The concept of “good communication” in a relationship is one of those things.

Is it necessary?

Yes. Absolutely necessary.

Is it hard?

Usually, yes, it is kind of hard.

Do all versions of “good communication in a relationship” look exactly the same? Of course not. But it is essential that you figure out what form you need, and also–just as importantly–you figure out what your partner needs as well.

Good communication is not gossiping or passive-aggressive jabs or hints. Good communication requires honesty, vulnerability, directly approaching a topic or a person and simply stating what you want or need and asking for something to change. Written out like that it doesn’t seem like it should be that difficult, although for many of us (myself included) it isn’t something that comes naturally. Clear, open, non-passive-aggressive communication can be really hard.

Once upon a time I had a very strict rule that went something like this:

If someone says or does something that truly hurts my feelings or in any significant way upsets me, I have exactly seven days to bring the incident to light and come to a resolution. If I cannot do such a simple thing, after seven days I am no longer allowed to use that incident as ammunition, or refer to it as a grievance, and must let go immediately. I will not be one to hold grudges.

For quite some time the seven-day rule seemed to work just fine. After a few years it became the three-day rule, although these days I try to play by the 24-hour rule with varying levels of success. I will never be the kind of person who can resolve a big, emotional conflict on the spot. I just don’t have the emotional control to be rational and reasonable while I am hurting. I know this about myself and I refuse to indulge that ugly side of me–the temper-tantrum side who says things she doesn’t mean and then can’t take back. I refuse to give that version of me any more control than she already holds. That doesn’t mean I run away from a hairy conversation, it simply means that I give myself a little breathing room and time to calm down, and will then address the issue at hand. Lately I’ve learned to tell whomever it is I’m talking with when I will be ready to address it. It’s perfectly okay to say “Hey, I’m feeling really emotional about this, I’m going to take a walk and we’ll talk about it when I get back.” Or, “Um, I need to get my thoughts into some kind of order, can we talk about this tomorrow?” Or even “Wow, this is a lot for me, I’m gonna take 20 minutes and go have a double-fudge banana split with whipped cream and we’ll get back into this after that.” IT IS PERFECTLY OKAY TO SAY/REQUEST/DEMAND THAT! (Seriously, why don’t more people say that?) (Also, the banana split totally helps.)

Not long ago I spent a couple of very emotional days with a frightened friend. An old friend and a really amazing woman. The source of the emotional turbulence, and the fear, was from a complete and utter breakdown of communication in her relationship. I have been through the ringer in relationships, but her experience was eye-opening to me. I realized that it is possible to fall in love with someone and choose to spend your life with them and wake up, several years later, to a complete stranger. It is possible to not have the slightest idea of how to talk to your partner. I was shocked. Is this something that I take for granted? Have I ever taken it for granted? What if I am spiraling into a Non-Communication Hole and am completely unaware?

I decided that in my own relationships–romantic and otherwise–I needed to double my efforts to understand and be understood. Patience will be tested. Questions (thousands of questions) will be asked and asked again. Hearts will be bruised. Frustrations and tears will undoubtedly make a mess of my mascara. But dammit, I’m going to make sure I’m clear. I will only say things that I mean. I will ask the hard questions. I will not assume. I will not play a passive-aggressive game, hoping someone will be able to interpret it correctly. I will make sure that whoever is the second party in my conversations understands what I mean before letting a subject drop.

And when the conversation is settled on both sides, the subject will drop.

**Things are just fine with J-Mo and I, I’ve been thinking about this post for months and wanted to take a little break from the barrage of photos from the last two weeks.

I was pretty young, maybe five or six years old, when Larry married Sue, the wonderful single mom who lived across the street from us. He brought with him a lot of laughter, a speed boat, a huge semi truck (he was a transportation specialist for a large, locally based non-profit, hauling all sorts of things all over the country) and four boys in their teens and early twenties. Larry’s caring personality was infectious, he brought the house across the street to life; it quickly changed from a sad, cold, struggling place to one full of laughter, warmth and happy kids.

