Kickin' it in the Sunshine State

I can sit on the couch in my apartment with a blanket, socks, and hot mug of tea while the thermostat reads 75 and still manage to be cold.

It must be hereditary because my dad's brother is the same way.
Which is why he moved to Florida.

Guess who loved his niece enough to let her flee from the blustery cold of Michigan for a week and stay at his house in the land so aptly dubbed the "Sunshine State"? From the Saturday before Christmas until the Saturday following, I relished in the shining skies and balmy breezes of coastal Florida. It was a glorious vacation inside of a vacation as I relaxed with my family, read books, rode a bike near the beach, and didn't even think about coats or boots. That is, until my homegoing plane landed in northern Indiana and my paradisaical bubble of Floridian bliss was frozen over and shattered to pieces by the terrible snowstorm raging outside the airport. Welcome home! Why does this greeting for a home-bound traveler feel more like a slap in the face than a warm loving hug? It's okay, I guess. The Midwest is appealing in an acquired taste kind of way, and those of us who have lived here for our entire lives know better than to be offended at apparent insults.

The tropical climate of eastern Florida is the perfect place to lose your heart and fall in love.
My heart has no chance of ever finding its way back to my chest, as it was irrevocably and unmistakably stolen by a 16 month old little girl. My baby cousin is quite possibly the most beautiful and adorable miniature human on this planet. Of course I say this without any hint of bias. We had never met before, but by the end of the first day, she was calling me momma and almost exclusively wanted me to hold her. This became problematic when it was time for me to leave, but her despair upon parting with her new, honorary mother was quickly appeased with the lure of Goldfish snack crackers. At least now I know my true value is slightly less than a 1.5 ounce bag of processed bovine by-product in glibly smiling piscine shapes.
We all have those people in our lives. You know, "those people." The ones that shove pictures of their grandchildren or dogs or prize winning yachts in your face and expect you to ooh and ah over them until they are sufficiently satisfied with your reaction. Alas, I now understand what compels them to do so, as I have joined the ranks and sent a picture of my cousin to most of my close friends demanding that they tell me how cute she is. Well, now that my reputation is established, I might as well subject you to the same treatment.

I have always loved the beach, the ocean... really anything to do with water, ships, or pirate stories. If I up and turned into a mermaid one day, that would be just fine. Christmas Eve morning, my uncle and I biked out to the ocean and watched the sunrise over the water. My eyes filled with the myriad of golden morning colors straining against the bonds of their clever cloudy captors. My ears filled with the even progression of sound from the grumbling of the waves to the tinkling of the foam like so many thousands of tiny silver bells. And my heart filled with the beauty of the scene, overflowing and sweeping me along in wild fancies and nautical daydreams. Many people wish for a white Christmas to celebrate Jesus' birth, but I wouldn't mind having a Christmas just like this one every year - celebrating my Savior's birth through the glory of the sunrise on the ocean.

I've always loved the church service of carols and candlelight the night before Christmas morning. Singing is my favorite, old hymns are my favorite, and Christmas is my favorite, so the combination of the three is just great. My family that was down in Florida attended the Christmas Eve service at my aunt and uncle's small Methodist church that night, and their church had a terrific little orchestra section complementing the four-part choir that sang the carols. The whole orchestra was wonderful, but my attention was captured in particular by the first violinist. An exceedingly handsome youth who excited thoughts of romantic felicity in her mind whilst he coaxed his violin to song....whoops! I've been reading too many Jane Austen novels. Scouts honor, I tried to be attentive to the service, but it was a perfect "boy meets girl" setting and fostered my flights of fancy. He was directly down the aisle in my line of sight, we were surrounded by beautiful music and romantic candlelight, and my head was swimming with quotes from Persuasion. 
There were several logistical complications that didn't even cross my mind until afterward.
He could be married.
Or short.
Or, as I learned later, still in high school.
April's cougar tendencies strike again. Remind me to tell you that later about that time I had a crush on a sixth grader when I was seventeen years old.

In addition to babies, bike rides, and high-school-aged boys, I spent a lot of time shopping in town with my aunt and grandma, at the end of which I learned a very valuable life lesson – always leave room in your suitcase when you go somewhere because you will inevitably return with more stuff than you brought. My suitcase was lying on the floor sucking in its stomach to get the zipper closed when I started, and it gained its fair share of holiday weight over the week. There is a certain caliber of packing skills that only a college student can possess, and it took all of my packing proficiency to get that poor suitcase stuffed full and closed for the flight home. 

