Musings

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Some Thoughts On QUIET

I’ve been looking forward to reading Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking since it was released.  But I had to wait awhile, because there was a looooooong holds queue at the library.  Apparently there are a lot of introverts in Fairfax County, and we all have library cards.

It took me a long time to recognize and embrace my introvert tendencies.  As the child of two very extroverted parents and the product of a school system that pushed group work and socialization, I got used to “faking extrovert” at a young age.  By the time I was in high school, I had completely internalized the “Must be bubbly and chatty!” compulsion, but it never stopped feeling like work.  Hard work.  Especially in college.  Every time I left a party early or skipped a social event to read, I mentally berated myself for being boring.

Still, I was shocked when I took the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (for a class in college) and my results came back “INTJ.”  I had been faking extrovert for so long that I had even convinced myself that I was an extrovert – just a really, really bad one – so seeing that “I” for “Introvert” was a big surprise.  Even knowing that there was a reason I preferred books to keggers and downtime to party time, though, I still continued to push myself out the door to the frat parties.  I’m a slow learner, I guess.  It wasn’t until I started dating hubby – who is decidedly introverted – that I experienced the sweet, sweet relief of not having to force myself to loud parties every weekend.  We bonded over dinners out as a duo and long quiet hikes in the state park around our campus.  It was nice to finally feel like I could relax and stop trying so hard.

Of course, that didn’t mean that I completely embraced my introverted personality.  I went into law – a profession that would seem to attract introverts but requires a certain degree of extroversion if you want to build a client portfolio.  I’ve forced myself to get involved in community activities as part of my career-building efforts.  But networking and schmoozing do not come naturally to me.  My dad was shocked when I told him I hated networking.  “But you’re so good at it!” he said, shaking his head.  I explained that, yes, I am pretty good at networking – that’s the result of a LOT of hard work and practice and making myself do things (like attend big events) that don’t necessarily appeal to me and even stress me out.  (And I learned a technique that changed my networking life: zero in on the other uncomfortable-looking introvert standing in the corner and latch onto them.)  I won’t stop forcing myself to interact with people, but I don’t  expect it to ever come as easily to me as formulating an argument or a tackling a research problem does.

Quiet is a book for and about people like me.  It starts by explaining that our modern society is set up to reward extroverts.  From an early age, kids in school are socialized in the most extroverted ways possible.  Desks are arranged in pods, and group work is pushed at all education levels.  I always hated group work, mainly because I was usually the only one in the group actually doing any work.  My group government project in high school slapped me with a C because the teacher said it looked like it was done by one person.  It was: me.  In college, my International Human Resource Management professor assigned a group project but let me opt out and work alone… which led to an “A+++ I can’t believe you did this by yourself!!!” on my paper.  To which I said: it was easy when I didn’t have to pull three other people along with me.

Introverts are considered unappealingly shy, even anti-social, while extroverts are favored.  But introverts aren’t necessarily shy and anti-social – I don’t consider myself shy, although it takes me awhile to warm up to new people and I don’t care for large groups.  And while I might prefer a book to a big party, I’m not anti-social.  I have a group of close friends that I love spending time with, and I have a great marriage.  There’s NOTHING wrong with my personality.

Quiet goes on to discuss the biology of introversion, how introverts might train themselves to excel in the professional world, and how to love an introverted partner or raise an introverted child.  It’s a fascinating mix of social science, anecdotes, and encouragement for those of us who need our downtime more than most.  Some have criticized the book for being too “rah rah introverts!” but I say it’s about darn time someone cheered us.  We’re not all creepy loners.  Just because my perfect Friday night is a glass of wine and a book, or a quiet dinner with my husband, doesn’t make me weird at all.  It makes me… well, me.  It’s just who I am.