Yesterday, I listened to Larry’s children paint a familiar story of this kind, generous man who had a heart large enough to envelop everyone in his path; it seemed he had the same charming effect on everyone he met. His daughter said that Larry lived his life based on two criteria. 1) Do you need to be helped? 2) Do you need to be loved? Larry was all about serving and loving others; his family, friends, neighbors, and strangers. When I met Larry I was a little girl who desperately needed to be loved. I truly felt like Sue and Larry half-adopted me into their brood, Larry’s sons teased me as if I was their younger sister and, looking back, I cherish the memories of playing soccer and night games with them (and a gaggle of other neighborhood kids) in their large back yard. For several years I would skip across the street on Saturday morning to help Sue and Larry brush and re-shoe their half-dozen horses. As payment for getting in their way my labors, they would take me on a horse ride with them through the orchards and foothills around my hometown. These are some of the best memories of my childhood, riding horses on Saturday morning, sitting behind Sue, listening to Larry crack jokes as his sons laughed and joked right back. Despite the unfortunate circumstances, I was glad I had a chance to reconnect with Larry’s family. His sons are so much like their Dad it made my heart ache, and it was wonderful to meet their wives, see their half-grown children, and see Larry’s impish smile in their sad eyes.

For the last five years Larry has been volunteering his transportation skills with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, trucking their gear, instruments, and wardrobes from city to city and state to state, as they give concerts and tours around North America. A small group of Choir members (ok, about forty) sang several numbers at the funeral, my dad, Lurch, among them. For the last several years Lurch has been the Chief High Luggage Coordinator (a very official title) whenever the choir went on tour–a group that exceeds 500 people when you count the singers, the orchestra, the stage crew and tech crew, as well as the spouses who sometimes tag along–and I’m sure he worked with Larry quite often to get everyone their bags at each new tour stop.

The last few months, with the accompanying quintet of funerals, the mortality of humans has been moved to the forefront of my mind. At Larry’s funeral as I sat in the congregation I could see Lurch on the back row of the choir seats, as I listened to Larry’s sons pay a wonderful, emotion-filled tribute to their father I wondered how much longer I have with my own Dad. I wondered how I could possibly begin to write a talk to deliver at his funeral; what could I say to explain or describe the feelings I have about this new(ish) relationship with Lurch; is there even vocabulary to define how much unconditional love I feel from him; or for him; how on earth will I be able to control the emotion in my voice enough to be understood. Now, Lurch is healthy, active, and except for his silver-white hair is showing very few signs of age. He plays with his grandkids, travels often with his wife, rides his bike on local trails, and is a world class putterer (which is where I get my own puttering skillz)(puttering is in no way related to golf)(I stink at golf, mini or otherwise). But even so, I am not so naive to believe that he will live another hundred years, or even another fifty years. Twenty five, perhaps, but…anything can happen. I am absolutely not ready now, nor do I think losing a parent is something you can ever really “be ready” for. I know there are some situations where you may anticipate losing a parent, for example, if your Mom has cancer or is in otherwise poor health. Or if your Dad likes to SCUBA dive with starving sharks in Papua New Guinea…without a protective cage…in a suit made of raw steak. (Thankfully, as far as I am aware, Lurch has never been SCUBA diving and has no immediate plans to visit Papua New Guinea, so that grisly scenario is most likely out.) In the last few years my Dad has had a few, somewhat minor health issues–a bad case of the flu that put him in the hospital, kidney stones, and a rather scary moment of heat exhaustion and a pulled muscle after he tried to take on a dozen 6 and 7-year-olds in a rambunctious water fight–but… I just… I don’t… I can’t…

Losing Lurch would shatter my world. And today, for the first time in my life, I realized it.

“A relatively new field, called interpersonal neurobiology, draws its vigor from one of the great discoveries of our era: that the brain is constantly rewiring itself based on daily life. In the end, what we pay the most attention to defines us. How you choose to spend the irreplaceable hours of your life literally transforms you.”

I’ve been thinking about this for a few weeks and I can’t get it out of my head. “How you choose to spend the irreplaceable hours of your life literally transforms you.” How do I spend my not-at-work hours? In what ways am I constantly rewiring my brain? Who do I want to be? And how do I become that girl? Hint: I probably won’t become heidikins The Awesome by watching an entire season of the latest criminal drama starring Sarah Michelle Gellar while eating Ben & Jerry’s by the pint lounging on the squishy couch…night after night after night.