A great many of the stores through which we browsed were thrift stores. My love for thrifting must run in the family, because my grandmother and aunt are also well versed in the art of hunting for second-hand treasure. After all, who doesn't love buying a $70.00 brand-name shirt with the original tags still attached for only $5.50? However, every pro is usually followed by a con. For me, at least, shopping for shoes at thrift stores only serves to remind me again and again how depressingly large my feet are. Most people don't wear size Godzilla, and the rare person who does will not be quick to give up the cute shoes she can find in her size. 

As great as thrifting is, every girl loves to try on expensive clothes once in a while, so we found ourselves at the mall eventually. After strolling past window upon window of beautiful clothing designs and colors, we encountered a store front that displayed the most hideous shoes. In particular, one pair of seven inch stilettos covered in glittering punk rock spikes. My dear, sweet, 85-year-old grandmother looks me right in the eye and says in her slightly dampened New York City accent, "Why, those shoes would look lovely on you, April. I think you should get that pair."
Now I know where my sense of humor comes from. It would be an honor to be just like her when I grow old.

I love my family dearly. They are such warm, welcoming, and inviting people, and I couldn't have imagined a better way to spend my last Christmas vacation in college. Who knows? Maybe Christmas in Florida will become a yearly tradition now. Ah, one can dream...

A different kind of busy

Operation Christmas Break 2012 is in full swing.

From reading books and attending family reunions to resume writing to Christmas present gathering and wrapping, my days have been not been idle. Each minute is marked and accounted for, and I am determined that none of them should go to waste. My younger brother is also home from school - he just finished his first semester of freshman year at college. We passed briefly in the kitchen the other day, and he casually mentioned, "Ugh. I'm so bored."
Bored...what is this "bored" that he talks about? Maybe it's because this is my Senior year and my last chance to have a three-week vacation at Christmas-time (that's never gonna happen again in the post-grad world), or maybe it's because I have so many more interests and responsibilities now than I did when I was a freshman, but I can't imagine being bored when I am privileged with the time to pursue the things that I want to spend time doing.

One of my favorite things to do is play with/style my very long ginger hair. I've always prized and loved long hair on girls, to the extent that my own experimentation with short hair 6 years ago reduced me to a distraught puddle of tears for 3 days. (Any girl with long hair can testify to this...losing your hair is like losing a part of yourself) Over the summer, I knew a guy who was growing his hair out long, and nearly every day he would ask one of the girls to help him put his hair in a ponytail or hold it back in a bobby pin, frustrated that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't figure it out. That memory always makes me laugh, because it never crossed my mind that something as simple as the proper use of a hair elastic could be so confusing. In his defense, I am utterly useless when my Dad opens the hood of my Honda Accord to expose its innards and explain how they all work. My concept of a vehicle is something along the lines of: This is the money-sucking hole where gas is magically stored. Key goes here, makes car run. Brake is on the left. A crunching, popping, or squealing sound is bad.
I think I'll stick with hair.

As a college student, and especially as a senior looking ahead to graduation, money can be a little tight sometimes as I save for things that are more of a necessity than the things that are only wants. So this year, I decided to make presents for my family instead of buying them. It also occurred to me that spending money on wrapping paper is slightly pointless, so I thought of a different way to wrap gifts. The freezer section of our grocery store provides paper bags to insulate your frozen goods while you continue shopping. For years, my Dad has been collecting those bags, and we have literally hundreds of them sitting in a closet. They're not serving any other purpose, so I thought, "Let's make em useful." Saving money and re-purposing. Awesome.

Hopefully they're cute, clever, and not too tacky.

From the minute I arrived home one week ago today, I've been trying to squeeze in as much as possible into these three very short weeks until I return to school. Up at 7:00 every morning and armed with at least three cups of coffee, I swirl around my house in a whirlwhind of intense energy, triumphantly slashing each thing off of my to-do list with a vengeance. Busy, busy, busy. What is it with my addiction to busyness? Often it seems like I can't (or won't, more likely) allow myself to slow down. Even when I'm doing things that I enjoy (like reading the stack of books currently occupying my desk), the thought goes through my head that I need to finish what I'm doing so I can mark it off the list. I often use the phrase "I'd rather be busy than bored," but is that really the right attitude to have?

