell, and I'd forgotten about that Pikachu hat that Huck put on the parakeet's cage about a month ago, even though I see it on there every day. But I'm posting it anyway.</div>
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Other things you will notice: there's a bag of llama hair to the right of the bird cage that needs to be carded and spun, and that pile of fabric behind the sofa there is the remaining t-shirt pile I have left to embroider. Guys I'm so close to being finished! Should be shipping next week! Probably I should have been Shipping Them As I Finished Them, but this seemed right to me somehow, at the time. </div>
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On the TV you'll note the paused end credits of the most recent episode of Westworld. OMGthemostrecentepisodeofWestworld!</div>
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Oh, blogging. </div>
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My favorite hobby right now is going to my mom's house and telling her all my more bizarre and involved theories about blogging and writing and the state of the Internet and what it all means and how I should do it, and whether I should have to know how to do it before I do it or not . . . She is very good and patient with me although I am ridiculous and we all know it. But she issued the most fantastic almost-compliment-but-not the other day and it has been rolling around in my head ever since. "Natalie," she said, "if I had your following, your talent, and I looked like you, I'd be making so much money right now."</div>
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So.<br />
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And now a portion of our program that I like to call</div>
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THE POWER OF THE SECRET COMPELS YOU!</div>
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or, if you prefer</div>
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ECONOMIC ANXIETY AND CROWDSOURCING MOTIVATION FOR STUFF</div>
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wherein I put out into the world some of the wishes I hold that I'm perfectly capable of doing, I guess . . . once I wrap my head around them (none of these things needs head wrapping around though, I realize this), either in here or in somewhere else (hint hint literary agents call me winky wink), in order to make a living off of . . . whatever this is. Again. (Meanwhile I am still hunting down full-time jobs.) (Should I be though?) Maybe you guys can help me do this stuff somehow. This is what I am thinking, anyway.</div>
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Ok. The new Anne with an E. I got some feelings about PTSD and how an outsize persona or imagination can work to minimize trauma. Also, why Anne Shirley is NOT Mary Poppins. She's the antithesis, but also they're sort of the same? I started to write this thing the other day but I did it with that rule where you're not allowed to erase anything, you just plow on through? So now I'm a little bit terrified of going back in there.</div>
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I also want to write about my prison spoons. </div>
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I want to keep making t-shirts and tote bags and embroideries and weavings! So . . . imma keep on doing that. I do need to figure out how to streamline this operation and keep everyone in the know in a more organized fashion. </div>
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"I've got a project that requires . . . tweaking" with my best friend Kara, Moon and Pine. Girl Scouts for grown ass ladies! We've been dreaming and planning this sucker for two years now, we had a sort of soft launch just before Christmas, but we're finally honing in on what it really wants to be, and I have my fingers crossed that it will take off once it's out there! Aaaaaaand that we can get it out there!</div>
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I want to write a bit of a thing on Losing My Religion. (Not the R.E.M. song.) I also feel like I have a beachy chick-lit type of deal in me, maybe memoir? Some kind of behind-the-scenes in blogging and influencer culture in NYC. I also feel like I have a twist on an Anne of Green Gables type of series in me somewhere, involving my chickens a lot, probably. (Oh I miss my chickens!) These feel huge to talk about and daunting to consider. Who wants to help me??</div>
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I wanna bring back The Great Beauty Experiment - any of you old-timey readers out there still in it with me? Representin' yo??? Does that belong in here??? It probably does. Probably one of the first things I should do is see if I can find that old mascara chestnut and drag it out of antiquity. Does Babble still exist?? I've always enjoyed blogging about style and beauty, it can be a good source of income, so I hope to continue doing that in here, along with occasional essays. Life / Style / Beauty instead of Babies / Nesting / Style? I need to update my categories. It's on my to-do list. Is it weird going all meta like this or what?</div>
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I've been sitting with the idea of social media 'influencing' and have decided not to blindly go with the swirling tornado of "No" that sometimes happens when I consider that stuff. Probably because that seems rash, and also probably because it <i>could</i> be done really well? </div>
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There. I am going to call this blog post an accomplishment even though it is everywhere and rambling. Guys, life after divorce and job loss and moving too many times is weird and messy and sometimes it feels hectic and everywhere and nowhere at once. And I suppose I'm maybe here to do all that with you. We're . . . a thing. Some kind of thing, all of us. So thanks for coming along. This is a fun kind of experiment, isn't it? :) </div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com55tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-80951858670208334912018-05-30T16:16:00.003-04:002018-05-30T16:16:37.551-04:00GET ME DRESSED // LATE SPRING 2018<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AvLW-MBzKUM/Ww7ptVfMYMI/AAAAAAAAp4c/s2VyCe2U9lYXaXfkjt616bmFeqKcWVtZgCLcBGAs/s1600/Collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AvLW-MBzKUM/Ww7ptVfMYMI/AAAAAAAAp4c/s2VyCe2U9lYXaXfkjt616bmFeqKcWVtZgCLcBGAs/s640/Collage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i><a href="https://www.lefashion.com/2016/10/white-tee-jeans-blogger-outfit.html">source</a></i></div>
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My personal style continues to change not a whit whatsoever, and yet, here is a style post, just the same! </div>
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If it's jeans and a t-shirt, red lipstick, a straw bag, and sensible shoes, pretty much I'm in it. In fact, the other day as I was going down the stairs on the way to the car to pick up Huck, I was ruminating on how a style post would be fun, even though all I ever wear are jeans and a t-shirt still, and then I came up with this little ditty, to be sung in the style of Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits. Ya ready? </div>
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Jeans and a T-Shirt... No Shit!</div>
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When I have my own line at Kohl's someday, that'll be the ditty they play in my radio commercials. (In this dystopian future, Kohl's is cool, television has been rendered obsolete, and you can cuss on the radio.)</div>
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Anyway, I do have some source updates. Since it's been a while.</div>
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// If you're looking for a good place to score your basic white v-neck tees, it's <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XrwVY">the Target</a></b>! These are really. really. good. Go two sizes up for the baggy/boyfriend look. </div>
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// <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XrPOm">Sephora</a></b> makes the best <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XBsVa">all-day lipstick</a></b> on the planet earth. I've been wearing it nonstop. My favorite shade is <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1Xrvnh">Chili Pepper</a></b>. </div>
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// I've abandoned wristwatches all together (for the time being) and instead I am wearing a small vintage pocket watch on a chain. I found mine on <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XBkAn">Etsy</a></b> at two in the morning (as you do). I have to wind it every day or it won't keep time, and sadly it is too heavy to wear while jogging, which is something I do these days apparently. (Your guess is as good as mine.) Here are a few cute ones, if you're interested! <i><b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XBBBP">here</a></b>, <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XBdNa">here</a></b>, <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XBgwQ">here</a></b>, <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XBgTG">here</a></b>, <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XBDvi">here</a>, </b>& <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XBeVE">here</a></b>!</i></div>
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// The best place to find jeans happens to be the men's denim department of the Goodwill. I like to snatch up all the vintage Wrangler's I can find, because a men's 28 fits like a women's 24, they denim's got insanely good weight + heft, and ugh 501s are SO OVER or something like that (just kidding I love them) (but good ones are impossible for me to find!). I've never found a vintage Wrangler over eight bucks; inexpensive enough that I can justify having one pair for every possible leg length: one just past the ankle (for rolling), one right at the ankle, one just <i>above</i> the ankle, one just above <i>that</i>, and then one at that hideously weird yet alarmingly trendy length that I like to call the Suburban Dad Cargo Shorts length. Culotte-style. But the <i>second best</i> place to shop for jeans continues to be the <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1XrqeM">Madewell</a></b>. Oh, my Madewell, let me write you a sonnet! Their high rise jeans are my religion. I got <b><i><a href="http://t.cn/R1XrqP6">these</a></i></b> the other day and get approximately a thousand compliments on them a day.</div>
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// The best bar soap on the planet right now is called <b><a href="https://amzn.to/2srTCFR">Herban Cowboy</a></b>, in <b><i><a href="https://amzn.to/2H7jI6q">Dusk</a></i></b>. It's got black walnut in it! I found it at Fred Meyer, because it turns out to be true, "you'll find it aaaaaat Freeeeed Meyer!" I love it when radio ditties turn out to be accurate.</div>
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// I've been really enjoying <b><i><a href="http://t.cn/R1XriD5">this scent</a></i></b>. I found it at the <b><a href="http://t.cn/R1Xr6rA">Urban Outfitters</a></b>. It's masculine enough without being overly so, as apparently these days, in the absence of actually having a man, I enjoy smelling like one. Shrug emoji.</div>
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// Every couple summers I buy a few new pairs of <b><a href="https://amzn.to/2JlekC8">Bensimons</a></b>. This summer I also got a pair of <b><i><a href="http://t.cn/R1XrHYq">espadrilles</a></i></b>. </div>
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// Round straw bags are all over my Instagram feed and they're my favorite favorite favorite! Straw bags!! I've got this one <b><i><a href="http://t.cn/R1XrK0W">here</a></i></b>, here are some more! <i><a href="http://t.cn/R1XrCtl" style="font-weight: bold;">here</a><b> </b>& </i><b><i><a href="http://t.cn/R1XrWqV">here</a></i></b></div>
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And now, go forth with your late spring self! </div>
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xoxo</div>
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Me</div>
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P.S. You better believe there are affiliate links up in this shit. :)</div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-84498615243669949912018-05-17T15:42:00.002-04:002018-05-17T17:19:55.780-04:00IN WHICH I LIVE BEHIND THE TARGET<div style="text-align: justify;">
The other day I bought myself a skateboard. Probably because I'm having a midlife crisis. It has a skull on its belly and it cost me just a penny under fifteen bucks. It's still in its plastic wrapping at the time of reporting; it has declined to comment. It is currently residing in a large butter churner by my front door.</div>
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This is all a true story.</div>
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Now, contrary to what you might be thinking, I did not buy this skateboard at the Target! Even though I do live behind a Target. (I know, right?)</div>
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I actually got it at the Walmart. The Walmart!! Look at me already subverting expectations!</div>
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I definitely didn't go to the Walmart intending to get a skateboard. In fact, I didn't go there for any real reason at all, now that I think about it. I hadn't even been inside a Walmart since I left Moscow in February, and it is a matter well established that no one goes ten miles out of their way to get to a Walmart when one has a Target happening practically in their front yard. I mean, Chip and Joanna over the Pioneer Woman, I think this one speaks for itself. Maybe I was feeling homesick? But I digress.</div>
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The Walmart in question turns out to have the exact footprint and layout as the Walmart in Pullman, which was a rather weird experience. Kind of like the time I bumped into my ex at the Walmart when we were both there to buy milk for our kid. We reached into the dairy fridge at the exact same time, looked up, had an awkward moment, and then went about our way. I was getting 2% for my house, he was getting Whole. This must happen a lot, but it was quite the sensory flashback.</div>
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Just before landing in the toy section and momentarily getting caught up in the ridiculousness of a mode of transportation I just know I do not have the sense of balance for, I wandered about the place feeling quite like a Dolores or a Bernard, looking at the asparagus, casually questioning the the nature of my reality, wondering where I was... and <i>when</i>... truly, it could have been at <i>any</i> time! Diet Coke architectural displays are timeless! It made it so that every time I crossed the Subway in the front (which was a lot--I like for my Walmart trips to be as spiritually aimless as possible; the more times you can inefficiently criss-cross the joint on your way to get mundane things, the better), not only would I smell that overwhelmingly magical yeast-y Subway smell, but I swear I could also catch the faintest whiff of wheat fields wafting in from the automatic doors. Not to mention the vague aroma of knowing you've got nothing interesting around you to do for miiiiiiiles.</div>
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***</div>
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You know those scenes in Sci-Fi movies when some poor dummy gets sucked out into space and experiences that sudden frozen floatingness of dread? This is related, I promise. These scenes are all quite the same, aren't they. Something happens by accident or someone pushes a release button, and out they go! And then for the next thirty seconds or so you get to watch this one scene that all science fiction movies seem to have, that 'floating out to nowhere in space in slow motion' scene. These poor saps just ... floating there, one arm outstretched, their face a frozen mask of terror mixed with a weird kind of dawning acceptance. You know the one:</div>