Read it: Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, by Susan Cain (not an affiliate link)

(Image Source)

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Creative Consumption

Sometimes it seems like all we do is buy and consume, buy and consume.  We burn gas on our long, stressful commutes.  Pick up takeout for lunch and bolt it down at our desks while we stare at our preferred news outlet’s website.  Grab a pizza on the way home – more food that we took no part in creating – and spend the evening staring at the television, letting messages sink into our brain without any help or hindrance from us.  As the economy spirals further out of control and the world teeters on the brink of complete insanity every day – and the bad news, always the bad news – it’s easy to understand why people want to create things with their hands.

There has been a resurgence in handicraft.  DIY blogs are exploding in popularity as people look for ways to save money and create a personal space in their homes.  The popularity of crafts like knitting and of art like photography is soaring, and it seems everyone and their mom wants to grow a garden – wants to get their hands dirty and work the earth and nurture something that wouldn’t be there without them.  When you spend all day consuming, sometimes you just want to create.  You want to feel real and connected and grounded again, by using your hands as they were meant to be used.

There are plenty of ways that I can be creative.  I cook – healthy meals and snacks for hubby and myself – and bake yummy treats to fatten up hubby’s coworkers.  (I don’t think they mind.)  I write, both here and offline (in journals and other projects).  I do decorating projects at home, working on making personal space for hubby and me to unwind and relax.  And, although I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here before, I knit.  (I tend to run hot and cold on knitting and I usually lose focus before completing a project, which is why I don’t blog about my creations – they are usually unfinished and/or riddled with mistakes.)

Yet I also do plenty of consuming.  As a reader, I spend hours each week downloading messages from a printed page to my brain.  I don’t tend to be one for zoning in front of the television for large chunks of each evening, but that doesn’t mean I’m not taking in more information than I’m putting out.  I read, on average, two books each week.  I don’t write two books’ worth of blog posts each week, for sure.  I’m wordy – but not that wordy.  So my choice of consumption methods might be a little more old-school (flipping pages, rather than channels).  Does that make me any less of a consumer of information?  Well, no.

Still, I don’t feel that by reading as voraciously as I do, I’m sacrificing my place in the creative process.  After mulling it over, I’ve concluded that I view certain acts of consumption – like reading a book (which I didn’t write), listening to a song (which I didn’t record) or playing a piano sonata (which I didn’t compose) – as acts of creativity.  When I read a book, yes, I take in the messages that the author is attempting to convey; or at least I do if I’m reading closely.  But I don’t approach a book in a vacuum.  I bring my own perspectives to each reading experience.  I endow characters with personality points and physical traits that might not be written in black and white, but that come from my own experience and fit with the character as I have read him or her.  I relate to books in a way that is completely unique because it’s based on my own accumulated knowledge over 30 years.  You do the same thing, when you read.

You might read a book and have a completely different response than I would have, because we’re approaching the same book from different perspectives, different world-views.  And that is creative.  That is adding to the information out there in the world – especially when we talk about our perspectives.  But even if I don’t talk about a book – even if I just pause and think a new thought, and never voice it, that’s still creative.  That’s still a thought that wouldn’t have been thought if I hadn’t opened this particular book and applied my own personality and experience to the words inside.

It’s not just reading, either.  When you listen to a song (pop, classical, or otherwise) or look at a painting or photograph, your experience (your consumption) of that art is informed by your own experience and personality.  So you’re not the musician or the painter – you’re still part of the creative process; you’re the “appreciator.”  I simply can’t view myself or anyone else as dumb information receptacles.  My understanding and appreciation of a piece of art or music (whether I’m listening to or playing the music – it’s still someone else’s score) is unique to me.  Without me, it would be a different piece.

And that makes all the difference to me.  I can curl up with a book on my sofa and feel like I’m still creating something.  I may not be working with my hands, cooking or baking or gardening, but I’m still creating.  I’m creating feelings, experiences, and unique perspectives – me and my books.  Or music, or paintings, or what-have-you.  By reading/viewing/listening critically and thinking intelligently, by letting myself become emotionally involved in a plot or with a character, I am actively participating in the act of creating.

Do you view reading (or other information consumption) as a creative act?