It's important to not waste your time. It is important to be a good steward and use it wisely. I think that is the key, though. To use my time wisely. Sometimes I think that all of my busyness is not a wise decision. The effort it takes to expend myself in doing so many different things all at once requires sacrifices. My health can flag, my friendships suffer, my time with God dwindles.
In the week before finals, I was attempting to talk on the phone with my Dad while in McConn, our coffee shop on campus. Any student knows that's a futile effort. McConn is constantly filled with people, music, and noise, and it is nearly impossible to hear a voice on the phone. I had to leave that environment and go somewhere quieter so I could give him my full attention and hear what he was trying to say. It's so hard to focus on things that are important when there are so many distractions and noises surrounding me.

New Year's Eve is still a while off, but I have a resolution to start right now. I'm asking God to help me calm it down. To breathe, say no to some opportunities, and allow myself to focus on the few with a purpose, rather than the many with no sense of direction.

Lottie, Sam, and John walked into a bookstore...

The end has come!

Yesterday was the last day of final exams, and I think a friend of mine put it best when he said, "I think I'm going to make T-shirts that say: 'I survived Fall semester 2012'." While this might not have been my most academically difficult semester, it was definitely the busiest and (I think) the most challenging as I learned and grew in so many different ways. Juggling a part-time job, senior-level coursework, 12 hour clinical rotations in Indianapolis, and a social life was more draining than I realized, and I pulled into my driveway last night thinking that a break was long overdue. 

Our school gives us three and a half weeks for Christmas holiday, and I fully intend on optimizing every minute. Most of my friends spent their first morning of vacation sleeping in. That's actually a pretty reasonable thing to do...sometimes I long for normalcy. In case this hasn't already been established, I am not what most people consider normal or rational. Most people like afternoons. Or evenings. Or Fridays. Times when it is socially acceptable to be an alert and functioning human being. I like Mondays. And mornings. I have an irrational love for mornings. I'm usually perfectly happy to be awake at 6:30. And yes, that is AM. 

I also love reading. For fun. And books. Books are fantastic.

Yeah...like I said. Not normal.

So, on my first day of vacation, I set my alarm for 7:15 (it is the first day of holiday after all, I'll let myself sleep in a little bit) and did what any self-respecting book geek with an active library card and three weeks of free time would do - I went treasure hunting in the local libraries surrounding my hometown. After gleefully prowling the aisles of three separate systems, I was not disappointed as my efforts unearthed a heaping mountain of gold. I always savor the expression on a librarian's face when I plop a stack of books on the counter and hold out my card with an almost manic grin. They might not all get read in the time I have before spring semester, especially with all the other things I've planned, but a valiant effort will be made.

Near the end of my book-hunting, my dad and I stumbled across this dusty, second-hand bookshop tucked away in one of the many street-side storefront niches that give small towns their charm and character. My heart skipped along in a joyful beat when I stepped through the door. The entire room was literally filled from floor to ceiling with books. All kinds of books - falling to pieces, fresh off the printer, well-known and accepted, obscure and unfamiliar, classics, flops, history, fiction, biographies, textbooks.

If I had opened the door to find a room full of diamonds, I would have been less ecstatic.

Why is that? What is it about books that captures the heart and tugs at the mind?
Imagine this: imagine that you had the opportunity, for a short moment, to abandon yourself and live vicariously through the thoughts, experiences, and senses of another person. Imagine that there was a way for that person's feelings, emotions, ideas, and concepts of the world to be snugly packaged in a compact form and transmitted to your brain in such a way that you understood what life looks like to them. That is what words are. That is what a book does.
Books are about communication and connection. That is what makes them so valuable. Even if a certain book never earns any awards or becomes a national best-seller, it is still important because someone somewhere took the time to write those words and put pen to paper. They are valuable because they're someone's thoughts in physical form. How powerful! Books provide people with an intimate connection, one mind to another in this human experience. Not only can that connection happen between individuals within the same generation, but it can cross generations, decades, centuries! A book that I hold in my hand is a tangible link to the past - I can be close to a person that I've never met before, who might not even live while I'm living!