I deleted a half-dozen shows from my DVR, although, I still watch Gossip Girl. I can’t seem to get away from the trashy, soap opera-y, designer-heeled episodes. Sigh. (The trash on Gossip Girl is the same reason I don’t watch Mad Men and am bugged by those who say they just watch it for the fashion and not the drama…hmmm…something to consider, Self.)

I have been reading more, but the books I choose are of a higher caliber than those I have previously picked up. I am reading more books I rank as 5 stars and fewer I rank as 2 or 3. I am reading more non-fiction, more Pulitzer winners, and more memoirs and biographies of people I admire. I read less fluff. Don’t get me wrong, I still read fluffy books, but I find they do not offer me much respite anymore, I find I am more critical of the poor writing and loosey-goosey plot points with a cute, tidy ending.

After watching a couple of “comedy” hits I have become terribly disillusioned with Hollywood; or, rather, completely disgusted by and blatantly opposed to it’s output. Since when was crassness and crudeness and the degradation of women in scene after scene after disgusting scene passed off as “comedy.” It is vile. Honestly, I was so revolted by these two particular films that upon discovering they are listed amongst your favorites, my opinion of you will probably change. What if those female characters were you, or your sister, or your daughter, or your best friend. Is it still funny? It shouldn’t be, because unfortunately, there are a lot of women who deal with sexual harassment, degradation, emotional, physical, and sexual abuse on a daily basis. You laughing at it doesn’t help, you supporting that type of media only makes studios produce more of it’s kind.

That old adage, “quality over quantity” always seemed to refer to cashmere sweaters instead of polyester-fluff ones, or buying well-made shoes you can wear for years instead of cheap ones that make your feet stink after a few weeks. Although, of late, I think there is more to it than that. It means carefully screening the media you allow into your life. It means eating real food and not crap, even if it takes more time to make yourself a salad instead of grab some greasy take-out. It means only allowing the healthy relationships to take up your time and your life and letting the soul-sucking, faith destroying, toxic ones fall by the wayside. It means slowing consumerism and materialism, it means having more discipline, and conditioning yourself not to respond to the instant gratification culture in which we live. It means being more conscientious about choices that involve your time, your money, your energy, and emotional being. It means choosing how to spend the irreplaceable hours of your life so that you are rewiring yourself to become a better, healthier, more satisfying version of yourself instead of slowly transforming into a human slug.* I am not saying that I am perfect in this, or that I always make the non-slug-like choices. Sometimes, I sit on the couch and watch TV for hours before I even realize it, and I’ll watch it with commercials. Sometimes, I listen to gossipy trolls talk badly about people and generally be catty and miserable, and I’ll let it get to me instead of shutting down the conversation, or excusing myself from the friendship. But that doesn’t mean that I am not trying; I am more conscious of my choices and am working to become a better heidikins.

*You saw Wall-E, you know how this will end. And, if you recall, humans do not become the cute little robot with a healthy dose of curiosity; we end up as immobile couch/motorized armchair potatoes with Big Gulps.

Last summer a good friend of mine went to his first Demolition Derby, you know, it’s usually held at the rodeo grounds and clunker cars with funky paint jobs are absolutely destroyed by crashing them into each other, running over them with trucks, and an assortment of other “entertaining” methods. Sometimes there is some sort of fundraising for a charity involved, but not always. You’ve heard of a Demo Derby, right? Well, unfortunately, one of the drivers was very critically injured in the first few minutes of my friend arriving at the Derby, the man was carted away on a stretcher and taken to the Emergency Room as the audience cheered. For his health. They cheered to show support for his return to good working order. They didn’t (I presume) cheer because he had nearly been killed. The ambulance drove away and the Demolition continued. When my friend told me this story he recounted how he had been reading about the history of the Coliseum in Rome and the to-the-death games that were played there, you know, Gladiator style. His experience that day at the Demolition Derby was not so far removed from the Romans gathering all their citizens together to watch and cheer and heckle as fellow citizens battled to the death–or at least to the seriously maimed and crippled–in the name of entertainment. After hearing that comparison, I don’t think I can go to a Demolition Derby again. (Insert my rant that just because Russell Crowe won an Oscar for being the Gladiator doesn’t make that particular form of “entertainment” okay in today’s society.) (If we all did all the things the big, fancy actors did we’d all be in rehab or jail or both.)