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<span style="background-color: #1e1e1e; color: white; font-family: "roboto" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre;"><img height="360" src="https://i.gifer.com/Cn2P.gif" width="640" /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><img src="https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2014-11/18/11/enhanced/webdr10/anigif_enhanced-buzz-22754-1416328348-16.gif?downsize=715:*&output-format=auto&output-quality=auto" /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><img height="360" src="https://media.giphy.com/media/l0ExaaIL991VHQ6SA/giphy.gif" width="640" /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;"><img height="499" src="https://data.whicdn.com/images/60292092/original.gif" width="640" /> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><img height="512" src="https://spaceplace.nasa.gov/review/cliff-jumping/astro-cliff-jump.en.gif" width="640" /></span></div>
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Like that. I like to call it the Slow Motion Oh Shit. (It's catchy.)<br />
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Anyway, I was thinking about this as I was contemplating skateboards, that weird sandpaper-y finish on the top, and whether or not I'd have to buy myself a pair of skater shoes now to go along with it, and what are the physics behind skater shoes anyway? And did you know that I am single and I live in Portland now? </div>
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<br /></div>
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It's quite the tactile expression, I think. (We're back to space suckage now.) Almost immediately in those sequences I start to feel like *I* could be the one out there with nothing to hold onto, everything deafeningly silent, my pulse drumming in my ears, my mind a complete blank. It'd probably be pretty peaceful, actually, if you could wrap your head around it . . . all those stars and galaxies surrounding you, the relief of finally succumbing your own mortality, nobody nagging you for another bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch . . . I mean, maybe. And it makes one wonder (shut up, yes it does) if that must actually BE the face you'd make if YOU got sucked out into space, too. Is there a science to this? Has there been a study? Probably every single person who's ever been sucked out into space has made this exact face so far... except how many people do you suppose have actually been sucked out into space before??? Is this just a collective unconsciousness deal, wherein we've all somehow silently conceded that this <i>is</i> how it <i>would</i> be like, <i>if</i>? </div>
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And you know how sometimes the Universe keeps trying to tell you to do a thing, and you know what it is but you're willfully pretending like it doesn't make any sense because there's GOT to be a better way around it? And so you sit on your thumbs and do absolutely nothing about it instead???</div>
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***</div>
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Once upon a time I was married.</div>
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(This is how I was going to start this blog post, like, five iterations ago.)</div>
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Once upon a time I had a blog, and I was married. I lived in a city that I loved, I had a husband who loved me (enough... ish), I had a child who was spectacular (still is spectacular), and I had a blog that I wrote in whenever crazy creative juices were flowing, or else whenever we were strapped for cash.</div>
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I truly, naively believed it would always be that way, for better or for worse, even when it was the <i>worst</i>, and even when I knew it was unreasonable and it was killing me, and even when I knew that parts of it had become entirely untenable.</div>
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Until one day, April Fools Day, actually (how fun is that), all of that ended, and I got dumped.</div>
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Well, scratch that. Most of it had ended looong before that. My city was just a depressing memory by that point, and my marriage a complete shambles. The blog had become a kind of self-flagellating prison. By then all that was left was this overly tight grip we all had, a kind of desperate holding on to a thing that seemed to want nothing to do with us. White-knuckling a past future, I guess. Clinging to the final vestiges of expired dreams like a five-year-old clings to your leg at kindergarten drop off.</div>
<br />
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And anyway, I wasn't dumped so much as let loose on the world without any prior consent or preparation on any of our parts, and let me tell you, it has been TERRIBLY GRACEFUL.</div>
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***</div>
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You know, there's a certain kind of comfort in clinging, I suspect. It's a thing one can do when there's not much else to be done. It has a road map already, it's got a final destination, whether or not that destination is actually attainable or even preferable is another thing altogether, but all Wilson Phillips aside, I think I'll assert here that excessive holding on, for one more day or for any amount of time, really, isn't terribly good for anybody.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And so I was let loose, to, eerily, silently, yet oddly-gracefully (hah!) float off to nowhere, one hand outstretched, my face a reflection of my doom... Not to put too dramatic a point on it or anything!</div>
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<br /></div>
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Actually, at first it was liberating. All stars and orbits. My stomachaches went away. The sun seemed brighter. Rehashing in my mind old things that had been said that once hurt me . . . now they didn't anymore. They felt ok. I felt settled and final.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But then the dread sets in. Suddenly every planet you've known is out of your reach and disappearing quickly. Your surroundings are beautiful still, but your future feels grim and your face feels paralyzed and your limbs go numb. Your destination seems at once wholly up to you and entirely out of your control.</div>
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Obviously, the first thing I did was end my blog.</div>
</div>
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No no no. The first thing I did was move all my furniture and my kid into a tiny cowboy shanty on the edge of town that was built in 1890, had been moved around Moscow four or fives times since, and was currently perched on a foundation made of cinder blocks. How's that for a metaphor! I made that move all by myself, in the rain, over a day and a half. Fierce determination in the face of absolute confusion. That felt pretty good.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And then, I cried. I cried a lot, for a long time. Not for the loss of a person or a relationship, and not even for the loss of the future we'd white-knuckled for so long. I was grateful for that release valve, I was grateful to be floating. I think what I was grieving was that sensation of sudden unmooring; the overwhelming freedom of the destinationless.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>That's</i> when I ended my blog.</div>
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***</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
What happened next?? Well, here's what you missed. I threw myself into my kid and my chickens. I decorated the ever loving daylights out of my tiny house. I got a turkey, two ducks, and a very opinionated rabbit. I bought a gym membership and took barre classes, gained all these new muscles, not to mention a whole host of old lady gym friends. I read books and I went to counseling and I downloaded Tinder. I watched EVERYTHING on Netflix. I got odd jobs where I could and went thrifting with Kara. I did a lot of crying, made a lot of questionable choices, and did a lot of cracking-open. Really breaking the ribs and opening out, letting the oxygen hit me. Very slowly I started the process of getting to know myself after marriage.</div>
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I was able to muscle my way into a job here in Portland with a start up and, with Brandon's blessing, moved Huck and myself out west to start a new life! . . . Which then promptly tanked because start ups are assholes.</div>
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This was when shit all got real, and there I was again. Floating. This time it felt interminable, and frightening. It felt like a life sentence. I got back on my horse just the same and I applied to all the jobs. To ALL of the jobs. You know, health insurance and 401ks and reliable paychecks. Even the jobs that sounded horrific, I applied to them all with gusto. And over and over again, something just doesn't want that for me, something that's even more stubborn than I am and hellishly determined that I not take the sensible way out. I must have applied to thousands of those jobs. Millions of them!! Aren't you happy to see that my skills in exaggeration are still in fine form!!??! All the while I really, really struggled. It became oddly difficult to even take care of myself in the most basic ways, it seemed like everything was gone at that point, and I think that was when the finality of not having a family anymore, of not going to be having any more children, of not getting a clean start, of not being taken care of, finally set in. I really had to grieve it. The things I had cracked open before, I now needed to smash all to pieces before they could finally start to knit themselves back together, and it was hard, and it was lonely. I tried on futures. So many futures. I tried on futures, and I discarded them. I tried on other futures. They discarded me. Me and my future, man, we've been naught but goopy noodles of spaghetti getting flung against the wall. over. and over. and over. </div>
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I suppose it is time that I just listen to that damn old Universe already and do what it's telling me. After all, nothing else is sticking. </div>
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(Am I too al dente is that the problem???)</div>
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(Pasta metaphors!)</div>
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***</div>
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You know, being without the constant scrutiny and opinions of outsiders these last few years while also being finally outside the realm of critique that came with my marriage made it hard for me to know which source was the culprit of everything I'd gone through all those years ago, until suddenly, my <i>mind</i> was the culprit. Whooshing in, over and over, criticisms, insults, doubt, tearing myself down, reminding myself of failures and shortcomings, chiding myself over mistakes, my head becoming a hell of my own making. I guess you can outrun your captors, but that doesn't mean you've escaped your captivity. Maybe it wasn't always a hell of my own making, that old part of my life online and in marriage that was so toxic and hurtful to me, but by now any part of it remaining I had to own and accept as my own responsibility, a creation of mine and mine alone. Only I could produce that crippling self-doubt for myself, and so only I could destroy it. So, one by one, one false core belief at a time, I did. It took a lot of work to take them all down, and it was rough. I had to really claw my way through it, but I'm proud of myself for getting here, and still working to forgive myself for how long it took and for all the dumb choices I might have made in the meantime.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But back to to the skateboard for a minute. It's a pretty good idea, you know; learning new things, time spent outdoors with my kid, you know, brain wrinkles and things; unless it is a DISASTROUS idea. Remember, I once broke both my heels jumping over the last two steps on a staircase. But I've got band aids, a good stash of arnica cream, and a fair amount of bad judgment. I think I can do it. </div>
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And on this: I'm certainly not going to get it right this time around, either, and I'm not at all sure what it's going to look like yet, or what my monetization strategy will be, or how often I'm going to write, or even WHAT in the damn hell tarnation I am even going to write about for bob's sake?! But I don't suppose that's ever stopped me before now has it? :) I get the sense that this is where I need to be, that it's time to let go of whatever's been holding me back, and just jump out there with the stars and galaxies. Slow motion "oh shit" face and everything. It's time to loosen my grip. I've got a finger on a release button.</div>
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It starts with p and it rhymes with "rublish."</div>
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Here's to the floating, kids.</div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com146tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-57687639931631467992016-05-17T15:41:00.001-04:002017-11-10T18:37:33.247-05:00IN WHICH I LOVE THE TARGET, PART TWO<br />
I love the Target.<br />
<br />
In fact, let's be honest here; I'd <i>live</i> at the Target if they sold beds like at the Macy's.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Truthfully, I can't make it out of the Target without spending at least $100 on wonderfully useless things. It is always surprising to me how quickly these cheap little things can become so very expensive, and today's Target day was a day just like that. </div>
<br />
Today's Target day was the same as always and yet so, so different, and discombobulating (a fantastic word), and disorienting, and so now, here is the story of today's Target Day,<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
-aka- </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Going Out The Way We Came In</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
-or-</div>
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Closure Is Important To Human Emotions</div>
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<br /></div>
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-but if you'd rather-</div>
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Let's Make A Target Sandwich</div>
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<br /></div>
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***</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So, the other day I needed to go to the Target. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Well . . . I didn't really <i>need</i> to go to the Target, but I <i>did</i> want some alone time. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I also wanted to see this brass lamp that I keep on seeing all over Instagram. It is everywhere! It looks so classy!<br />
<br />
You probably have one too, right?? Yeah, you do.<br />
<br />
Whenever I see this lamp I always catch myself thinking it can never truly be possible that it actually came from the Target. Because it looks way too slick. It's probably not as great in person.<br />
<br />
This was a theory I was willing to invest time into.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Mostly, however, the real reason I wanted to go to the Target that day was so that I could end this flipping blog already.<br />
