Blah, blah, blah.

(I have all of these racing thoughts today. I'll just run with it.)

Mike said a five-syllable word in Sunday school today. Five. I counted, on my fingers, while looking at friend Suzi like Who is this guy that I married?! I forget what the word was, but Mike let me look up the definition on his iPhone after giving him a look of total bewilderment & I was still left a little confused. He's a smarty pants, my husband. 

Church was the best ever this morning. I needed it. Prayers were answered, even over the noise coming from my grumbling tummy. I just knew that all of this abstract gospel stuff is really so tangible. I counted all of my blessings & wrote them down. I realized that I have at least three of those cards to write. Have you ever gotten one of those? I got my first one in 6th grade, when a mom told me that she was grateful that I made an effort to be a good friend to her painfully shy daughter. I got another one a few years ago when a sweet woman in our ward told me how much she loved to hear me play the piano, which meant a lot because I was really just so tired of doing it. I think that life is too short to not tell people that they did a good thing for you, that they made an impact, that they gave you precisely what you needed at the exact moment when it was most vital, that they were representative of something bigger. Plus, I really love cards. I have a box full of them, just waiting to be sent. 

I cooked dinner in my kitchen for the first time today. I almost cried from frustration. It is small. Really, really small. I had to take the serving bowls, pitcher & bin of towels off of the top of the fridge so that I could get the jasmine rice in the cupboard above. I chopped potatoes on the step stool. The fruit basket had to sit on the windowsill while the stove was going. Oh - & the fruit basket also doubles as the strainer, because my favorite fruit basket doesn't fit on my counter. We had vegetarian Thai Curry instead of Chicken Thai Curry because there was nowhere to put our George Foreman grill - & actually, we couldn't even find it. I unloaded the dishwasher & realized that I have to close it before I put things away in the other cupboard. I know I should be grateful to have a kitchen. Period. I know some people don't have warm water, a gas stove, a refrigerator, or even a dishwasher. But me, in my time of self-pity? I need more counterspace. I need more shelving. I need one of those wood-thingys to put over my stove so that I can make a respectable sandwich. I need an external spice rack since my cupboards don't have room for anything else at all. I need to go to Ikea, but I really don't want to make the trek all the way to Brooklyn via subway & bus, just to pay to have my purchases delivered to me because they're too big/heavy/awkward for me to schlepp back by myself on the subway with people glaring at me because I'm taking up too much room. Oh. I locked myself in, too. In the kitchen. We have a glass door, & it turns out that it doesn't quite open from the inside (remember: 1927). I sat there, marinating in the smell of curry, banging on the windows until Mike woke up from his nap in our bedroom & rescued me from our 20 square-foot kitchen. 

I met a woman this week at Butter Lane while waiting for my cupcake. I had my camera slung over my shoulder & we got into a long conversation about photography after she asked for my advice on purchasing a DSLR for an upcoming personal trip. She shoots film, for a travel magazine, but has never shot digital. I told her that half the time I get it wrong & have to adjust & do it over again, & that I just didn't know how I'd do with actual film. She responded kindly by telling me - more or less - that I'm a crappy photographer because I can't shoot film & that I'm missing the entire point - the process. And that my photos would be so much more beautiful if I didn't have such a terrible need for instant gratification. Oh well. I wasn't really offended, more just shocked. I'm not trying to get published in National Geographic or even AM New York. I'm grateful for my digital camera, & for my massive memory card that allows me to take a bazillion photos of the really random things that I do.  Every so often I get one that I like, & I'm okay with that.

I'm doing a big photo wall in my living room. Well, photos + some others things. Organized chaos, we'll say, on the big wall behind our couch. I'll swap out a few photos, but I just need to get it up first. I'll stay up all night finishing it if I have to - the frames, that is. The photos can wait. 

I'm trying to be a better friend. In general. Everyone needs a friend, right? I think so. Mike & I asked a couple out at church today. A dinner date, just the four of us, because we really like them (& hope they really like us). We're okay with the fact that they're almost 30 years older than us. We should just all be friends, I think. Even if we didn't grow up watching the same cartoons.

This is my 1,445th post. That's a bit ridiculous, no? I hit a blogging depression again today, after another mean-spirited comment found it's way over. How come adults still haven't learned to play nice together in the sandbox? It's not rocket science. I tried to get into a deep psychological discussion with Mike about why I even blog in the first place (or why I have a public blog, subject to scrutiny from total strangers), & that just didn't go very far. I think it's all a bit too trivial for him, & his eyes always glaze over when I reference women who have seemingly forgotten their husband's actual name, or when I talk about NieNie's progress like she's my old roommate from BYU (What is NieNie? he asks). This little space started as a way to stay connected with my family who are all out west. Blah, blah, blah. But the fact of the matter is, my mom & my sister (+ a sister-in-law) are the only ones in my massive family who even read this, so I guess I failed in that department - although you certainly can't fault my efforts. I guess I blog because I'm just a total narcissist, then. 

That word is only three syllables, by the way (nar-ci-ssist). I tried.