Part of the reason I was so captivated by the used bookstore was because I am grateful that someone was making the effort to preserve all of those words. All those thousands of words on thousands of pages written by people across the globe during different times, maybe in different languages, all pulling us together in a common unity.
Perhaps this is all a bit romanticized, but just think - that is how I see the world. And now that you've read what I've written, you have experienced that vision and have shared with me in a small part of my life.

What an incredibly beautiful concept.

"A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one."

~George R.R. Martin

Wanderlust

Wanderlust. [n.] 1. An overwhelming desire or irresistible impulse to travel.

By most definitions, I am hardly a well-traveled person. My experience with the world outside the five-state sphere of the Midwest is limited at best. However, the pitifully scarce number of stamps in my passport and my lack of frequent flier miles is not an accurate representation of the desire in my heart for adventure.

The dread finals week begins in just 2 days, and my social media stream is beginning to show evidence of friends who, for various reasons, are graduating once the massacre is said and done. While I’m happy for them and extremely proud of their hard-earned achievement, their constant reminders of this impending life change only magnifies the reality of my own approaching graduation.

140. Do you know what that number means? That is the number of days left for me to spend in this safe, protective environment known as the private Christian college. April 27, 2013 will be the culmination of everything I have slaved for and cried about and stressed over for the past four years as I stride proudly across the chapel auditorium stage, shake Prez Smith's hand, listen to Umfundisi say something sentimental, and finally grasp that ridiculously expensive piece of paper. After that pre-ordained date, I will be unequivocally free, absolutely and definitively let loose on the world. The mere thought of moving on to something totally unknown and unexplored sets my heart to racing and my mind to humming with all the possibilities.

In my entire life, I have never been this free. When I moved on from high school, college was the expected next move. My parents both attended college, and so did my older sister. Considering that my desired career is nursing, higher education is kind of necessary. Now that education is done, what comes next is completely unmapped and unplanned. I could go anywhere, do anything, be anyone.

Has there ever been something that you just couldn’t stop thinking about? No matter what the situation or circumstance, that one thing was always in the back of your mind, brushing against the fringes of your subconscious?

On the edges of my imagination, there is a constantly rolling reel of mountains I haven’t seen, streets I haven’t walked, coffee I haven’t tasted, people I haven’t met, music I haven’t heard. My soul is restless to discover and experience. The world is wide, my fingers itching to dig deep into that swirling pool of sight, sound, color, and life, and find out for myself the richness of it all.

This past May, I went on a trip with my school to the United Kingdom. 10 days was not nearly enough time to fully appreciate the vastness of that small country, but it was enough time for me to lose my heart forever to the rolling hills and vibrant colors of the British countryside.

This was the only international encounter I have had. Nevertheless, it set my heart on fire with a wanderlust that has been burning ever since. I cannot shake this vacuum that needs to be filled with all that is in the world.

With almost the same intensity as this desire, a stab of fear hits somewhere in the middle of my gut. Thoughts plague my mind.

What if I can’t do it?

What if I’m not cut out for this?

What if I never again leave the Midwest?

What if I fail.

Maybe I won’t ever leave. Maybe the plans that God has for me don’t include all the fantastic ideas that I have for myself. Maybe that’s okay. Could it be that his ways are higher than my ways and his thoughts are higher than my thoughts? That sounds slightly familiar. (Isaiah 55:8-9)

But maybe my deepest desires align with the plans he has for me in the future. Maybe he gave me those passions in order to fulfill the purpose I am called to complete. And the possibility of failure? Maybe his grace is sufficient for me and his power is made perfect in weakness. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

Either way, I will trust in my God and live each moment in this journey with him to the utmost abandon. Because, let’s be honest, whether I travel to all the countries or none at all, each minute spent walking with God is an adventure in itself. And that’s an adventure I can have every single day.

Camo, Cold, and Caribou Coffee

Thanksgiving. A time most people associate with family and going home.

Unless, of course, you're me. Like any reasonable person would do, I forsook the relative warmth and manageable travel distance of my home in Michigan for the frozen, barren wasteland of Minnesota to celebrate the customary giving of thanks with my housemate, Emily. After setbacks from standstill traffic in Illinois, crawling along through dense fog at 4:00 in the morning, and spending 12 hours folded like a pretzel in the backseat of our crowded SUV, I had a revelation.

I have serious issues.

Puling into her driveway at 5:30 am on Wednesday, we were worn out and exhausted, but so happy to be there and excited for the five days we had ahead of us. Our weekend would be devoted to eating, baking, decorating, and making every effort to forget for a time that we are senior college students with finals right around the corner. Challenge accepted.