Of late there is quite a hubbub about The Hunger Games and how it is, allegedly, the most amazing movie of recent memory. I have not seen it, nor do I have any burning desire to see it (but I also didn’t watch Harry Potter 7.2, after having read the books and watched movies 1 through 7.1, so perhaps I am not the best barometer for movie fever). The dystopian society of The Hunger Games glories violence and starvation and exploitation and then more violence, just in case you missed it the last time..and the 47 times before that. And I get it, it’s not that I don’t get it, I just don’t want to see it. I appreciate a good dystopian novel as much as the next person, but I have very specific (read: low) levels of violence that I can handle on the big screen. When I read about violence I can imagine terrible things, but I have learned to keep my imagination to just inside the line of terror which, if crossed, generates nightmares for weeks on end. If you’ve seen it and you loved it so much you went to see it again that’s fine. We are still friends, I don’t think less of you, I hope you enjoy movies two and three as much as the first and I hope you sleep soundly each and every time. But there isn’t anything you can say that will make me change my mind. I read the book, I know the story, I even enjoyed the story (well, the story in the first book, not so much the others), but here is the thing, and it’s an important thing: the violence I imagined in my head while reading The Hunger Games or any other book, is to the exact level of gruesomeness that allows me to understand the fear and desperation of the characters and their need to act, but that also still allows me to sleep without replaying the scariest parts over and over and over in my head. I don’t need Hollywood giving me nightmares for the next two months. (Insert your rant about how I’m too much of a pansy and should just put on my big girl panties and go see it anyway.) (Then maybe have your reading comprehension checked, as the last three paragraphs have explained it’s not about whether it’s a “tastefully done” violence or not. It’s about me.)

A few days ago I was eating lunch with myself and a new book at a restaurant near my office. I have taken up reading on my lunch break and it has been one of the more rewarding decisions of my recent life. So there I was, reading Bossypants and not really paying much attention to anything else around me. A table of 6 or 7 youngish men was to my left, and other than noticing they laughed a lot and talked pretty loud, I paid them no attention. Eventually I needed to tackle my lunch with two hands, so I put my book down and, apparently, opened my ears. From what I gathered, these young men (some seemed to be in their 20′s, some in their early 30′s) were all in the military and had recently served in the Middle East. It seems they all had a great time, enjoyed the companionship with their fellow soldiers, didn’t mind the heat too much, totally shot that turbaned guy in the head, first try, no second bullet required…. What? I stopped eating and started listening. For the next several minutes I listened, slack-jawed, as these soldiers regaled each other with stories of the men they had killed. They one-upped each other on the hardest shot, the most men killed in one given day or battle, the most militant town they toppled, the number of land mines sidestepped before going in for the kill, the brutal or technical manner they executed someone in a particular town, or on a particular day. Now, I know they are soldiers who were serving their country in a war zone. I know they are trained to do exactly what they were describing. I need to believe that they bravely and honorably signed up to protect their country, protect their homeland, and to fight for the rights and interests of oppressed people everywhere. I am convinced that–if they are good soldiers–any one of them would put himself between me and a dangerous threat, acting first and asking questions later. I know there is no real way I can thank the men and women who serve our country in times of peace and times of war. I know they see and experience terrible things I cannot imagine seeing in my lifetime. I know there are serious psychological issues when a soldier returns home and tries to assimilate back into society and forget all those terrible things. I know very few are able to unsee, but some are able to cope. I know all this. What I did not know was that killing dozens of foreigners was so damn funny. I didn’t realize the levels of humor and hilarity that go on in a war zone. And I certainly did not know that those jokes and games and bragging “well, listen to this!” stories would make their way to an overdecorated Mexican restaurant on my lunch break.

I went to the bathroom and threw up.

It didn’t make me feel any better. And no, I am not bulimic nor do I make a habit of throwing up my meals.