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Sister Lit

Sister Lit World Headquarters: the Jane Austen Centre, Bath, UK

Last month I read The Weird Sisters, a debut novel by Eleanor Brown.  In many ways, it followed a formula.  Sisters butt heads but love each other at the same time.  (Well, to be honest, the Andreas sisters of The Weird Sisters did more head-butting… metaphorical, of course… than loving.  But there was some loving.)  As I was reading The Weird Sisters, I started to think a lot about that literary sub-genre that I fondly call “sister lit.”

Sister lit – the primary example of which, in my mind, is Little Women – seems to be everywhere.  Anyone with an appetite for family sagas likes to read about the heart-warming and often heart-wrenching relationship between sisters.  I expect that there are plenty of women out there who say to themselves, “Oh, I’m definitely Jo.  And my sister is Amy.”  Or amend that as you will.

I can’t relate to this.  You see, I don’t have a sister.  Despite repeated requests – ahem, Mom – all I got was a brother.  Now, don’t get me wrong – I love my brother.  He’s a smart, funny guy and we have a lot in common (although he does some things – like shark diving – that you couldn’t pay me enough to try).  He loves to read, travel, ski and make sarcastic comments, all hobbies that we share.  And, as an added bonus, he never stole my clothes.  I may have borrowed his flannel shirts on occasion, though.  (So soft!  Sorry, bro.)

But I’ll admit I’ve always been a little bit jealous of people who have sisters – especially when they are also best friends.  I’ve come close to that relationship; I joined a sorority full of smart, funny women; made some extremely close female friends at every stage of my life; and married a guy with two lovely sisters that I adore.  As much as I cherish my sisters-in-law, sorority sisters, and girlfriends, I know I am never going to get to experience what it’s like to have a biological sister.  (Good and bad stuff alike.)  That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy and appreciate books like Little Women or The Weird Sisters, or the opportunity to live vicariously through them.

In fact, sometimes I think that maybe I enjoy those books more as a result of not having a sister – because diving into the relationships between Jane and Lizzy Bennet of Pride and Prejudice… or Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy of Little Women… or Rose, Bean and Cordy of The Weird Sisters… gives me the opportunity to see what life is like inside the head of a woman who has been given the gift of a sister.  But I sometimes do wonder if sister lit books would resonate differently with me if I had a sister and could draw on that relationship to inform my reading.  Alas, I’ll never know.

If only I could find a good grown-up book (and no, The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe doesn’t count) about siblings of the opposite sex.  Maybe I’ll write one.  Dan, you have been warned.

Do you have a sister?  Do you enjoy “sister lit” more because you have that real-life relationship to draw upon?

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Staying Warm

I was a little bit surprised by my first winter in D.C.  I moved down here because I thought it would be warm.  And it is – most of the year.  I can run outside and hubby can grill almost all year ’round.  But winter still exists here.  We get our occasional Snowmaggeddons that make national news (which is hilarious to me – it’s SNOW, folks) but mostly it’s a long, grey, chilly stretch of days leading from the bonanza of Christmas to the beginning of allergy season.

But I like winter.  I honestly do; it may come from having grown up in a place where winter arrived with a vengeance and stayed for months.  You had to learn to accept it, even embrace it, or you were destined to be miserable for long stretches of the year.  (There’s a well-known joke that there are four seasons in upstate New York: almost winter, winter, still winter, and construction.  I wish I knew who to attribute that to – I heard it from my brother.)  That’s why we ski and skate and build igloos.  You need to do something to pass the time and stay warm.  Of course it’s not as bad in D.C., but it’s still winter, and I’m still trying to stay warm.

Here’s what’s keeping me warm this winter:

~Tea!  Of course!  Especially Mariage Freres Bolero and Rouge Bourbon Vanille from R’s stash (thanks, R!) and Etoile de France from my own.