Thanksgiving day was absolutely perfect. Starting with coffee and sugar-coated cinnamon rolls and ending with parlor games in the living room, the day in-between was filled with family, football, and food, parades, powder snow, and lawn golf, topped off and tied together with the best that life has to offer: laughter and love. Some people are blessed with the gift of hospitality, and Emily's family overflows with a triple portion of this quality. As Em's baby niece cooed with happiness and her brother and dad joked back and forth at the dinner table, I leaned back in my chair, belly full of food and heart full of joy, feeling completely welcomed, content, and enveloped by a sense of acceptance and security. Scientific fact: Minnesota is a frozen tundra because all of the warmth is tucked away in the hearts and homes of its inhabitants.

 

I am a Christmas purist. Firmly set in my belief that Christmas should not be celebrated until after the fourth Thursday in November, I Grinchishly scorn all Christmas food, music, and decorations until that blessed day. After that? Ho, buddy, you better watch out and better not cry because the crazy Christmas lady is bout to bust out her moves.
With all of this seasonal fervor, it's rather surprising that I have never been to a tree farm. (Shocking, I know. Don't judge.) So you can imagine my excitement when, the day after Thanksgiving, Emily and I trekked out in the Minnesotan wilderness with her dad to hunt down that perfect coniferous symbol of peace and goodwill toward men.

There was just one thing I didn't take into account: Minnesota is cold. Very cold. Like, make you want to die cold. According to my dear friend, it's okay because there are different kinds of cold. (Quoting her, "at least it's not a bitter cold. This is more of a numbing cold.") People be crazy. Cold is cold, and all of it is bad. My enthusiasm for our hunt was slightly dampened when the frigid air ate through my boots and gloves, setting my digits on fire, but it was quickly renewed when we bagged the biggest, fattest tree I have ever seen in. my. life. We carted it off to the barn, where it took five men to get this monstrosity through the tree-wrapper. I don't think you fully appreciate the gravity of the situation. Putting it in perspective - they grow their boys big in Minnesota. We're talking strapping, muscular, quintessential males that sport camo and Cabela's. So when I say that it took five of them, you can start to imagine the enormity of this tree.
While they were up to said endeavors, I ventured into the tree farm store to thaw my frozen body. My breath caught in my throat the instant I walked through the door - it looked as though Christmas had exploded all over the inside of the room, the shining, glittering guts dripping down the walls in an epitomized array of every kind of happiness and cheer. Plopping myself down next to the old wood-burning stove, I sipped a cup of hot apple cider in perfect bliss.

Once we got the tree home, Emily and I set out on a mission to make the tree as perfect as possible. Five hours later, I was covered in glitter and had come to the conclusion that Christmas tree lights are quite possibly an invention of the devil himself. HOWEVER, our efforts paid off, because the tree looked absolutely phenomenal.

Every girl needs a night out on the town every once in a while, and the twin cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul offer the perfect opportunity. Our decorating ventures finally accomplished, Emily and I made a night of it. Dressed up like total babes, we attended a comedy show playing in the downtown Music Box theatre and ate appetizers afterwards. Good laughter, good food, and good conversation with a great friend always make any day a success.

Em's mom spent the day with Em and I on Saturday, the three of us baking a variety of delectably delicious combinations of butter, sugar, peanuts, and chocolate - otherwise known as Christmas cookies. One of the most fascinating things I've ever made is toffee. If you like toffee or have a desire to like toffee in the future, don't read this. Literally two ingredients (butter and sugar), toffee goes through several stages as it cures on the stove, the last of which resembles, quite realistically, a simmering, shiny tan brain stewing on your stovetop. Once you've got a toffee brain in your pot, you pour the blob out on a pan to solidify.

Mmmmmm, brains.

Just think, next time you eat toffee you can pretend to be a zombie. It might even taste the same.

In this season of gratefulness and appreciation, I am most thankful for the relationships God has graciously given to me. I am so, so blessed. Blessed beyond measure to know some of the most incredible people - in Indiana, Minnesota, and beyond.

Workin' on my Wife Skills

I went home this past weekend for the first time in months. The week and a half leading up to this weekend and the month that is coming are roughly equivalent to hurricane Sandy on steroids (too soon?), so the fact that I was able spend some time ignoring the millions of things that I have to do was like an island haven of peace in the middle of my own personal storm. My mantra for two weeks had been "home. home. home. home."