It has been 14 years since that geography class where I sat and watched someone be killed on a grainy Chinese news clip played on a 32″ box bolted to the wall. I still remember every detail of the clip and my reaction. There is this part of me is relieved that after nearly a decade and a half I am still so disturbed, so moved by real violence that I need to excuse myself and be sick. It is that part of me that refuses to allow the rest of me to go to another Demolition Derby, or to watch The Hunger Games. I see no reason to desensitize my little heart to real violence with a bunch of fake violence (i.e. Hollywood and special effects). When I see a grainy news clip of someone ACTUALLY BEING KILLED, I want it to move me tremendously, I want to be able to feel that emotion, I want it to hurt. When I overhear the method, timing and details of how one human being killed another, I want it to upset me, even if it means I can’t finish my lunch. I don’t ever want to be the kind of person who can shrug off the death of another human being because I’m just too cool to care about such trivial matters. I don’t want to be the kind of person who would ever think “Yeah, sucks for that guy, but did you see that awesome movie about the teenagers killing each other on national TV? Now that shit was crazy.”

A few days prior to our trip J-Mo’s childhood best friend, R, and R’s 3-year old son died together under terrible, tragic circumstances. Their small hometown community was shaken, hundreds of phone calls and texts went out from this tight-knit group to all those who had moved away. Over the next several days friends and family traveled hundreds of miles from all over the country to attend the funerals, offer desperately needed support to each other, and grieve for the double-loss of their son, grandson, nephew, brother and friend.

When your grandparent or great-aunt passes away it is sad, your heart wrenches open, you deal with loss and grief, but on some level you knew that, eventually, this would happen. Several years ago my maternal grandma passed away after a several-years-long battle with a myriad of diseases. In her final days her family gathered to support each other, celebrate her life, and say their last goodbyes. A few years later my other grandmother, Bub, passed away with absolutely no warning. She didn’t feel well one Sunday and decided to take a nap instead of go to church, an hour later my grandpa came home to check on her and she was gone. Of course, I was heartbroken both times, but for me the feelings associated with grief are very different when you have had several weeks, months, or years to mentally and emotionally prepare yourself for the loss as opposed to receiving a phone call one Sunday afternoon. For the first I was sad, but functioning; for the second my knees buckled and I literally collapsed to the floor in tears. Does that make one harder than the other? In some ways yes, but in most ways no, it doesn’t. Grief is grief and loss is loss and the heart must go through a very painful process to come to terms and deal with both.

R and his son’s death came with absolutely no warning; there was no way to prepare for the loss. There was no chance for his family or friends to mentally steel themselves for the emotional turmoil ahead. J-Mo was out-of-town for work, I can’t imagine anything worse than hearing such terrible news all alone and hundreds of miles from any loved ones, trying to understand what happened in an empty, desolate, impersonal place. The only thing comparable is, perhaps, being the girl on the other end of the phone, listening to his heart-break in half and not being able to do or say a damn thing to make it better. I couldn’t offer soothing stories about the good times or the old days, I couldn’t talk about R because I had never met him. I couldn’t give J-Mo a hug and tell him it would be okay, all I could do was cry with him, frustrated that there was nothing more I could say, nothing more I could give to somehow alleviate his hurt.

Over the next few days as we all collected in his hometown, J-Mo was able to see and talk to family and friends who knew and loved R and that little boy. They were able to talk about their hurts and frustrations on the circumstances of their deaths, and to remember so many good times from growing up together. This is part of the grieving process, and I felt so privileged to be able to sit on the fringes of this community as an outsider and still feel the healing power of friends and loved ones being together during their hardest times. I also was able to learn more about R, as he will be remembered by his closest friends. There were good stories, crazy stories, and mountains of memories about R’s humor, his teenage antics, and the various levels of trouble this group of boys got into and out of in the small, rural town where they became men. Through their conversations I came to know a man who I would have been lucky to meet, I would have laughed at his jokes, cringed at his daredevil stunts, and thanked him repeatedly for the good deeds and kind words that came straight from his enormous heart.

As I sat back and listened I also learned how important it is to filter the information we receive. By that I do not mean that we need to simplify or water-down the information, I mean we need to look at it in a broader, more whole perspective. Instead of making snap-judgments on the character of someone from this news bulletin or that headline, we need to remember that we do not know the entire story. A major news outlet very rarely will share the whole story or heart-breaking circumstances when a bullet point blurb and 30 seconds of the grisly details will bump their ratings. We have so much aggregate information at our fingertips, we must learn to be careful with how we process and respond to it. That person in the grim or shocking headline is someone’s son, someone’s grandson, nephew, brother and friend. If you knew him as they knew him, if you understood his circumstances as they have tried to, you would feel more compassion, more sympathy, and your heart would break for the hurts of strangers. Be not so quick to pour out your condemnation, remember that he (or she) could very easily be your son, your brother, or your friend.