~Smartwool socks.  They are the warmest, cuddliest socks ever made and they keep my feet completely dry and toasty on winter hikes with hubby.  Bonus points because my freakishly tiny feet fit into a kids’ size medium.  Half price, BOO-YAH!

~Downton Abbey.  Hubby and I are watching on Blu-Ray and LOVING Season 2!  I look forward all day to nights wrapped up in a blanket, nestled next to hubby on the couch, watching the Crawleys’ dramatic lives unfold.

~The prospect of curling up with a good book always warms me up.  Next month I have plans to revisit some old favorites, like the Emily of New Moon series by L.M. Montgomery, Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons, and I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith.  And I’m sure I’ll spend at least one winter afternoon under a blanket with a cup of tea and Pride and Prejudice.  It’s basically a winter must for me.

How are you staying warm this winter?

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This Week I’m Loving…

~My wooden “read” sign from William Dohman, available here.  I keep it in the seating alcove in my bedroom, and it makes me smile every time I look up from my book to see it sitting there on my shelf, reminding me of my favorite hobby (like I could ever forget).

~Cruising TripAdvisor.  An idea for 2012 travel is slowly crystallizing.  I’ve run it by hubby and he likes it too.  We’re not quite ready to buy plane tickets, but we’re getting close.  Spoiler alert: it involves Europe.  (Well, obviously.  I’m still acclimating to the idea that I’m a grownup and I can go to Europe if I want to.)  And it’s a country neither of us has visited yet.  So that rules out England, Scotland, Wales, France and Germany.  Let the guessing commence.

~The fact that I can finally run again!  I’ve had a pretty painful ankle issue for the past few weeks, but a combination of rest and an ankle brace has finally worked its magic and I’m back to pounding the pavement, including in the inaugural “Run Your Heart Out 5K” in Reston, Virginia yesterday.  I’m going slowly, and not very far – I’m trying to avoid aggravating it.  Being injured is no fun at all.

~Earl Grey Creme from Teavana and Blueberry Vanilla Cream from Culinary Teas – the perfect delicious way to start each morning off.  And for evenings, Rouge Bourbon Vanille from Mariage Freres (thanks, R!) or Gingerbread Rooibos from Capital Teas.

~The song “Letter Never Sent,” by R.E.M.  I’m always loving R.E.M.  This week I’m listening to this one on repeat, the version from “Live at the Olympia.”  I particularly love the beginning: “It’s been pretty simple so far.  Vacation in Athens is calling me.  Knock, knock, knock on wood.”  So good to go back to the old favorites.

~Lavender hand creme from Cornwall Soap Box in St. Ives, England.  The winter air is drying out the backs of my hands something fierce, but this hand creme is the perfect antidote.  Silky smooth, not greasy, and smells divine.  I’m trying to ration because I have no idea when I’ll be back to Cornwall to buy more.  Luckily I also have a tube of delicious Oliviers & Co. organic hand creme that R bought for me in NYC.  Mmmmmm, lucky me!

What are you loving this week?

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Racing Myself

I’m not a fast runner.  I’ll never win a race.  Not even my age group.  Not even close.  And when I was younger, if you told me that I would have been signing up for road races for FUN, I’d have laughed. in. your. face.  I was the kid who finished last in the Great Pumpkin Race in kindergarten (but had all of the big fourth graders cheering for me), who hated, and I do mean HATED, Field Day.  When I started running for fitness in high school, I recall a neighbor asking me if I was training for the Freihofer (a local women’s 5K), which I emphatically denied.  No, you would not see me toeing the start line, even at a low-pressure local race.  Not for me.

Then 9/11 happened.  I was in college, and one of the campus sororities decided to organize a 5K race to benefit the Red Cross.  The race would go through the Cornell Plantations, up a hideously steep hill three times, and would involve half the Greek system.  I signed up along with about 50 of my sorority sisters – the organizers may have been from a rival sorority, and we may have belted out our house anthem “String of Pearls” (yes, really) while walking past their house late at night, but we knew how to come together where it counted.  So we ran together in a big herd.  It was a fun day and for a good cause, but not a game-changer.  I still wouldn’t have raced under normal circumstances.