There's no place quite like the MidWest. It reminds me of one of those relatives that you love because you're related to them, but there are quite honestly no other legitimately valid reasons why. As I crossed the Michigan/Indiana state line, warmly welcomed back by the Pure Michigan sign, the happy feelings welling up inside of my chest were quickly squelched by the memory of a sign I had passed a while back on the highway advertising Deer Pee for sale. At first I thought surely I had read it wrong, but realized after several minutes of thought that my first instinct was correct. Flabbergasted, I couldn't understand why anyone would want to sell urine. ...Or, perhaps the better question, why anyone would want to buy it. My older sister kindly set me straight later by informing me that deer hunters spray it on themselves to cover their scent and/or attract all the boy deer.

Fantastic. At least the buying and selling (and hopefully spraying) of the urine was happening in Indiana.

And after that fascinatingly random side-story, back to the weekend. I’d been planning this weekend for two weeks. Nothing and no one was going to stand in-between me and my perfect weekend. At school, I have neither the time, energy, resources, or space to cook food, bake things, make crafts, or all the other various "domestic" kinds of things that litter the Pinterest boards of girls across the country. All my pent-up crafting and homemaking energies were going to expend themselves in one massive creative explosion. Determined to be all the stereotypes of a woman hyperbolized to the max for two days, I had my Friday and Saturday planned to a "T".

On Friday morning, I would go out to an early breakfast with my momma, go grocery shopping, and pick up craft supplies, then in the afternoon I would start the soup for dinner in the crockpot, finish my laundry, wash the dishes, bake a pumpkin spice cake, and sew a shoulder bag all before my family came home for dinner, at which time I would present them with a three-part dinner and a clean house. On Saturday, I would create my own laptop cover, go thrift store shopping with my sister and my boyfriend-in-law, and complete with excellence the mountain of homework that has accumulated in my planner. I AM WOMAN.

Surprisingly, those two days were a great success.

When I say surprisingly, I really do mean surprisingly. That wasn’t facetious. Most of the time, my grandiose plans for homemaking involve an extreme excitement for starting a project, which quickly deteriorates into bewilderment and frustration when I realize that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing with this project and my life in general, leading to an existential crisis wherein I despair at the fact that I am an untalented blob with no use to anyone or anything. At this point, feeling as helpless as a one-finned platypus in the Sarahan desert, I turn the half finished disaster over to my mother. She finishes it for me. Every time. (God bless that woman. She is a saint.)

This time, however, I was determined to finish everything myself. I would be accomplished if it killed me. I would like to be a wife someday (at this point, the probability of that happening is somewhere around the odds of winning the lottery or getting struck by lightning 7 times in 6 years, but the point still applies), and I figured that I should probably start practicing those skills that most wives effortlessly seem to have.

So, what were the results of all my hard labor? 

Well, I’m glad you asked cause I was about to show you anyway. I’m a bit addicted to Pinterest, and I found a recipe several months ago for a Tomato Basil Parmesan soup. Freaking kidding me? That sounds delicious. I was determined to make it at some point in my life, and this weekend seemed like as good a time as any, so the soup was the first part of my family’s three part dinner. It was a huge hit with my parents, at least (my sister was slightly less enthused), delicious, and so easy to make.

Here’s a link to the original recipe: http://www.365daysofcrockpot.com/2009/03/day-56-tomato-basil-parmesan-soup.html. 

Contrary to the image people get when the word “vegetarian” is used, I am not an animal rights extremist, nor am I one of those individuals who doesn’t bathe for weeks on end and weaves all of their own clothes out of hemp fiber and dandelion greens, but I do try to eat healthy, so I avoid meat and most animal products for that reason. In order to maintain my vegetarian ways, I substituted vegetable broth for the chicken broth, soy milk for the half and half, and Chobani for the butter.

I didn’t take pictures of these, but I made grilled pepperjack cheese sandwiches to go with the soup. That was the second part.

The third part was a pumpkin spice cake. I found a terrific idea (again, on Pinterest) of stacking two Bundt cakes on top of each other to make the shape of a pumpkin. How cute and clever, right? What an awesome harvest time food idea. Let’s just say that my efforts were a little less like the cute harvest time food buffet and more like the dessert that would be served in a Tim Burton themed Halloween dinner.