But sometimes plans change just like that (snaps fingers). There are some things that are more important than making pi shaped cookies, or laughing in a pub, or green eggs and ham: weddings and funerals, family, friends, and being present and emotionally available when your loved ones are at their absolute happiest and absolute worst. And when those loved ones need you, you go. You go no matter how difficult it was to get plane tickets out of that tiny airport, no matter how long you were on hold waiting for a confirmation number (90 minutes), You go no matter how much the stupid people at United tried to rip you off, or how far you need to drive on top of that (14 hours total) to get to the place where you need to be. Sometimes, there is no choice but to be there. You go.

My plans for this week have changed, drastically. And while I wish I could say I was happy about it, the truth is I am heartbroken. Not about missing the party or the show or the Lucky Charms, I am heartbroken when I hear how much he is heartbroken, so much so that it is hard for me breathe. Plans change, you travel hundreds of miles, pay whatever it takes, and you go. You go because you need to be there. There is no other option.

My Essentials:

Putzing: This is my quirky way of unwinding; I wander around the neighborhood admiring the old homes, drawing the house plans and planning renovations in my head. Or I’ll wander around the produce section of the grocery store touching the fruit and veggies. I will wander around my apartment, straightening things that don’t necessarily need straightening and dreaming about things that don’t really apply to where I am at that given moment. I make lists just to cross things off,  I imagine fantastical things. Putzing is my alone time, my detox time. I can putz for hours.

Books: I remember the first book I ever bought with my own money. I was working two jobs, saving up for my first semester of college and decided to buy The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings series and re-read them before the first movie came out in theaters. I bought the cheapest version the bookstore had—a $4.99 half-sized paperback—one at a time over a few weeks. In the last 10 years I have amassed a considerable book collection and have started to build a bonafide library in the loft space above my apartment. Sitting in front of those shelves, running my fingers over the spines, reorganizing my “To Read First” shelf (yes, shelf) and reliving the stories and memories associated with previously read titles is one of the most calming things I can do at home. (See: putzing) Does this make me materialistic? Maybe. Do I care? No. I’m a paper-and-ink book person and I’m not willing to fight it.

Writing: Writing is therapy to me. For my 8^th birthday I received a journal, a red leather-bound book with lined pages and gold edging. My first journal entry is from my Mom and the next is written in a thick pencil and my shaky, 8-year-old handwriting. I wrote about the weather, my birthday, and my first visit to a restaurant. Almost 6 years ago I started blogging for the general, internet-savvy public however I still write for pleasure and to solidify my thoughts and opinions. I still keep a journal, several, actually. There is nothing quite like the promise of a new, empty notebook of lined pages. I tend to fill them with thoughts, stories, lists, sketches, ideas and rants.

Pursuit of Knowledge: I love learning. I love learning about new things, new people, new words, new ideas. I love learning old things for the first time, random facts, chronology of world events, social or geographic history or myth of far-flung places and interesting factoids close to home. I think I am happiest with my nose deep in a book and a notebook to record my findings.

Fabulous, Fun or Interesting Shoes: I know this may seem somewhat superficial after the magnanimous “writing” and “pursuit of knowledge” line items, but I have found over the years that I am more optimistic, more positive, and generally happier when I am wearing shoes I love. Superficial? Yes. Invalid? No. My day is better in red heels. Always.

Scarves: More than often than not, I will wear a scarf regardless of the weather. I have scarves in almost every hue and the pop of color at my face makes me smile and the snuggle-factor keeps me happy and cozy all day. Yes, even in the summer (hello, office AC). I have thick wool-y scarves and very light, airy ones, but most are a delicious Pashmina weight that are universally perfect for daily wear. I love them.

Razor sharp kitchen knives: I find mincing vegetables therapeutic, but only if my knife is crazy-sharp. There is a knife sharpening shop downtown where I drop off a bundle of cutlery every six weeks or so to be ground, sharpened, polished, wrapped in brown paper with tied with string and then returned to me for my next mincing adventure.