Nine years later, I made a New Year’s resolution to rediscover my love of running.  I started doing the Couch to 5K program without any goal of actually doing a race.  Why should I?  It’s just about exercise, about getting fresh air and moving my body.  But as I progressed with the program I started to want to test myself at a 5K race.  I picked an easygoing community 5K and lined up with my bib number pinned to my shirt on July 4, 2010.  Just for fun.  And you know what?  It was fun.  It was hard – it was a hot summer’s day in Virginia and there was no shade whatsoever on the course.  I ran my little heart out and nearly passed out at the finish line, and I was proud.  I’d left it all out there on the road, and I was happy with my time.  And with the tech tee I got as part of my race goody bag.  (Wait, you’re telling me that they give you clothes?  And all you have to do is run?  How did I not know about this racket?)

That 5K led to another 5K – an autumn race with my dad, on the same exact course.  And then I ran an 8K turkey trot with my sister-in-law G by my side.  Then a 10K and a 10-miler, and then a half marathon.  I was having the time of my life.  Crossing the finish line after (slowly) running 13.1 miles and having a volunteer hang a medal around my neck… Well, suffice it to say that I’ve never considered sports to be my thing.  Knowing that I could run 13.1 miles (with occasional walking breaks) – that was ground-breaking for me.  That was me broadcasting that I didn’t need to accept the narrative that others handed to me about who I am or what I can do.  I didn’t need to succumb to the “You’re bookish, not sporty,” message that I’d been handed all my life.  I could be bookish and sporty – if that’s what I wanted.

But the half marathon wasn’t all good times.  When I crossed the finish line, sure, I was proud of myself and I took it as confirmation that I could be whomever I wanted to be.  But there was a seed of doubt that was planted deeper than the triumph.  I let it take root there a few weeks before the big 13.1, and although I completed the race, I was hurting inside.  I was having a hard time believing in my own ability – even at the very moment when I should have been proving it to myself.  I was grinning on the outside, thanking volunteers, hi-fiving kids by the side of the race course and giving the thumbs-up to other runners… but inside, I was torn up by doubt and confusion.  I didn’t really believe I could be a long-distance runner, even while I was running the longest distance of my life.  I was letting other people’s opinions dictate who I was.  And I hated it.

After I crossed that finish line, I took five months off running.  Oh, I was recovered and ready to run – physically – after two weeks or so.  But mentally, and emotionally, I was paralyzed.  I couldn’t lace up the shoes and head out the door.  I even cut off my D-tag from my running shoes – normally, I would leave the D-tag on as motivation until the next race.  But I couldn’t stand to look at the D-tag from my half marathon, because I felt like a fake.  I felt as though I had somehow cheated – even though every step of that race, I took with my own two feet.

Fast-forward to Thanksgiving, 2011.  Several people asked me if I was planning to run in the local Turkey Trot.  I had no idea what to say.  Frankly, I wasn’t trained for it, and I knew it.  I was convinced that even a low-key 5K was beyond my abilities.  The audacious girl who dared herself to complete a half marathon, less than a year after her first real road race, was nowhere to be seen.  I just wanted to hide under my blankets.  I contemplated “forgetting” to sign up or making conflicting plans to hike with friends instead.  But I went.  I dressed in my warmest, most expensive tech gear, both because it was freeeeeezing and because I felt I needed it to convince myself that I wasn’t a joke.  I lined up, did the best I could and was reasonably pleased to have finished only four minutes slower than my best 5K time.  Still, my heart wasn’t in it and I just didn’t really care.

After Thanksgiving I promised myself that I was finally going to quiet that inner voice, the one that told me I wasn’t good enough, I was worthless, I was phony.  And I would get back to running form.  I missed running, and I should never have let the seeds of self-doubt take root the way I did.  That was weakness.  I’d always been proud of my mental strength – I even won awards for “mental toughness” at tennis camp – and I had willingly relinquished that strength.  So I decided.  I would not be weak anymore; I would not be afraid anymore.  I would be the strong person that I knew I could be, and pull those doubt weeds up by the roots.