Cooking: 2 for 3. Hey, I’ll take that. In baseball, that’s a kick butt batting average. It’s all about perspective. The crafting projects I took on went fantastically well, though, so I’m happy enough.

Here’s the shoulder bag that I made (pattern available at http://crazylittleprojects.com/2012/09/messenger-bag-tutorial.html):

And here is the laptop cover that I made (no pattern for this one, because I did it ALL BY MYSELF. That’s right. Be jealous.):

I discovered that embroidery is actually kind of fun! I started toying with this dangerously tempting idea of making all my Christmas presents this year by embroidering things for my friends and family. Better be careful, April. You had some successes this time around, but that existentially challenged Saharan-dwelling platypus could reemerge at any moment…

#RealTalk

As I was sitting at my table in the Jackson library this lazy Friday afternoon surrounded by forgotten books and papers, daydreaming about warm kitchens and crafty projects, and feeling super hipster in my thrift store altered skirt and homemade legwarmers, I suddenly remembered that I created a blog once. A procrastination break is always a good thing, so I reminisced about my once-ambitious intentions of spreading clever ideas and useful tips to anyone who might be interested (and who wouldn’t be interested in what I have to say). 

Well, we can see how long those ambitious intentions lasted. After a few attempts at this blogging thing, I quickly realized two things. The first is that blogging is actually a lot of work. I had this beautiful vision in my head that I could effortlessly be a witty, interesting person departing my wisdom to the masses through my well-written – wait, what? Blogging requires me to write? Well, that’s a problem because I hate writing. Three full years of college plus some change has taught me that a quality paper does not simply spring from my brain through my fingers to settle gracefully onto the beautiful white electronic page on my computer screen. My papers are born. If you have ever witnessed a live birth, you need no further explanation. To those of you who had never had the privilege, let me elaborate. Birthing is an extremely painful and laborious process that involves blood, sweat, guts, and tears, the occasional scream, and plenty of pitiful whimpers and pleas for it all to end. 

The second thing I realized is that, contrary to my egotistical belief that people were just waiting en masse to linger on every word that I might say, not a lot of people were interested in reading my blog. Granted, it might have helped if I had tried writing more than three posts and advertised it a bit more, but I didn’t think of those things when I was shamelessly wallowing in discouragement and self-pity (hyperbole, guys. Please don’t take that one seriously). I felt like a battle-weary kitten presenting my hard-earned, bloody, dead mouse (seems legit, that’s a pretty accurate description of my writing) to my unappreciative owners. Crushing. Basically, I was spending a lot of time working on something that no one was reading. Ain’t no body got time fo dat! 

After a sufficient period of self-reflection and study, I got over myself and realized that it really doesn’t matter whether or not anyone reads this. Normally, talking to yourself is the first sign that you’re losing it, but since I lost it a long time ago, nobody needs to be bothered. Anyway, I had a conversation with myself that went something like this:

“April, do you enjoy doing this?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay then.”

Yeah, I know, I talk too much. Workin’ on it. Basically, this is something that I slightly enjoy doing. Not more than eating. Or looking through clothes on Pinterest that I will never be able to afford. Or doing dishes. But it is something that is marginally entertaining. So, by golly, I’ll continue to do it! So here we go, blogging round two.

And if you just happen to want to follow along, I suppose that’s okay, too.

Summer dreams

It's 65 and sunny outside, and the spring fever is setting in early.

My mind keeps wandering to lovely thoughts of the beach in the hot summer sun, shorts, biking, and eating mom's potato salad on the back porch at sunset.

6 weeks left of school?! How can they possibly expect me to concentrate when my heart lies with my exciting summer plans? England in May; camp nurse internship through June, July, and August; turning 21; and hours of warmth and sunshine. My professors must be crazy.

Quick side-note: thrift store shopping is the best. I used to hate it because it made me feel poor, but yesterday I got the cutest business professional outfit for $3! I'm definitely a fan.

Random beauty tip to make this post at least somewhat in line with the purpose of my blog: Try shaving your legs with conditioner that you need to get rid of, then apply lotion after. I tried it last night, and today my legs are the smoothest they've ever been! I didn't even use a new razor head, it was an old one that I need to change. It's a neat way to be thrifty and beautiful.