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***</div>
<br />
I have been ready to be done with this blog for something like ten years at this point.<br />
<br />
And always, when I thought about it, I had this idea in the back of my mind that, <i>this, </i>someday, was<i> </i>how I was going to go out.<br />
<br />
Which is to say, by going out the way I came in.<br />
<br />
By which I mean, by writing about shopping.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Plus, I'd been having hella writer's block for a couple of months and I thought that maybe the long drive might crack something open.<br />
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(Well, it didn't.)</div>
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</div>
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(Try picturing a Prius-shaped thought bubble hurtling towards the ever loving embrace of the closest Target, 90 minutes north of here, and you about got it.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
All the drive long I wondered and wondered.<br />
What would I want to say in this, my very last blog post?<br />
What are my messages? What are my themes?? Do I <i>have</i> any of those things??? What has all this been, anyway????<br />
What does a reader even <i>look</i> <i>for</i> in a decent flounce post these days?<br />
<br />
I definitely wanted it to be, like, MEANINGFUL.<br />
An essay! You know, one of the good ones.<br />
Make it mean something! On a treadmill! With Dave Chappelle!!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"I was eloquent! Shit!!"</div>
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<br /></div>
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But the more I thought about it, the more I knew. I am just way too over it at this point for something like that. I am just actually that ready.</div>
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***</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
So, this is it. </div>
<br />
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Without pomp or circumstance or anything terribly exciting to go along with it, here it is. </div>
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After ten years of blogging, I am closing up shop.</div>
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</div>
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<b>***</b></div>
<b><br /></b>
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(This part is the part at the end where I say, "Hey, guys, thank you.")</div>
</div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Dearest People Of My Blog,</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Hey guys. Thank you.<br />
<br />
Thank you for always being incredibly fantastic and intelligent and fascinating and kind whenever we've been able to meet in person.<br />
<br />
Thank you for your beautifully thoughtful comments and emails.<br />
<br />
Thank you for your prayers! I've felt the them, I swear it. Every last one.<br />
<br />
Thank you for your sisterhood, for sharing your experiences with faith, infertility, hope, and the hard things, and for letting me feel at times like I was your big sister. This has and will continue to give my life an insanely wonderful added purpose and meaning. It makes me want to cry anytime I think about it.<br />
<br />
I'm so grateful for you, you weird little knuckleheads, for supporting me and coming along with me and for liking the same dumb things as me, and for asking me things like where I get my white t-shirts and clogs, and for buying my book, and f or showing up when I've held events, and for always being so much stinking cooler than me.<br />
<br />
Thank you.<br />
<br />
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Thank your, ladies and gentlemen!</div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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And now for my parting words. My legacy! Get excited!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
That lamp at the Target is EVERY BIT as rad in real life as it seems online.</div>
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Wouldn't it be nice if everything was like that?</div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com208tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-34535792831020045242016-04-20T17:40:00.001-04:002017-07-31T00:25:35.437-04:00GET ME DRESSED / FT. ESBY APPAREL <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J83eAniYpgc/Vxfl1zCrKJI/AAAAAAAApGo/uNwar1OeCh4fIKUxLT2DSD5sCeVvoQvaACLcB/s1600/IMG_7200.jpg" /></div>
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<i>romper: <b><a href="http://www.esbyapparel.com/products/allison-cropped-jumper-black">esby apparel</a></b> / jesus sandals: <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1TjMzWB">amazon</a></b> (they're actually called that?)</i></div>
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Last month <b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2016/03/in-austin.html">in Austin</a></b> I got to meet<b> <a href="http://www.esbyapparel.com/pages/about-us">Stephanie Beard</a>, </b>owner and designer of <a href="http://www.esbyapparel.com/" style="font-weight: bold;">esby apparel</a>. It was <i>such</i> a treat. I got to see and feel her gorgeous pieces, try them ALL on, and bring a few home to show off to my readers. I even made a friend out of the deal! </div>
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I'd been hoping to show off her amazing stuff for <i>weeks</i>, ever since since I got back from South By, but then we moved house, life got REALLY weird, family came into town, and my Internet went bust. But! I'm here! Here I am! Better late than early! And here is that post finally, featuring two of my favorite looks from the current line at <b><a href="http://www.esbyapparel.com/">esby apparel</a></b>. </div>
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<img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kwAQ5As2OQQ/Vxfl29AiA9I/AAAAAAAApGw/gal-tnFbyLw9458BU15JHPPPgmNE6zI7wCLcB/s1600/VSCO%2BCam-1-1.jpg" /><br />
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<i>this bag is an old one from <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1BnKOAP">madewell</a></b> and it is amazing</i></div>
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First is this ROMPERRRRR. </div>
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Hold up -- after culling my wardrobe <i>again </i>(KonMari Take Two! THIS TIME IT WILL WORK!), and now that the entirety of my wardrobe fills only half a standard closet, don't you find it FULLY FASCINATING that I somehow managed to keep onto FOUR WHOLE ROMPERS?? </div>
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All of which sport WIDE-LEGGED SILHOUETTES!</div>
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Well, I do. #easilyimpressedwithmyself</div>
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Okay but wait -- how do you feel about wide-legged silhouettes? Now that I have you here?</div>
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<img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lYxFrPT11ns/Vxfl0Q740qI/AAAAAAAApGk/KhKnRaC8h4AjeljoDQ2XVmRnSg840YyUQCLcB/s1600/IMG_7205.jpg" /></div>
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Personally, having grown up the daughter of Julie Lovin, I knew off the bat that this wide-legged deal was going to be my Def Jam. I remember my mom wearing so much of this silhouette when I was a kid that for sentimental reasons <i>alone</i> I knew I would <i>have</i> to love this trend a very stupid amount. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And, it turns out, I do!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What I <i>don't</i> love at the moment are my current white wall prospects. So disappointing. Grass! Shadows! Ugh! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway. I tried.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Alexandra took these next wide-legged photos for me just the other day. Thanks, Alex!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2l5VuDMpstI/Vxfl4HxqcrI/AAAAAAAApG4/2ZFjcSPeaZEPLIjf2x4zl-qNirQKT1Q4wCLcB/s1600/VSCO%2BCam-2.jpg" /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>clogs: <b><a href="http://ninaznyc.com/collections/test/products/lenanatural">nina z</a></b> / pants: <b><a href="http://www.esbyapparel.com/products/ava-cropped-pant-sienna">esby apparel</a></b> / top: <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1WG8zhq">fruit of the loom</a></b> </i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Here is the thing: My poor waist has played second fiddle in fashion to every other body part that I've owned for <i>years</i>. I used to watch period films featuring cinched waists and tight bodices and just feel so sorry for my midsection for being born in THE wrong decade. Until now! There she is! Hi, waist! I hadn't forgotten about you! </div>
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<br /></div>
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Stephanie makes these high-waisted wide-legged trousers in just about every neutral color a neutral-phile could ever desire and I'm not going to lie to you, they make me feel leggy and waist-y and a little bit like an extra from <a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/cc/35/19/cc3519081f61ceaf3ed8bb92a48e210a.jpg" style="font-weight: bold;">Out of Africa</a>. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iV5tomummhU/Vxfl2pvlCMI/AAAAAAAApGs/n-MZZpq9DvUURykax2PrLGUC2fx8v58rQCLcB/s1600/VSCO%2BCam-1-2.jpg" /></div>
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<br /></div>
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See also: GRANDPA PANTS! </div>
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<img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eskEGdSnmy4/Vxfl3huLl_I/AAAAAAAApG0/h3oM0JmQ3PwRg-7aYrwLXsX_sor_QxyOACLcB/s1600/VSCO%2BCam-1.jpg" /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Well anyway, my white wall-ing needs some work. Don't I look awkward? But don't I also look like I'm enjoying it? ;)</div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-51462641538929546472016-04-05T18:50:00.005-04:002017-11-10T16:24:14.528-05:00AROUND HERE LATELY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qg6J3K9TwWo/VvCLYAWQ92I/AAAAAAAAo90/3Y9omyl1xPooRHPMStRWporhNMxyFEYJA/s1600/IMG_6210.jpg" /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Fulfillment. The name of the game here is fulfillment. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Idaho is just about to end its long, slow slog into spring. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Idaho does this every year. It waits and waits and waits and waits until sometime in May when it suddenly decides to get its act together and make us some buds. And then, POW!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
Idaho in spring is absolutely heart-stopping, I can't wait. We're not quite there yet. It's shifting closer. It's so, so close. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
(I wrote <b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2009/05/late-spring.html">a post</a></b> on this once!)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-v9CTJ6O7cWo/VvCLaZdg03I/AAAAAAAAo-I/ruObohql_WYCwjzzK3GOkvHHDlXlrV3aw/s1600/IMG_6270.jpg" /><br />
<br />
But back to <i>me</i>, okay?<br />
<br />
Change, Completion, Fulfillment.<br />
<br />
Change, change, change.<br />
<br />
(Anyway, could I GET any more obtuse?)<br />
(Probably. You wanna find out?)<br />
<br />
Um, here's a bit of excitement for you:<br />
<br /></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gkNfz3ft--U/VvCLYPcnh0I/AAAAAAAAo9w/3z-6jZ3YdNQSasvdHZuEaOzX4m1jTWZjQ/s1600/IMG_5942.jpg" /></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZmlR1XNE_ck/VvCLYvKtoxI/AAAAAAAAo94/GhbPw7Zcsj05f0XjH1jn9VAMh2kLQDu7Q/s1600/IMG_5943.jpg" /></div>
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<i>hey huck!</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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The Appaloosa Horse Museum! Not to get too excited about it or anything, it's just that, as much as I love lentils . . . </div>
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<br /></div>
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("It's just that . . .", "Well . . . ", "Actually . . . ", and, "I'm sorry to tell you this, but . . . ", are apparently my favorite ways to start sentences, according to Huck and <i>his</i> newest ways of starting sentences.) </div>
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<br /></div>
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Well. I am sorry to tell you this, but the <b><a href="http://appaloosamuseum.org/">Appaloosa Museum</a></b> is super tiny. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It <i>did</i> smell good inside though.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KqCY6D5Eglk/VvCLaxM0FmI/AAAAAAAAo-E/EodIrB-54JsjRvgECGPuk2D_9zeCsf44g/s1600/IMG_6271.jpg" /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Did you know Huck's favorite food these days is octopus? </div>
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<br /></div>
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Yes, that's it. Octopus. Shrimp will do, too, if the octopus is all out. He's very brave, ins't he?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Personally I haven't dared eat any seafood since we left the city, because I value my life. </div>
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No no no, I'm sure it's not that bad, although someday when Huck is old enough to know what this means, I'd like to ask him whether eating seafood in a landlocked state should be concerning unto him. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But then, what am I even talking about!? This restaurant up there is in <i>Pullman</i>! Which, while only 8 miles from where I sit at this moment in this very landlocked state called Idaho, happens to be in <i>Washington</i>, which, as we all know from the fifth grade, is a <i>coastal </i>state.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Doesn't that sort of make you want to question, like, <i>everything</i>?!? </div>
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<br /></div>
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The End.</div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-80974693285630963782016-03-25T16:39:00.003-04:002017-07-31T00:25:35.560-04:00GET ME DRESSED / AND GET HER TO COLLEGE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3poPI1BIugw/VvCU4COiRqI/AAAAAAAAo-s/9TY1n1yGlcc5QnZi0s7QgDLiSvyU4UurA/s1600/IMG_5937.jpg" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>jeans: <a href="http://bit.ly/1RkDcqo" style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;">kut</a><span style="text-align: center;">, shirt: </span><a href="http://bit.ly/1RqAxbf"><b>levi's</b></a><span style="text-align: center;">, flats: </span><b style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bit.ly/1Uq7fQc">sseko designs</a></b><span style="text-align: center;">, tote: </span><b style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bit.ly/1RqB2Su">sseko designs</a></b><span style="text-align: center;">, </span></i><i><span style="text-align: center;">bracelet: austin (similar </span><b style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bit.ly/1RqBsZk">here</a></b><span style="text-align: center;">),</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="text-align: center;">awesome attitude: yo mama</span></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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So lemme tell you a thing about a thing. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I've been going through my closet lately. ('Show me a woman who blah blah blah . . . ' you've read <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1Uq96ED">my book</a></b> already, right?? ;) While I was in there the other day I noticed my denim jumpsuits. Like errant children, those denim jumpsuits. I own two; they're awfully sweet. Lately they've shared an equal amount of their mother's neglect. The poor dears.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So I said, 'I'm sorry jumpers!' (Do you ever feel the need to apologize to your clothes?) And then made the appropriate decisions.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The problem with <b><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/4daZnQSPe9/?taken-by=heynataliejean">the first</a> </b>is that it looks so similar to a combination of denim + jeans that I already wear all of the time. And <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/4XUmxPSPTo/?taken-by=heynataliejean" style="font-weight: bold;">the second of the two</a>, well, I love her madly, but she is OUT THERE. Best suited for places where it's normal to see other people walking around in frumpy bubbles made of clothing while still feeling fabulous, maybe. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And so they were rendered redundant. Such a sad story!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rKFwdrxYO2o/VvCU36yxmOI/AAAAAAAAo-o/zNwhazpcJqQ3_a8pFXmr6EJrYsRlh5ezA/s1600/IMG_5938.jpg" /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>the first went out to </i><span style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://www.moscowstormcellar.com/" style="font-weight: bold;"><i>consignment</i></a>,<i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i></span><span style="text-align: justify;"><i>the second to our storage unit, in case you needed to know.</i> </span></div>