High Thread Count Sheets: Several years ago my older brother found 1,000 count Egyptian cotton sheets on Amazon for something crazy like $100 dollars. He ordered them immediately. I ordered them immediately. Several other family members ordered them. They are heaven. I don’t care if 1,000 count sheets don’t come in cute polka-dots, or fancy stripes, or chevrons, or mod floral graphic print. I have a hard time sleeping in scratchy sheets. I need 1,000 count Egyptian cotton.

Hugs: Yes, I need physical human contact. In some of my more scared moments, or darker days, or more lonely weeks I have been known to go to a yoga class and do the poses a little bit wonky just so the instructor would move my arm to the appropriate place. I have been known to schedule a massage just for the comfort of someone touching my shoulder. Does this seem extreme? Perhaps. But pouncing on a stranger on the street and insisting they give you a hug is highly suspect and usually illegal, and I’m not about to wear a sign around my neck stating “Hugs for Free” because, ew, creepers.

Sunshine: I am one of those people who will never go tanning, I wear SPF 45 every day. However, just a few minutes of sun on my face will lift my mood in amazing ways. I do some of my best putzing sitting in a sunny spot.

Sparkly Unicorns and Pegasus Ponies: Not really. But after “hugs” and “sunshine” it seemed the next logical progression. I am (mostly) kidding on this one. (Or am I?)

My Favorite Non-Essentials:

Chapstick: I’m not talking about lipgloss, or lipstick (neither of which I have worn for years). I’m not talking about Chapstick brand stuff that is pink with a waxy flavor. I will wear Bert’s Bees in a ruby grapefruit color, but I prefer Natural Ice, although it is next to impossible to find in grocery stores, gas stations, big box stores, or boutique stores. Sometimes I’ll find it at REI and stock up. Last fall I finally got the brilliant idea to order a dozen tubes of Natural Ice from Amazon. They are now nicely lined up in my dresser waiting to rescue my chapped and dry lips.

White Christmas Lights: I have only ever used white Christmas lights, and typically only at Christmas. However, several months ago I strung one strand around my bedroom window and love the soft twinkling as I get ready for bed or dream up grand adventures, tucked up to my chin in covers and studying the enormous map of the world on my bedroom wall.

Maps: I love maps. I have several hanging in my apartment and have always had at least one map to look at and dream about and study. I loved taking world geography in 9^th grade and learning the names, locations and capital cities of all the countries. I have mostly retained this information and love studying various pockets of the world and trying to sort out, again, where everything belongs. In my next life I will have a couple of gorgeous globes to reign in my library.

Office Supplies: I have an unhealthy obsession with office supplies. Stacks of college-ruled paper, packages of Sharpie’s in a rainbow of colors, boxes of unsharpened pencils waiting to be ground to a point and fill a notebook with ideas. I love office supplies.

Fresh Flowers and/or Live Plants: I love having fresh flowers on my dining room table. I have very rarely had anything fancier than a small bouquet from the grocery store, but even $6 dollars worth of tulips will keep me smiling for two weeks. I have had an aloe plant for 5 years now, and have managed not to kill it. This winter I have added a baby fir tree, a now flowerless poinsettia, an ivy plant, and some IKEA bamboo…so far, nothing has died. We’ll see how long that lasts.

Things I Could Easily Live Without:

Smart Phones: I know, it sounds nuts, but I am becoming more and more anti-smart phone. It’s not that I don’t like the convenience of having a mini computer-communicator-television-navigational system-word processor-camera the size of a credit card, it’s just that after sitting at a computer for 9 hours a day with the expectation to respond to email promptly and answer the phone by the second ring, and then a few more hours at my laptop in the evening reading and writing blog posts, researching tidbits of information, and/or gawking at adorable baby animals, I don’t really care if I am connected for the other 3 hours of my waking day. When my current smart phone (1^st Gen. MyTouch Android) dies I will be downgrading my device and my plan.