It started slowly.  Workout DVDs, building my endurance again.  One day, I laced up my sneakers and went out for two miles.  I cried on that run as I tried to frame the narrative of how the last six months had gone so horribly wrong for me.  I imagined myself telling the doubters that they were wrong, that I was a strong and good and deserving person and that my choices were valid choices.  And I told the unhappy person in my head that she was good, she was worthwhile, and that everything would be okay in the end.  I let go of the sadness I had felt all summer, imagined it as a ribbon trailing behind me as I ran, and I dropped it on the asphalt of my neighborhood.  Then I imagined weeds of doubt growing up through cracks in the street, and I stamped violently on them.  Gave myself permission to feel sad, but promised myself that everything was going to work out and that I’d silence the doubting voices, and this was the first step.  The first run of the rest of my running life, and I wouldn’t be beat down anymore.

With a few more runs under my belt, I opened up my email one morning and saw a notice of a new 5K race for Valentine’s weekend.  I get those emails all the time, from various local running stores and clubs, but this was the first race since my half marathon that I actually wanted to run.  I’d been thinking about running a race anyway and wondering if I could get back into half marathon shape by the fall – and this could be the first step.  Oh, I so wanted to be on that start line – I wanted it more than I’d ever wanted to run another race.  So I registered.  “Only” a 5K, sure, but just the act of registering felt like a triumph – audacious, like I was in 2010… not cowed, like I was in 2011.

I’ll be on that starting line on February 12th.  I’ll be wearing a bright pink shirt and a giant smile.  I can’t wait.  I’m back!

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Said at Starbucks

Jaclyn: “Hello!”
Starbucks employee: “Hot tea?”
Jaclyn: “Wow.  Yes, please!”
Starbucks employee: “Refresh?”
Jaclyn: “Actually, Awake, please.”
Starbucks employee: “Where do you work?”
{Starbucks employee #2 correctly names client I’m working for.}
Jaclyn: “I’m here a lot, huh?”

(Let it be noted for the record that I’m more of an indie coffeehouse girl.  But at present, Starbucks is my only option, and I’m finding it hilarious that they now recognize me.  And know what I’m going to order before I’ve even opened my mouth.)

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Green

I was flipping through old magazines a few nights ago, and – I don’t know what brought this to mind, but – I started to wonder what my favorite color says about me.

I love cool colors.  Blues, purples, greens.  When I was younger I wore red or pink every day, but eventually (age brings wisdom) I realized it looked terrible on me, and that I wasn’t made to wear warm colors in general. (A friend bought one of those “What’s your season?” books and told me that with my skin tone I couldn’t be anything but a spring, and I really took it to heart.)  I started wearing more and more cool colors, and I fell in love with them – especially green.  I have green eyes, and I like that wearing green brings out my eye color.  But I also love green because to me it means nature – fresh grass, lush trees in mid-summer, and vibrant hills.  There’s nothing that brings me greater peace than being outside surrounded by the silence of the trees and the deep green grass.  Green is the color I associate with hiking on a hot summer’s day – one of my favorite things.  I love blue and purple, too – purple was my favorite color as a child and I still like it, and I am attracted to the peace and serenity of blue.  But there’s no color for me like green, with its connotations of nature and summer.

According to Care2… “The color of harmony and balance, Green symbolizes hope, renewal and peace, and is usually liked by the gentle and sincere. Greens are generally frank, community-minded people, fairly sociable but preferring peace at any price. Green people can be too self-effacing, modest and patient, so they may get exploited by others. They are usually refined, civilized and reputable.”