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<i style="text-align: justify;">(i'm holding out hope for you, bubble romper! good luck in our storage unit, it's chilly!)</i><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span></div>
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<i>(these are the shirt and jeans in question, should you wish to cast scorn.) </i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dEKYutzrwG8/VvCU4IWZibI/AAAAAAAAo-w/RVDU3IQcQsE_OuI-i-LRiWidK3Mb59kUQ/s1600/IMG_5939.jpg" /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But what I REALLY came here to tell you is, did you know <a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/epiphanic" style="font-weight: bold;">epiphanic</a> is an actual word? When you have an epiphany, that means your situation was epiphanic.<br />
<br />
Epiphanous: Not a word. And why not?</div>
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Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-81911686847659454752016-03-23T14:25:00.002-04:002017-11-10T17:19:35.586-05:00ON NEW YORK NATALIE, MOSCOW NATALIE, AND THE TROUBLE WITH TIME + PLACE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yuloozFRG28/VvLb_acutGI/AAAAAAAAo_c/YPdu7DYUWd8zoYINcXIcEAzLYK5OjGj8Q/s1600/IMG_4467.jpg" /></div>
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<i>this post is a pep talk to myself. it can also be a pep talk for you, if you'd like.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A million years ago I wrote a post about a version of myself I called <b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2009/02/new-york-natalie.html">New York Natalie</a></b>.<br />
<br />
The idea was that I was living in Idaho, feeling sad and frustrated, waylaid and lost, <i>super</i> sorry for myself, and I had remembered realizing one day that I never felt that way very often (if ever?) when I lived in New York.<br />
<br />
I was tougher there. Or something. I felt more grown up. Less flailing.<br />
<br />
New York Natalie had a whole different schtick going on. She liked being mature and making adult decisions, she liked saving money and planning for vacations, she liked taking on responsibility and, like, she even liked doing the dishes. (Or, at least she did them more reliably.) New York Natalie was pretty rad. I liked her! She was going somewhere.<br />
<br />
At least, she <i>thought</i> she was going somewhere.<br />
<br />
(Turned out, she was actually going to Moscow, so...)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Now that I've done this enough times to know by scientific reasoning, I can stick this feather in my cap: I'm pretty good at adapting to drastic changes in my environment. I think I do it without even realizing it. Someone called it "chameleoning" the other day, and maybe that's it.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's just a lack of any overriding sense of willpower over whatever it is I'm encountering at the time? A white flag?<br />
<br />
It's also a little bit like being a sponge. I'm sensitive to my surroundings, usually all it takes is a couple seconds til it soaks right in. Welcome to me, anything and everything!<br />
<br />
I also love to try new things. I am sometimes <i>overly </i>open-minded. I can throw myself into just about anything and really get a kick out of it. I have a healthy sense of adventure.<br />
<br />
Whatever it is, it's a pretty good quality to have if you don't mind my horn-tooting.<br />
Or at least it is until it involves chameleoning/acquiescing/soaking/adventuring <i>backwards</i>,<i> </i>into a former, lesser version of myself, instead of progressing <i>forward, </i>as maybe all human beings should.<br />
<br />
You know. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So, Moscow Natalie. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>Ughhhhhhhhh</i>.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Moscow Natalie was never anybody I wanted to be long-term. Even at the time I was being her, I was aware that Moscow Natalie was merely a survival mode. Just Get Through It Natalie.<br />
<br />
Moscow Natalie was stuck in Idaho -- maybe against her will, certainly beyond her control -- and it really funked around with her sense of ownership of the thing. And as a result I'm afraid she was a little bit of a pain in the ass. Obviously it is rather unhealthy for one to compartmentalize oneself in this manner! Do not ye do it! Take it from me!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Still, having now been Moscow Natalie <i>twice</i>, for better or worse, I can tell you. It's a thing. It is definitely a thing.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Being Moscow Natalie es no bueno. Fer nobody. I know this for sure-sure, having now in the process of returning to Idaho also reverted right back into that Moscow Natalie person, relinquishing again any responsibility or control over my own life in exchange for moping around like a petulant child stuck somewhere she doesn't want to be, living each day just to get through it, all-in survival mode, washing her hands of the thing, just, BLAH and SHIT and BLAH and PASS ME ALL THE CHICKENS, and surprise of all surprises, it hasn't been working! I am highly dissatisfied!! I want my money back!!<br />
<br />
(Except for my chickens. Chickens for all and to all a good night!) </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So, uh, don't be Moscow Natalie anymore, dorko.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>This should be simple</i>, I catch myself thinking a lot. Just embody all the things I liked about myself better while I was living somewhere else, without having to actually *be* somewhere else, be some kind of rad Moscow/New York Natalie hybrid, duh I can do that! I adapt! I've done it! And anyway, I mean, we all can! We can all be that version of ourselves we like best to be, whether or not we have the cheat of a rad city (or whatever else is tickling your pickling) to get us there. Am I right??!?<br />
<br />
Okay, yes! </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Challenge, accepted! </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Thrifting hasn't gotten me there. Weirdly enough!?! And neither have granny squares or needlepoint or paint-by-numbers either, come to think of it. It's like this world has gone upside down!! ;)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
(The chickens do help, but they're mostly a distraction.)<br />
(MAYBE I NEED A CAT INSTEAD?)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And like I said already, I mean, thinking about yourself like this is a really bad idea. One definitely should not do it.<br />
<br />
One cannot solve immaturity by engaging farther into self-centered, immature thought patterns! </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But anyway like I was saying . . . about myself . . .</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm afraid that maybe the entire Palouse in general just makes me miserable.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Is it the lentils?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I used to think it was the job at SEL that made me miserable. (Well, it was.)<br />
<br />
Or my infertility and subsequent feelings of lack of any purpose at all. (Well, yeah, it was that too.)<br />
<br />
Maybe the fact that we were poor grad students in a very bad economy with exams stressing the husband to death and back every semester and Peter Pan was always sick and required fancy dog food that even the Maharaja couldn't afford plus the fact that the sun doesn't shine out here for <i>fully half of the year</i>!?!?!! </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Cause obviously... yes. All those things are gonna mess with a person, that's just how that works, and that's all right.<br />
That's just character building mumbo jumbo, or whatever.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
But now that I am here again, mis-er-able, with none of those ingredients in my kitchen, and yet I am STILL baking that miserable cake!? AND YET!???!!</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Sure, I'm still infertile (or rather, re-infertile after a brief period of non-infertile), but this time I have a kid. I'm a mom!<br />
There's some purpose right there, slap you on the face with it.<br />
We can easily afford the groceries.<br />
None of my pets are unhealthy or even slightly high maintenance in the least!<br />
(Chickens. Pass me all of the chickens!)<br />
<br />
And yet!?!?<br />
<br />
Just kidding it's still fully dark here fully half of the year.<br />
That suuuuuuuucks. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
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(Never underestimate the Seasonal Affective Disorder and that funny in-betweenness funk one always finds oneself in whenever the weather tries to change up it's seasons on you. That there a tip from me to you.) </div>
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<br />
Maybe it's not the ingredients that's the problem, maybe it's the cake itself?<br />
One layer of perceived lack of control, followed by a layer willingness to roll over and give whatever away in order to merely exist, followed by a layer of bad decisions, topped off with a nice chocolate ganache.</div>
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OR MAYBE THIS IS A MIDLIFE CRISIS!</div>
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That's an exciting thought. Maybe I need a sports car instead of a cat?</div>
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(Are cats the female equivalent of a sports car?)</div>
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(Oh gosh, wouldn't that be sad kind of?)<br />
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Maybe it's just the sheer lack of control over any of my life circumstances right now.</div>
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But here's a jolt of truth that helps to burn off any excess misery calories: I am here for my husband. I am here because I like to be wherever my husband is. I like that guy! I like this family! And I am willing to bet we are all where we are because of something we love that outweighs the rest of the shit that we don't love. Brandon is the primary breadwinner of this here shindig, and Brandon's professional needs <i>do </i>take precedence over a lot of other things. And while that can be hard, and while we're definitely allowed to grant ourselves that truth, we shouldn't get caught up in it.</div>
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Because getting caught up in it, that's selfishness. </div>
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Pouting about a choice I made because of a choice I made because of a choice I made (Idaho Brandon / Breadwinner Brandon / Marrying Brandon) is hideous. I made that choice. The truth is, the control has been mine all along, and it continues to be mine even now.</div>
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The <i>real</i> truth is that it has never been about control at all.<br />
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***</div>
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I think the realities of selfishness are much more complex than we like for them to be. In fables, it's easy to differentiate the evil, selfish hag from the pure, thoughtful princess. That's the lesson. Nobody <i>wants</i> to be selfish, even the worst of us human beings on this planet want to believe that we are acting out of something higher than selfishness. But it's humbling when you realize just how often selfishness can disguise itself as other things. It's humbling when you realize the struggle you're in is a struggle you happily took on and would happily take on again and again.<br />
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I think to say that control is what will save us is to say that we are better and smarter than we actually are, or that somehow we could do better with this life than what the spark of creation has been doing all this time. </div>
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It turns out, it is selfishness that's making me miserable. And <i>that</i> I can work with. </div>
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So, I had myself a talk with Moscow Natalie.<br />
(It definitely looked alarming from a mental health point of view.)<br />
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Moscow Natalie is going to try and bugger off for a while. She's not terribly helpful, and I don't very much enjoy her, and I have better ways to attend to this deal, and 25 wasn't a good time in ANYBODY'S life, thank you and you're welcome I am in no hurry to repeat that part of my life yikes.</div>
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I've also decided that since New York Natalie may take me some time, and since she probably wasn't even all that great to begin with (I probably have overly fond memories of her that are making her seem way cooler than she actually was), maybe it's time to come up with a different Natalie. </div>
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A better Natalie.</div>
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I think I'm going to call her Kick Ass Natalie. </div>
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This one won't be location-specific.</div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com107tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-81821384012745162632016-03-22T13:39:00.002-04:002017-07-31T00:25:35.576-04:00THINGS I WISH I'D DONE MORE OF IN NYC<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<img border="0" class="CToWUd a6T" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3VbHETVR-is/Vusel8MAynI/AAAAAAAAozM/xIStTL3tuIc3mlL7HT4O_yeaVJzshMStQ/s1600/IMG_1585.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; outline: 0px;" tabindex="0" /><br />
<br />
This is a post about past lives and reincarnation! And hopes and dreams and next-times!!<br />
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I really enjoy explaining these things up front in the loosest terms possible so you know what you're in for without actually knowing anything about what you're in for.<br />
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Today, in partnership with <a href="http://b.chme.io/idHd/yneXC9jjKr" style="color: #1155cc; font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">Chime</a>, an app by the creators of Sittercity, I've compiled a short list of things that, were I lucky enough to get to do a do-over, I would have do differently while living in NYC. You know. Regrets. Since I'm not there anymore and it is heart breaking and I think about it often. Quite often. Truly.</div>
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So let's hit it!<br />
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<i>ONE /</i> REALLY AND TRULY, LET'S TREASURE THE TIMES WE HAD TO WALK OUR BUTTS OFF</div>
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Okay so this one I didn't <i>not</i> do, but if I could go back in time, I would do it even more. This is what I tell people who are leaving the city any time I get the chance: WALK NOW WHILE YOU HAVE THE PLACES TO GET TO ON FOOT. I miss all the walking every bit as much as I expected to. And it is <i>heartbreaking</i>! The suburbs make me lazy! Where have all the sidewalks gone?! My bottom has been more than happy to conform to the shape of the driver's seat of my car, it must be noted, but that shouldn't mean it needs to happen . . .<br />
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Enjoy especially those subway stairs while you have them. Oh hell. I once hefted a sleeping kid, his scooter, three bags of groceries plus a package I had to pick up from the post office, from the Prospect R stop all the way home. We made it off the train, up the stairs, to our building, up two more flights of stairs . . . and then he woke up the minute we opened the door.<br />
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These days I'd be hard pressed to get halfway across the street with that much. If I could even manage to lift it! Boo. The accidental muscles one gets just from <i>existing</i> in NYC! It's wonderful, they're wonderful! I loved my accidental muscles. Accidental muscles are the very best kind of muscles. Actually, they are, this is a serious point that needs to be made, so I'm going to run with it: Purposeful muscles get too much attention. They tend to be little prima donna glory hogs. Right? At least in my experience. Accidental muscles don't even know they're there. They're like that One Direction song. That's what makes them beautiful.</div>
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<img border="0" class="CToWUd a6T" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7nmObu8xCEY/Vusenh9Bi2I/AAAAAAAAozc/CexrjoUYNGsdTBKQMe9-_uKXFv1Xrs6og/s1600/IMG_9398-1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; outline: 0px;" tabindex="0" /></div>
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<i>TWO</i> / GO ON MORE DATES </div>
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Yeah, with my husband.<br />
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This is a big one. Come on, Natalie. I so wish I had gotten out more <i>with my</i> <i>husband</i>. <i>Grown up</i> <i>fun</i>. I'm putting this one in italics, you guys. That's how you know it is serious.<br />
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I mean it wasn't all bad.<br />
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<img border="0" class="CToWUd a6T" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-X3NidVCqdXc/VuseqmLeiQI/AAAAAAAAozw/n_rmWNHMzOUIIcT8Hx8RI25kdN7bpcwmA/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2013-08-31%2Bat%2B7.40.47%2BPM.png" style="cursor: pointer; outline: 0px;" tabindex="0" /></div>
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<i>me and the beebs at a yankees game, 2013</i></div>
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<i>me and beebs at peter luger eating our faces off</i></div>
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See, we did stuff!<br />
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Plus he's handsome. </div>
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Still makes my heart go boom boom, that Beebledeebles.</div>
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But next time. (Next time?) Next time there shall be more date nights.</div>
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Ooh! We saw Garrison Keillor at the Lincoln Center once on my birthday!<br />
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<img border="0" class="CToWUd a6T" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vKOFSrs0Eqk/VusgexOICAI/AAAAAAAAo0Q/9yMH3B-VqiMCdxbAHR2U1M70TlLy_fkDA/s1600/034EF600-2025-4FAF-BD0A-6C40FE63ABD7.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; outline: 0px;" tabindex="0" /></div>
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<i>us holbrooks utilizing our primary mode of transport, the foot</i></div>
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<i>THREE / </i>CHECK THE KID, SLEEP SOMEWHERE FANCY </div>
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New York has some of the most killer places to stay in all the world. Like the Pierre hotel! Where <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Versus_the_Volcano" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">Joe</a></b> goes to stay after he buys all his luggage.<br />
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You know what I mean here.<br />
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<img border="0" class="CToWUd a6T" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HJzG1Z4mKmk/VusgnBuUCyI/AAAAAAAAo0s/SJhStpTxuBEK9xNkoKjmfm2TITzm3Z3Ig/s1600/E079A0E3-1816-45DB-8959-512843878EA9.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; outline: 0px;" tabindex="0" /><br />
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<i>yours truly in the standard hotel</i></div>
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Here is how I know. During a Bugaboo event I once got to stay a night with some girlfriends at The Standard Hotel in the Meatpacking District. That place is a late-night haven, guys, wth immensely entertaining, beautiful people-watching. And while <b><a href="http://www.thedaybookblog.com/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">Sydney</a></b> made an excellent roommate, don't get me wrong, I <i>do</i> think we missed out on the point of the thing by not being there with our husbands. You know. The rooms at The Standard seem to be designed for over-the-top sexy things. Bathtubs in the middle of the rooms, see-through glass in the shower door, floor-to-ceiling windows for spying on people walking the High Line. (And the other way around . . . ;) You know, if there are ever situations that call for being naked in front of some crystal-clear windows . . . it involves your husband.</div>
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<img border="0" class="CToWUd a6T" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CFiGBdiidtE/Vusghc_DaAI/AAAAAAAAo0Y/a6TFTo60anEH8OnPehQn7CxrzdwXHRrfg/s1600/A4A930F4-8870-4C54-93B6-0F59529A53C8.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; outline: 0px;" tabindex="0" /></div>
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<i>FOUR /</i> I WISH WE'D HAD A STEADY SITTER</div>
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We had many babysitters while we were living in the city. A lot of them were wives of the summer interns at church, or the high schooler who lived upstairs (we miss you Alexandra!), or else close friends willing to pitch in. But it was never very pleasant finding a sitter. It was mostly like pulling teeth. Sadly. So here we are. Let me put this one out for you. Trustworthy childcare shouldn't be a luxury.</div>
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In the absence of something seamless to help you navigate the case-by-case bookings, I'd recommend hiring a sitter for a month at a time, with the same hours + days every week--even if it's just 5 hours a week, even if you're not sure you're going to need it that week. Sometimes it pushes you out the door for something spontaneous and I've noticed that's usually where all the magic happens.</div>
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<img border="0" class="CToWUd a6T" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1NQc_rxpMEU/Vusgtp6dcBI/AAAAAAAAo00/Z6f3TT0-gM4Lqb9ejzJlLKvCIE7Spcp6A/s1600/D517265A-3148-4C15-BFE7-4742ABD397E1.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; outline: 0px;" tabindex="0" /></div>
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<i>FIVE / </i>LOG MORE ME-TIME INSIDE THE BARNEY'S CO-OP</div>
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I'm talking about me-time in general but actually regarding the Barney's Co-Op . . . I really think that place might be a little bit of personalized Natalie heaven.<br />
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Actually I like to think about this one a lot. The Barney's Co-Op and how much I miss it. Especially the one in SoHo. Does this make me shallow?</div>
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Huck was a great errand buddy and I credit the times we spent together getting shizz done for his amazing ability to utilize patience like a master. I think that's my parenting advice to end all parenting advice: expose your kid to boring things from day 1. However. I <i>do</i> wish I'd taken more me-time to myself to explore the city on my own, in whatever form that took. Groceries, dry cleaning, though not necessarily errands. Maybe logging work hours at a cafe, or getting important wondering-time in Downtown, or solo museum time to recharge the old creative battery. . . or shopping . . . whatever! I'm sorry I love to shop I won't even apologize for it! ;)<br />
<br />
I've noticed more and more that I really thrive on those just-me-and-my-thoughts kinds of outings. I don't even realize half my brain's missing when I'm not getting enough of it, I just get grouchy. It's like scurvy. Stuff just . . . shrivels. </div>
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<img border="0" class="CToWUd a6T" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Qe_yT4AR134/VusgejzswhI/AAAAAAAAo0M/b2YATjL_f6kX4xDReanbNxNV2D5rYvbew/s1600/7A7D978C-E92D-4C09-AEDC-9E835B26E4F6.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; outline: 0px;" tabindex="0" /></div>
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<i>SIX /</i> BUY MORE CHOCOLATE COVERED CHEERIOS FROM THE TRADER JOE'S</div>
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Don't pass up this opportunity, New Yorkers! Words cannot even express how much I miss being within walking distance of a Trader Joe's. Oh those blessed chocolate covered cheerios.<br />
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The End.</div>
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Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-72199304653990271622016-03-16T16:13:00.002-04:002017-07-31T00:25:35.527-04:00IN AUSTIN . . . <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>frown smile in full effect, go me!</i></div>
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OKAY SO CAN WE JUST TALK ABOUT AUSTIN FOR A MINUTE!?</div>
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Once upon a time when I was just a wee babe, Sir Brandon the Texan was studying accounting at UT Austin and watching a lot of James Bond movies with his roommates at 3AM.</div>
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I wasn't really a baby but I may have only been a freshman in high school. </div>
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He probably also ate his body weight in queso. This seems like an easy assumption to make.</div>
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Now, having never been to Austin myself, nor in any part of Texas, really, I used to hear tales of his Austin and feel happily indifferent to the deal and never think anything more of it.</div>
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UNTIL. </div>
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I flew to Austin for SXSW for a super hot minute to speak on a panel, Furniture Is The New Fashion, with Jenny Morrill, co-founder and CMO of <b><a href="http://moveloot.com/">Move Loot</a></b>. (You can see <b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2015/06/hey-natalie-jean-move-loot-look-book.html">the project</a></b> we did that sparked our panel <b><a href="http://www.refinery29.com/move-loot-furniture-moving-service#slide">here</a></b>! Oh gosh, that was maybe the most fun I've ever had on a collaboration. Ever.)</div>
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First of all, furniture IS the new fashion. In case you were wondering. Increasingly I feel in my life that I get more satisfaction from experimenting with the look in my home than I do with my clothing. I know how I want to dress my body by now--I mean, I'll only have this one body for the rest of my life and I've mostly figured out its coloring and proportions and there's not going to be too much changing between now and the grave, but with a house! A house is always changing. And its base tones are super easy to switch up, unlike skin tones. Especially considering how often we've moved, and how easy it is to work within that basic square shape we all get to live in. Our homes are definitely these perfect canvases and our furniture is easily the new fashion. Easily. </div>
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Second of all, when I say I flew to Austin what I really mean is that I actually flew to Seattle, and then I flew to San Francisco, and <i>then</i> I flew to Austin. </div>
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Thank you, airline industry.</div>
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But if you follow the trends within both industries (back to furniture / fashion) it's easy to spot how eerily they seem to echo the other. Fast fashion / inexpensive furniture / freedom of experimentation giving way to more sustainable shopping / quality-over-quantity / researched decisions -- consumers consume furniture now in the same ways we've lately been consuming fashion. Our options are limitless! The possibility for self-expression endless! We're showing off our homes to our friends and followers on social media now more than ever! Come on in, I'm proud of my kitchen!</div>
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Anyway. </div>
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The highlight of SXSW, if you don't count our panel, were the puppies.</div>
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Brace yourselves.</div>
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WUT.</div>
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The one on the left is named Edward Cullen. No I know. Don't you want to squoosh him.</div>
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Woogle woogle woogle.</div>
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They were part of a St Bernard rescue group there to promote the Mophie. It was a cute deal, wherever you were in Austin during South By if your phone battery was dying, you could tweet out a help request using a certain hashtag and then a Mophie employee with a rescue St Bernard would come and find you and charge your phone for you. While you played with the puppies. Duh.</div>
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Clearly this and the micheladas were the highlight of my weekend.</div>
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MICHELAAADAAAAAAAAS.</div>
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I also got to visit with Stephanie Beard, owner of <b><a href="http://www.esbyapparel.com/">esby apparel</a></b>, and eat Vietnamese fusion and play Pretty Woman in her store for a couple of hours. I tried literally EVERYTHING on. It was the best kind of morning. </div>
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Stephanie specializes in the kinds of clothes that makes the woman under the fabric shine through. I can't think of a better way to describe that. You know that mix of effortlessness and perfectly executed shapelessness that says "don't notice my clothes, notice ME." But don't be dorky or anything, Natalie.</div>