I’ll take it.  Actually, it seems about right.  I’m a Libra, so I put great stock into harmony and balance… I do value peace and serenity… and I can get walked on at times.  But no matter what, I’ll always love green.  I’ll always catch my breath at the sight of a carpet of vibrant green grass.  I’ll never feel more at-peace than when staring up into the branches of a tree in full green garb.  Yes, I do love green.

What’s your favorite color?  What does your color say about you?

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2012!

I’ll be honest.  2011 was not my best year.  There were some good times – an amazing trip to England, for one.  (I realize I owe you pictures and recaps.  They’re coming, starting this week.)  And plenty of girl time with my bestie, a full year of living in our house, and plenty of love and fun with my hubby (including celebrating 10 years together).  So it’s not like the year was a complete wash.  But I spent way too much time being discouraged and grouchy.  Some of that was due to reasons outside my control, but I certainly contributed to my own months-long funk.  I need to remember that I may not be able to control my circumstances, or others’ actions, but I sure as heck can control my own responses.

So, yes, I’m happy to see the back of 2011 and I’m hoping for a better year in 2012.  Bye, 2011!  Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!

If you know me in real life, you may know that I absolutely L.O.V.E. New Year’s.  I’m a sucker for beginnings, what can I say?  I love seeing that fresh expanse of year, stretched in front of me, just waiting to reveal surprises and new experiences and, yes, challenges too.  I have a thing for clean starts.  I also like Mondays.  Yep, I’m completely weird.  And while I know that you don’t need to wait for a particular day on the calendar to change anything you don’t like about your life, I still live for those “New Year, New You” magazine articles this time of year… for shiny new goals… fresh, healthy foods that are piling up in my supermarket to help the resolution crowd eat their greens… That stuff just really revs my engine.

Yeah, to say I’m excited about 2012 would be an understatement.  Between being pretty disappointed in 2011 overall (trip to England notwithstanding, of course) and my general New Year’s perkiness, I’m in an advanced state of goal-making giddiness this year.  And I do have one big goal, and one big dream, and I’m hoping that 2012 will be the year for both.  But… I’m going to do something very uncharacteristic for a blogger and not tell you what they are.  I know, I know.  We bloggers, as a group, like to share.  But my big goal and my big dream (and they are two separate, but related things) are very personal, and very close to my heart, and I’m not in a place where I want to put them out in the world.

How about some smaller goals, though?  I can’t do a New Year’s post without sharing some resolutions!  So here goes, my goals for this year:

BLOG: Clean up categories and redesign blog to look less like a strictly-food blog and more like the creative space I envision when I write here.

HOME: Finish painting!  And plant a gigantic vegetable garden.

FITNESS: I’d love to run another half marathon, if circumstances are right.

READING: Plow through my to-read list and make some headway on reading the books I already own.

LIFE: Wake up smiling and live each day with exuberance.

Enjoy your celebrations as you ring in the new year!  What are your goals for 2012?

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Get Merry

Happy day-after-Christmas, friends!  I hope that everyone who was celebrating yesterday had a wonderful day.  Hubby and I spent Christmas with my in-laws in upstate New York and it was a lovely, relaxing, fun weekend.  We…

  • Had lunch downtown at a favorite red-checkered-tablecloths type of Italian restaurant and then walked off the lunch while checking out changes to the downtown area since hubby lived in this city.
  • Visited my in-laws’ newly built cabin for the afternoon of Christmas Eve – six adults and two dogs in a one room cabin (okay, granted, one of the dogs stayed outside) was cozy indeed.  Good thing we all like each other!
  • Went to midnight mass with hubby, sister-in-law and hubby’s aunt, while my father-in-law lent his voice to the magnificent choir.  It was gorgeous.  Soaring cathedral ceilings and voices mingled with incense and candlelight.
  • Went to the Christmas Day service with the entire family, then to brunch with the extended family on a bright and sunny afternoon.
  • Chatted with my family across the state, then opened gifts with the in-laws.  I was gifted with – among other things – a lovely necklace from hubby and a big box o’ tea from my in-laws.  Oh, do these people ever know me!

Merry Christmas!