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Her store is beautiful and right across the street from <b><a href="http://www.elizabethstreetcafe.com/">Elizabeth St</a></b>, so do as Stephanie instructs and get the almond croissant plus the vegetarian breakfast bahn mi. Sub the egg whites for regular scrambled eggs and add some avocado. She's right about that. And then mucho sriracha. Oh man I'm ready to go back right this minute.</div>
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She also introduced me to <b><a href="https://www.thrillist.com/drink/austin/13-things-you-didnt-know-about-topo-chico-plus-free-cases-of-it-read-on">Topo Chico</a></b>.</div>
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Thank you Stephanie! I want your chair!!!!!!</div>
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After that I met back up with Jenny and her friend for gelato at <b><a href="http://dolcenevegelato.com/pages/index.aspx">Dolce Neve</a></b>, and then we explored South Congress for some shopping + thrifting in the perfect 85-degree weather.</div>
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We finished up at the <b><a href="http://www.sanjosehotel.com/">Hotel San Jose</a></b> for more micheladas in the sunny sunny sunshine (MICHELAAADAAAAAAS) and then a quick Uber back to the airport for the red eye home. </div>
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When I landed in Idaho, there was snow on the ground.</div>
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See ya indeed.</div>
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Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-81249186869745321122016-03-09T17:06:00.003-05:002017-07-31T00:25:35.568-04:00GET ME DRESSED / WHITES FOR SPRING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<i>i look way cooler in this photo than i will ever actually be in this lifetime</i></div>
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Hey-oh Spring! </div>
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Lemme ask you a question. Do you believe in seasonal wardrobes? I do. I really do. I'd even go so far as to have a testimony of them. That's what this post is. Just so you know what you're jumping into.</div>
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<i>a few new-to-me spring pieces for 2016</i></div>
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When I was 10 and starting the fifth grade, my mom took me back-to-school shopping at the local Mervyn's. (Oh, Mervyn's! Do we remember Mervyn's?) I will remember until I die those pieces we picked out that day under the hot Arizona sun, and the way a Mervyn's smells inside, and the squeaky sheen of patent leather shoes, because you always get a new pair of patent leather church shoes before school starts, there is no other way. </div>
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We came home with a pair of forest green pants, a pair of burgundy pants, a forest green turtleneck, a burgundy turtleneck -- are we sensing a theme here? -- and then a patchwork vest in . . . yes, in forest green and burgundy red. Those five pieces represented to me the coolest girl wardrobe in the fifth grade ever, and I could not wait to start wearing them.</div>
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Of course, school starts up in August in Arizona and so I didn't really have a use for those clothes until well into November. Even if it <i>had</i> gotten freakishly cold in September, conscience would dictate that I could not wear my deep autumn colors until it was fully well and good the deep autumn. </div>
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And so I waited. </div>
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And pined. </div>
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And yearned!</div>
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And then I wore the snot out of them from late October until late February, at which point those colors no longer felt right, and I had to switch over to my springtime rotation. Pinks, blues, you know. Easter egg colors.</div>
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Living with a personal code of wardrobe ethics is exhausting sometimes! And so limiting!</div>
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(Please tell me you are into taking this topic as equally jokingly deathly non-seriously as me, otherwise it'll spoil the fun.)</div>
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Well, I peaked at age 10, probably. It's okay. And since then, though my beliefs are the same, I no longer like those Easter egg colors for spring. (I am a <b><a href="http://www.thechicfashionista.com/winter-color-analysis.htmlhttp://www.thechicfashionista.com/winter-color-analysis.html">Deep</a></b> <b><a href="http://www.colormebeautiful.com/seasons/">Winter</a></b>, pastels look like consumption on me.) Instead, every March, I just want to wear white. Beige, cream, off-white, true-white, white-white. It feels refreshing and light and like just the right match for a sometimes-iffy spring sun. </div>
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It's terribly impractical of me and of course that only adds to the fun. The other day I got out of the car with the crumbs of an entire Girl Scout Thin Mint cookie all over the seat my pants. But you know what, I won't let that hold me back. Life is a playground for the impractical! </div>
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Here are a few favorite springtime looks to demonstrate the versatility and sheer shiny diamond-ness that shopping secondhand and wearing only white can provide. In whites! </div>
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Here it comes!</div>
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<i>LOOK ONE / </i></div>
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Also wearing: vintage Levi's and tan <a href="http://bit.ly/1SxDGKI"><b>Bensimons</b></a>. </div>
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<i>LOOK TWO /</i></div>
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A million years ago I hosted a braiding party at Lilla P in the Meatpacking District and there was this woman who stopped in that I will never forget. She was wearing super baggy khakis, leather oxfords, a gauzy white linen top, and not a stitch of make up, and I haven't been able to forget her. She carried a leather bag that was so soft it was legitimately like touching butter. Yeah, I asked if I could touch it, and it totally weirded her out. </div>
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Anyway she was dressed like a Jedi except it all came off so amazingly chic. HOW!? In the back of my mind I've been on the lookout for a similar pair of khakis ever since, and while I haven't nailed the saggy baggy front-pleat pegged-leg rolled ankle of it just yet, these J. Brand khakis I found on <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1RQhoSe?utm_source=blogger&utm_medium=social&utm_content=heynataliejeanblog&utm_campaign=marchfifteen&referral_code=heynataliejeanblog">thredUP</a></b> are definitely doing the trick. A white Rag & Bone button up thermal from <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1RQhoSe?utm_source=blogger&utm_medium=social&utm_content=heynataliejeanblog&utm_campaign=marchfifteen&referral_code=heynataliejeanblog">thredUp</a></b> instead of linen, hi it's not that warm here yet. </div>
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<i>LOOK THREE /</i></div>
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Playing with proportions! As a short person I'm not used to going baggy top AND bottom, but trying new things are the spice of life! Aren't I brave? ;) </div>
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Obviously each of these outfits is screaming to be smeared with chocolate, and the minute I get the last of my winter clothes in the basement it is SO going to snow. </div>
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Bring it on. :)</div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-69668893532472687682016-03-03T14:46:00.002-05:002017-11-10T17:21:07.306-05:00DRY SKIN EMERGENCY PREPAREDNESS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<i>don't I look not at all like myself in this photo?</i></div>
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Wiiiiith Vaseline Lip Tins! </div>
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A COUPLE OF THINGS FOR YOU TODAY:</div>
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First, a glowing memory, from our first day back in Moscow, Round Two. </div>
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Actually, we were in Pullman at the time. </div>
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Ready?</div>
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There I was, sitting on a hotel bed, in Pullman, Washington. An assortment of souvenirs from <b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2015/08/in-nola.html">our trip to New Orleans</a></b> were scattered all around me, including a plastic alligator that is supposed to grow larger when left in water overnight. Chompers The Gator, we were calling him. He was hanging out in some very dirty water in a smudgy glass on the side table next to me. (Huck had figured that stirring it with his fingers would help . . . somehow. Maybe it did! Who knows.) In my lap I held a list of all the local restaurants (most of which I remembered being not-that-great), and in my hand, my cell phone, which I was using to knock out one at a time all of the potential delivery options in the area. Because NOBODY delivers NOTHING in Pullman. Except the Pita Pit. Which was CLOSED! BECAUSE THE STUDENTS HADN'T COME BACK YET OR SOMETHING? </div>
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It was all so incredibly depressing. And not just because I was hungry and didn't feel like putting on pants. And not just because my only delivery option was Pizza Perfection (and I've never been a huge fan, sorry). Not even because we were back in this dumb part of the country that I swore I'd never have to see again so long as I lived, and not even because I had just left the city of my dreams where I could get <i>my</i> <i>morning coffee</i> delivered to me by my favorite bodega guy Rico! (Rico I miss you! And your bran muffins!!) </div>
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No, my primary cause of depression in that moment was that, just the day before, somewhere mid fly-over states in an airplane taking me to my doom, I had literally watched as all of the moisture in my body that New York and New Orleans had so kindly provided via gumbo- and garbage-smelling humidity was sucked straight out of my body, and here I was, parched. I was PARCHED! Chapped, thirsty, dry, wasted, and Pullman tap water tastes disgusting, and we had nothing in the hotel room to drink--no water bottles, Holiday Inn??--and by now even the GATOR WATER was starting to look pretty good to me, and so I decided (quite rationally, I'd like to add), that my best bet was a dip in the indoor pool down the hall -- water, right?? -- and clearly that would solve all my problems, except that water was FREEZING, and also, chlorine has a way of not hydrating much? If you'll recall from chemistry class or whatever.</div>
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(You know, I <i>know</i> I actually took a chemistry class at some point in my educational career, I just don't actually remember a bleeding second of it. Or even where the classroom was! Was it at BYU? In high school? Seriously my brain has blocked all my scientific learning from age 10 through 22 and isn't that depressing?)</div>
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The point of all this is to say, one legitimately needs to moisturize out here in ways one never truly needed to moisturize out east. If one is me. </div>
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And now, to continue with this week's theme of epidermal moisturization, I am going to talk to you about Vaseline!</div>
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I have loved Vaseline like a sister for as long as I can remember. Vaseline is partly responsible for bringing my sad, chapped lips back to life every time I've moved out west. (Don't forget to drink lots of water!) </div>
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In fact! In 2011 I wrote an article for Babble called "14 Beauty-full uses for Vaseline," but now I can't seem to find it. </div>
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In an exciting twist on my love of Vaseline, they've now come out with a new line of Lip Therapy Tins. Tins! So portable! In <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1TSRdw3">Original</a></b>, <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1TSPEhH">Aloe</a></b>, <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1OQQtkp">Cocoa Butter</a></b>, and <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1Qspilo">Rosy Lips</a></b>. You can get them at most drugstores, including online at <b><a href="http://www.vaseline.us/product/category/lip-balm.html#tins">Vaseline.US</a></b> and <a href="http://bit.ly/1TRdICN" style="font-weight: bold;">Target.com</a>.</div>
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Now! Go forth and moisturize! </div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-76308542337134338442016-03-02T16:24:00.002-05:002017-11-10T17:22:29.014-05:00MOTHERHOOD RIGHT NOW | THE CASE OF THE MISSING IPAD<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<i>MOTHERHOOD RIGHT NOW / </i>is 4AM wake up calls for assistance to the potty, followed by "snuggles" in the big bed until morning. </div>
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By which I mean, "getting kicked in the head" in the big bed until morning.</div>
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It also means all the fried foods, all of the time. Plus pancakes. </div>
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<i>MOTHERHOOD RIGHT NOW / </i>is occasionally rescuing stupid chickens from trees, and then telling them profusely how beautiful you think they are.</div>
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(The Ladies have been promoted from livestock in the backyard to full-on flesh and blood children. Be advised.)</div>
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<i>MOTHERHOOD RIGHT NOW / </i>is sitting just outside the bathroom door while your kid is pooping. You never know when he'll need protection from bathroom bad guys! And because poop time is when you have your best meaning-of-life conversations.<br />
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I've found the trick is in sitting just close enough to the bathroom that you can hear him through the door + respond in the appropriate vocal volume ("Seriously!? The Red Power Ranger did <i>what</i>??"), but not so close that, you know, the smells.<br />
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<i>MOTHERHOOD RIGHT NOW / </i>is touching dried mealworms with your bare hands. But only when you <i>really</i> love them.</div>
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<i>MOTHERHOOD RIGHT NOW / </i>is bribes. BRIBES. Bribes everywhere. For everything! Do this, and you'll get <i>that</i>. Do that, and I promise you <i>this</i>. Be helpful on our errands, and you get to pick out a treat. One treat! Your budget is three dollars. Shop wisely, kid.</div>
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Motherhood right now also means occasionally your kid will pick out a nail polish for his treat, and then announce that it isn't for him, oh no, it's for YOU, mom. Because green is his favorite color and because sparkles will make you look "sooo beautiful!"</div>
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Motherhood also requires running your haircuts past your kid ahead of time, and then, once you've done it (in the sink. with kitchen shears. at 2AM. as is customary), you show him and he sighs in relief and says, "you were right, mom. It's short, but you still look like a girl." </div>
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<i>MOTHERHOOD RIGHT NOW / </i>is occasionally, in the middle of a really hard day (seriously Moscow / Pullman, GIVE ME A CUTE, AFFORDABLE RENTAL!), going outside and sitting in a pathetic slump on the grass, and letting your chickens bob all around you and look at you curiously while you sniffle pathetically, until your heart rate nears normal and you don't feel like crying anymore. </div>
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It works amazingly well. </div>
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Chickens might be the new <b><a href="http://www.heynataliejean.com/2010/05/group-healing.html">llamas</a></b>, in terms of therapeutic capabilities.</div>
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<i>MOTHERHOOD RIGHT NOW / </i>means always coming in second place to dad. Every. Single. Time. It's such a turn on! Geez! Let's hear it for good dads!</div>
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<i>MOTHERHOOD RIGHT NOW / </i>means you become epically embarrassing unto your five-year-old anytime you are in a public place and you decide to sing along with whatever's playing on the speakers. </div>
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Come to think of it, could this have something to do with my previous . . . ? <i>Nahhhh.</i></div>
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Oh my gosh I am going to have so much fun with this when he is a teenager.</div>
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WHILE I AM HERE. </div>
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When I was a kid one of my favorite books of all time was <i><b><a href="http://bit.ly/1TRihwT">Otis Spofford</a></b></i>. Have you read it? One of the best chapter books ever. Alllllmost better than Ramona Quimby. Almost.</div>
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(I may have almost named Huck Otis, and I may have jokingly told Brandon it was because I loved our NYC elevator so much . . . you know, <b><a href="http://www.otisworldwide.com/">Otis</a></b>?) (Also an amazing potential namesake: <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1TSVIGW">Otis Spunkmeyer</a></b>.)</div>
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Anyway. Last weekend we went to dinner at Tapped, a new-ish place in Moscow that is surprisingly rad for northern Idaho.</div>
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Huck spent the entire chunk of time while we waited on our dinner making these spit wads + shooting them at his dad's face. Over + over. Probably not appropriate restaurant behavior, but it <i>fully</i> lived up to the dreams I had of someday being the mom of a mischievous little boy like Otis Spofford. Right down to the squinty aiming eyes.</div>
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DREAMY.</div>
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***</div>
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In closing, something I wrote about 6 or 7 months ago, back when we were living in Brooklyn.<br />
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<span id="goog_1509454971"></span>"So, the other day, the iPad went missing. Huck played dumb the while his dad turned the loft inside out, but pretty soon his guilt caught up with him and he confessed he'd hidden it. "Wiff <i>maaaaagic.</i>" Sparkly fingers and big eyes for that bit.<br />
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Brandon wisely translated this to mean Huck had thrown the iPad in the garbage (obviously?), but Huck wouldn't cop to it, and so there we were, at an impasse.<br />
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"Huck, if you can tell me where the iPad is, you can get a toy!"<br />
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We have this stash of inexpensive toys we've hidden in the kitchen for those times when Huck earns enough "allowance" doing chores or being not-naughty to make an even trade. It's already not working anymore. The other day Huck announced that he'd found an imaginary bank and that he never needs to earn any more money ever again. So.</div>
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It was a conundrum. I mean, iPads don't grow on trees. Responsible adulthood requires that we put a 10-20 on the thing, so I got my wheels turning and came up with a plan. Sometimes B isn't so good at sweet-talking H. I spend half my life running interference between the two of them.<br />
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"What dad <i>means</i> is that your <i>behavior</i> is obnoxious. And he probably <i>won't</i> drop kick you out the window. Maybe just a time-out?"<br />
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So I sat down with Huck a few days later and told him the story of my mother and her gray, could-have-been-a-knock-off but could-have-been-authentic Chanel sweatsuit she'd bought in <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Itaewon">Itaewon</a></b> when we lived in South Korea.<br />
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This sweatshirt was the <i>perfect</i> color to suit my needs (my gray sweatshirt proclivities kicked in early). . . except for the giant Chanel logo embroidered right on the chest. And you have to understand! In my middle school social circle of grunge rock Kurt Cobain-ites, a Chanel logo simply would not do. Whatever a Chanel even <i>was</i>. And soooo . . . not really knowing what the heck I was actually doing . . . I took out the logo with a seam ripper. </div>
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No no no. I know. I did. It makes my stomach hurt just to think about it. Can you believe it? I could kill my middle school self for this one (among other things), even now. TO THIS DAY.<br />
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Oddly enough, my mother didn't get angry at me. I didn't even get in trouble! But I remember it being a turning point. I remember how sad she was, and this dawning concept that not-everything-in-this-house-belongs-to-me-and-is-mine-to-do-with-as-I-please, and I remember that the realization that I'd hurt someone felt way worse than actually getting grounded for it. To this day it's one of the cruelest things I ever accidentally did, and I hate it. I hate that I did it. </div>
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I told Huck all this. And then I told him that, since I knew what this felt like, I was a safe zone. He could tell me the truth and I would not get angry. Just like my mom didn't get angry with me. I promised not to punish him, just like my mom hadn't punished me, and then I told him that being honest in a scary situation was always the bravest thing to do.<br />
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It worked like a charm. He confessed straight away. He <i>did</i> throw it in the garbage -- the <i>downstairs</i> garbage --and he was <i>very</i> very sorry.<br />
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Confession in hand and feeling pretty proud of myself I must say, I asked him if he wanted to call his dad next to come clean and apologize. He was willing, and while he talked with his dad I congratulated myself. Classic parenting win!</div>
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. . . aaaaaaand then I got him a toy down from the bin to reward him for his honesty.</div>
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I gotta tell you. I have <i>no</i> idea if I did that right."<br />
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(hah! quotation marks for myself.)<br />
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UPDATE FROM THE FUTURE:<br />
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We later found the iPad. It was under a couch cushion. We questioned Huck and he admitted he'd hidden it because he didn't like being told to watch his kid cartoons on the iPad whenever we wanted to watch grown up shows on the TV. Brandon and I blinked at each other stupidly until it clicked into place. We'd unwittingly made an Anne Shirley situation wherein Huck confessed to having thrown it away just so we would stop harassing him about it and, probably, so we would get him a toy. So.<br />
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Classic. Parenting. Fail.</div>
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The end.</div>
<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D2487616434221255778%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D112943480971183119%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&media=https%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-PpMJioeQcII%2FVZHs1YJffzI%2FAAAAAAAAjTc%2FRYwl6prwfl8%2Fs320%2FIMG_1985.jpg&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=LZLYPpNootwE&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 26px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 338px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D2487616434221255778%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D112943480971183119%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&media=https%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-PpMJioeQcII%2FVZHs1YJffzI%2FAAAAAAAAjTc%2FRYwl6prwfl8%2Fs320%2FIMG_1985.jpg&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=LZLYPpNootwE&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 26px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 338px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D2487616434221255778%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D112943480971183119%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&media=https%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-PpMJioeQcII%2FVZHs1YJffzI%2FAAAAAAAAjTc%2FRYwl6prwfl8%2Fs320%2FIMG_1985.jpg&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=LZLYPpNootwE&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 26px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 338px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/?url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogger.com%2Fblogger.g%3FblogID%3D2487616434221255778%23editor%2Ftarget%3Dpost%3BpostID%3D112943480971183119%3BonPublishedMenu%3Dposts%3BonClosedMenu%3Dposts%3BpostNum%3D0%3Bsrc%3Dlink&media=https%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-PpMJioeQcII%2FVZHs1YJffzI%2FAAAAAAAAjTc%2FRYwl6prwfl8%2Fs320%2FIMG_1985.jpg&xm=h&xv=sa1.37.01&xuid=LZLYPpNootwE&description=" style="background-color: transparent; background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; left: 26px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; top: 338px; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-19834627547897930402016-02-29T16:41:00.002-05:002017-07-31T00:25:35.382-04:00GET ME DRESSED / I STOPPED KEEPING TRACK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<i><b><a href="http://bit.ly/1Rgruce">tee</a></b></i>, <i><b><a href="http://bit.ly/21xejhP">coat</a></b></i>, <b><i><a href="http://bit.ly/1QojBBM">jeans</a></i></b>, <b><i><a href="https://www.instagram.com/stylish_treasures/">shoes</a></i></b>, <b><i><a href="http://claudineandash.com/the-kalani-42.html">bag</a></i></b></div>
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This is an ode to the kind of <b><a href="http://bit.ly/1Rgruce">men's v-neck shirts you can buy in six packs at the grocery store</a></b>. </div>
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I call it: </div>
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<i>DEAREST DUDEMAN TEE SHIRTS /</i></div>
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dearest dudeman tee shirts</div>
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by natalie holbrook</div>
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dearest dudeman tee shirts</div>
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unfortunately, i have stained two of you already</div>
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with mysterious substances </div>
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that i am guessing are watermelon</div>
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but, dearest dudeman tee shirts</div>
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fortunately, you cost next to nothing</div>
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and i can always get more of you</div>
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the next time i am at the walmart needing some milk</div>
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which is also when i pick up more yarn</div>
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almost without thinking about it</div>
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which is also why i own</div>
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mysteriously</div>
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more than four skeins </div>
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of the same ugly off-white color </div>
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that i thought was a good idea at the time</div>
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four times</div>
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a thought which has yet</div>
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to be proven</div>
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true</div>
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even</div>
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once</div>
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dearest dudeman tee shirts</div>
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you come in a bag, </div>
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and you come taped together</div>
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and you peel the tape off</div>
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and i always wonder why</div>
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and you really only look best the day <i>after</i> a washing</div>
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but who is too lazy to prewash a shirt?</div>
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the kind of girl who is too lazy to buy shirts that do <i>not</i> come in plastic bags</div>
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to begin with</div>
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and that girl</div>
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would</div>
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be</div>
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me</div>
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<i>-fin</i></div>
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Instant classic.</div>
Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-4661963100938006522016-02-25T18:56:00.003-05:002017-07-31T00:25:35.467-04:00DRESS ME LIKE ONE OF YOUR FRENCH GIRLS<img border="0" height="900" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NzKD_cHh_gI/VTAxpuTmWyI/AAAAAAAAhFs/yr8zrJ5mr9c/s1600/IMG_6683.JPG" width="900" /><br />
<img border="0" height="900" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dCaGE-FI4o0/VTAxtJh9nnI/AAAAAAAAhGw/hcxGucSog5Q/s1600/IMG_7039.JPG" width="900" /><br />
<img border="0" height="900" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F5jAqEwKN74/VTAxkZgbPEI/AAAAAAAAhEU/AqjgBRs6iqo/s1600/IMG_6668.JPG" style="text-align: justify;" width="900" /><br />
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<i>above: covert ops documentation, and my attempt at replicating sans lint brush</i></div>
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All Titanic references aside, I promised I would return + report on the sartorial situation over in France and I am here to fulfill! A WHOLE YEAR LATER! (Up next I'm scouring the Internet for what all's available to pull this look off with.) (clunkiest sentence ever?)
This is a post I have been equally excited + stumped about writing. Because on the one hand, IS THIS NOT THE MOST FUN THING TO TALK ABOUT EVER!? And because on the <i>other</i> hand, I'm well aware of the danger of sounding like a complete idiot France fan-girl here. But do not worry! This is a risk I am willing to take. Oh yes! Here, allow me to sacrifice myself on this altar of willing-to-be-silliness, all in the name of fashion, beauty, and of appearing, like, really super cool and junk. I'll take the heat, you waltz off looking real French, okay?<!----that--><!------></div>
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So now here she is, your quintessential French girl in Paris according to my eyeballs and my iPhone, both of whom are terribly reliable sources, I assure you. (I also utilized my powers of Pinterest to provide a few visual aids.) (I know, isn't this thrilling?)</div>
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<i><a href="http://punktse.tumblr.com/post/80256200438">via</a></i></div>
BASKETS/<br />
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First of all let me make this much clear: No other footwear is allowed on your feet. Only "baskets." Baskets is the preferred term for sneakers over there. Aren't you getting smart from this post? Nobody wears <i>anything</i> else, I'm not even exaggerating. The guys, the girls, in sneakers. Sneakers sneakers sneakers, no socks, thank you. And pants cropped to show off your slender ankles (jealous).</div>
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You know, we called them tennis shoes where I grew up in Arizona. The first time I used that term in Connecticut when I moved there in middle school, the all kids looked at me like I was speaking . . . well, French. So it's baskets, like basketball. I'm assuming. Not a <i>huge</i> reach. </div>
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I saw a lot of Stans, Bens, Jordans, Keds, Persols, Jacks, Pumas, Chucks (mostly on the teens), New Balance, Nikes (many Nikes), and just one Reebok but it was the Reebok to end all Reeboks because it was the exact Reebok I had when I was eleven and I remember thinking they were my favorite shoes ever because it felt like I was walking in marshmallows. </div>
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All of these baskets I saw looked fully worn + loved + trashed. So go find a mud puddle? I'm just kidding. </div>
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TOPS/<br />
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Granted it was winter-y out, but the chunky sweater reigned supreme as most popular option. I also saw oversized men's white button ups, slouchy baseball tees, and crew neck tees. Your color options go black, white, tan, gray, brown, or, if you're feeling really exciting, navy. </div>
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Give these a try.<br />
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<i><a href="http://makeitlast.se/2015/03/19/time-to-lose-the-jacket/">via</a></i></div>
BOTTOMS /<br />
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Aside from your classic skinny jeans, the denim look skewed a lot bit mom jeans, to be honest. Baggy, lighter wash, cropped. I also saw more than a couple khakis, also worn cuffed + baggy. Pleated fronts. Final vestiges of #normcore perhaps? Pretty much anything pants-wise goes so long as it looks like it's prepared for a flood.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WwjZaN0Ts4s/VVJpmelVd_I/AAAAAAAAh2I/VdIUZeC0kiI/s1600/8c7a0698e7c061e3fb1ae3e6a0a26c30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WwjZaN0Ts4s/VVJpmelVd_I/AAAAAAAAh2I/VdIUZeC0kiI/s1600/8c7a0698e7c061e3fb1ae3e6a0a26c30.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i style="text-align: start;"><a href="http://syvende.tumblr.com/">via</a></i></div>
SPRING COATS/<br />
Cocoon-y, menswear-y, wool-y, oversized. Not that it matters, hashtag is it summer yet?<br />
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<i><a href="http://stylingon.com/">via</a></i></div>
SCARVES/<br />
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Oui oui, there was definitely a scarf situation going on over there, a situation that I don't fully understand, I'll admit. As an experiment one afternoon I paid attention to nothing but scarves for a good chunk of time, and I have to tell you, it's just, scarves. Errwhrre. The men seemed to sport shorter, chunkier scarves looped together <b><a href="http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2013/05/26/article-0-19FCD7FE000005DC-117_634x903.jpg">like this</a> </b>(thanks, George), while the women went more pashmina / cashmere / linen / cotton in all kinds of draping methods, in solid colors mostly. And by "colors" I mean varying shades of navy and brown. :)</div>
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Okay sorry, <b><a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/99/06/d6/9906d641f63368110404eb9d16767515.jpg">two</a></b> <b><a href="http://s1.r29static.com/bin/entry/475/x,80/1391637/mecs-opener.jpg">more</a></b> hot guys in scarves. Sorry. Carry on.<br />
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<i><a href="http://zsazsabellagio.blogspot.com/2012/06/easy-elegance.html">via</a></i></div>
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<i><a href="http://intothegloss.com/2015/04/rainy-day-hair/">via</a></i></div>
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HAIR/<br />
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Appropriate hair styles seemed to come parted down the center, visibly unbrushed, messy as the day is long. Often pulled to the back à la half pony up there. I saw one set of bangs, and only two short cuts above the shoulder. Take from that what you will. </div>
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I kid you not none of this hair had seen a brush in days, it was awesome. </div>
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(As for whether or not said hair is washed terribly frequently, well, I didn't ask to sniff anyone's head so your guess is as good as mine ;). </div>
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FACES/<br />
Bushy brows. NO MAKE UP. Like, how do these women walk around all day without their eyelashes on? I can't freaking go to the grocery store feeling like a full human without my eyelashes on. Geez.Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2487616434221255778.post-39302350532644715062016-02-25T18:51:00.000-05:002017-07-31T00:25:35.460-04:00FOR CHERRILL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Times; line-height: normal; text-align: justify; widows: 1;">
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A few weeks ago, my grandma Cherrill passed away. It's sort of strange to wrap my head around still. She died at home, surrounded by all her people. Her funeral was absolutely beautiful. </div>
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Like my grandma Shirley, my grandma Cherrill also suffered from Alzheimer's Disease. (I am so screwed.) In Cherrill's case, her Alzheimer's primarily affected her short term memory, while Shirley's affected . . . well, all of it. </div>
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The experience of losing both grandmothers like this within a couple months of each other has made me pause everything, like a car at a red light. This loss sort of creeps up on me, and is leaving quite a dent in the armor. A not-bad dent--this is life, after all, but I don't mind admitting that I'm bruised a little bit, and that every now and then I stop what I'm doing and question the air around me: <br />WHAT GIVES??" It's been an adventure, navigating myself + my emotions. It seems like just as I catch my breath, there is something else happening, almost always right away, almost always one right after the other, boom boom boom. That's my life these days. I'm sort of everywhere.</div>
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I'm coming to the realization though that maybe I'm not being piled on at all; maybe this is normal? Maybe this is adulthood? Maybe this is parenthood and daughterhood and wifehood and just what life is made of? Piles of life and piles of garbage; beautiful, messy garbage. Maybe losing loved ones and moves being tough and houses being sold out from under us and transitions being weird and families getting older and jobs being stressful is the way it is supposed to be and not some sign that we're doing it wrong. Maybe floating through life like a zen master of patience and acceptance isn't what's best. Maybe struggling with the struggle isn't something I should feel ashamed of?</div>
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I don't know, I'll let you know when I find out.</div>
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In the meantime I'm going to write about cousins. Like Huck and his 'super cousin,' Cole.</div>
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Cole is actually <i>my</i> cousin. He's three. </div>
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I'm one of 40 grandkids of Leonard + Cherrill Lovin. Huck there is one of 24 great-grandbabies. </div>
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We all grew up right there in that desert in the very same spot, more or less, like a crazy commune of talent show participants. And because I grew up like that, fully surrounded by family--in school, at church, at home, at dinner--I learned to love + trust my uncles like fathers; my aunts I can turn to for advice like mothers. A few have stepped in at times to pull that weight when immediate family was too far to help. My cousins were my first best friends and my first best enemies. They were the best people on earth to sing with and watch Newsies with and play Miss USA with. (I always insisted on being Miss Hawaii.) I grew up with this crazy kind of confidence in who I was and what I could do, mostly I assume because of the collective power of love from family that I had behind me, and I'm starting to guess that might actually be pretty rare. </div>
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My grandparents have this tree in their back yard. I'm not sure what kind it is, but it is the perfect climbing tree. My cousins and I scratched our names into that tree so many years ago I can't even remember doing it. I climbed that tree daily for years. First thing after we arrived in Mesa, just to see if I still could, I scrambled up that thing and guess what? I could! </div>
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Guess what else: Teaching your kid to climb a tree is a joy I never thought to expect. And then to watch that kid climb up that tree so quickly and confidently, and to watch him spend a few minutes up there just scoping things out + having himself a little think? That right there is the ultimate heaven.</div>
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Not much has changed after all these years, even though <i>so much</i> has changed in my family since I was a kid. But the pieces of the puzzle are all still there. The same old churches, the same old pools, the same old houses . . . even if we don't live in them anymore. There are still Lovin dogs everywhere. Dogs! Still all mostly insane + named after Disney characters and I still can't keep track of them all. And of course there is still the ever-important sausage-y chihuahua living at my grandpa's house, this one is named Minnie. Minnie hides in the sofa once things get loud at grandpa Lovin's house, as is customary among Lovin chihuahuas.</div>
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Thankfully, things <i>still</i> get mad loud at Grandpa Lovin's house.</div>
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Though maybe not as frequently as they used to.</div>
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Sandy is still always at the piano, still writing songs and teaching them to her people, still accompanying that classic Lovin voice: solid + steady, just a little bit wavy. We all still sit in the living room together just to listen, and every now and then when our talking becomes too loud we are still told to "shh or get out of here!"</div>
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The Westerns are still always on, always always <i>always</i> on. John Wayne still looks like my grandpa to me. Campfire cowboy songs will probably always be the soundtrack to my childhood. Those old beat up cowboy hats of grandpa's are still hanging out on top of all sorts of weird things--lamps + bedposts + bedside tables--all over my grandparents' room, only now that room is just my grandpa's. That's not my favorite thing to consider.</div>
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Arizona sunsets are still absolutely hideous. ;)</div>
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Those photos are straight out of the iPhone camera. Good gravy. So ugly. And the Diving Lady (now renamed The Diving Gini (long story)), still lights up every night as she dives into her tiny neon pool. </div>
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That old house two blocks over from my grandparents house? Still feels like I could peek in that window and see my old white daybed. </div>
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Orange groves still freak me the eff out, because of the scorpions. Thankfully "bad people in groves who want to sell me drugs" is no longer something I worry about too much? (Where did I even get that one?)</div>
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But here is what I really want to remember about this trip to Arizona, and about this family I'm lucky enough to be part of. We'll start at the beginning. One of my uncles died a few years ago. He had three children I'd only known from photos, who for various reasons hadn't been part of the family for a very long time. They were always sort of <i>there </i>though, just the same, trapped for eternity as tiny little kids in the giant family portrait hung on the wall in the living room. </div>
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That Saturday at grandma's funeral as all us grandkids were singing Grandma's Song (my aunt Sandy wrote it for us to sing at my grandma's mother's funeral 20 some odd years ago), I noticed in the back of the room four faces that I just knew. I <i>knew</i> I knew them, though I couldn't for the life of me figure out <i>how</i>. After the funeral was over as we all funneled out the door we were able to track them down. And then! There they were! It was them! Our long lost cousins, those same baby features now on adult bodies, with us for the very first time in <i>decades</i>. And the healing that got to happen that night as they joined us for a movie in the backyard!</div>
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All because of a little lady named Cherrill who had the power to make family the most important thing in the world, no matter the situation, no matter how long you've been away. </div>
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When you're one of us, you're one of us. And not just because our gene pool tends to spit out cookie cutters of each other, making finding a Lovin in a crowd about as easy as spotting a needle in a needle store. :) </div>
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I'm so grateful for my people, and for the tiny, soft spoken woman who made it all happen. She was a tether. And a huge force in a very small shell. In her honor, I hope to pick up where she left off and try a little harder to put my family first--all of them--and to remember who I am, and to remember the wonderful legacy I've been given. I've been given a legacy of love. A lot of a lot of love. </div>
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Nataliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13698804808966036834noreply@blogger.com18