Voice mail: I hate voice mail. I keep trying to convince my phone company to turn off my voice mail all together. Remember when it used to be an add-on? Why is it that now I cannot for the life of me turn the damn thing off? If you know me at all you know that I listen to my messages religiously once per quarter…or, if I’m feeling rebellious,every six months. Send me a text if I don’t answer the phone, don’t bother leaving a message unless it’s cool that I don’t listen to it until September.

Popcorn: I haven’t had popcorn since I was in junior high, and I don’t miss it. I like the smell well enough, I won’t gag at the movies or anything, but I have absolutely no desire to try it. None.

I find that, in general, I do not miss being uber-connected all the time. I’ve stopped incessantly checking my email on my phone and looking for updates or new texts.

I also reduced the shows that I DVR. J-Mo and I recently signed up for Netflix Instant and while I spent a solid 30 minutes getting my list of shows and movies queued up…I haven’t starting watching them yet. Nope, not a one.

I spent a few hours cleaning out my fridge. And my freezer. And my pantry. I have been collecting cardboard boxes to sort, contain, label and stack remaining clutter. I think my closet will need to be next, and that whole thought both terrifies and…well…terrifies me.

I also desperately need to pare down my Google Reader. Right now I am subscribed to 521 blogs. Five-hundred-and-twenty-one. Holycrap. Yes, that needs to be reduced in a serious way.

I read somewhere that limiting electronic use for the hour before you go to bed helps you relax. As I have thought about it I realized that usually the hour before I go to bed is full of DVR, text messaging, video chat, email, reading up on blogs…the list goes on and on. I’m going to try to calm down and unwind instead of finish up the last few things before the day is over. Perhaps I should try reading a book before bed instead of reading blogs and texts and emails and everything else.

What does this all boil down to? I need to simplify my life. I need to spend more time and energy doing things that make me happy and less time doing things that complicate my life unnecessarily. I am reducing clutter, removing the electronic connectivity-clutter and trying to live more with less. That doesn’t mean that I am giving up blogging, because–and this post is a prime example–writing things down help me to process them, and the community of blogging is something that I really, truly love. (Hi community, I love you!) So, what does this all mean? Nothing. I’m not making a goal, I’m not amending my New Year’s Resolutions, I’m not filling up all vertical surfaces of my apartment with post-it notes reminding me to SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY! Nope, I’m just trying to make a lifestyle change to make my life less chaotic. Of course, I will let you know how that goes, but for now, it’s just my new thing.

SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY! SIMPLIFY!

…Am I the only person who imagines Hermoine waving her wand and yelling this at an ugly pile of To-Do List failures? Yes? Okay.

So, I’m married now. In most ways, it is exactly the same. And really, I think that is a good thing. I don’t think that a wedding should drastically change a relationship, nor should that event alter the behavior each party exhibits in that relationship. In fact, any kind of drastic change would really worry me (been there, done that), and at the very least would be a bad omen for the rest of the relationship. Right? So, things are the same. The same kind of wonderful. I love that.

Now, I know you were probably hoping for a pretty, pose-y picture-filled post, and I was hoping to add one more “p” word to that sentence, but, unfortunately, neither of us will get exactly what we want. I won’t get pics back from our photographer for two to three months and I haven’t convinced any of my friends or family to send me their snapshots yet. (Truth be told, I imagine they had something else going on this weekend and, you know, it’s only been 4 days…but seriously, family, please send snapshots!)

So, because we aren’t going to share any bits of the wedding day, allow me to tell you about the day before when I had an absolute break down. You knew that was coming somewhere, right? You didn’t? Oh, don’t feel too bad, it came as quite a shock to me too.

Remember how I told you I had a rash on my torso that was getting worse due to stress? And remember how my dermatologist gave me a mild steroid to make it go away? Well, it hasn’t gone away, but it didn’t spread up my chest and neck, so when those wedding photos do surface they won’t have blotchy red spots splashing out from the neckline of my dress. The bad news was that in the subsequent 60-some-odd hours after I started taking that pill I got less than 5 hours of sleep. Five hours of sleep, three days, and stress up the wazoo does not a happy girl make. At noon on Thursday (day prior to wedding day, if you recall), a few of my coworkers kicked me out of the office and told me to please go home and take a nap.

Instead, I went to the salon to get my toes painted and texted my favorite aunt–who happens to live next door to the salon and be my same shoe size–to see if she had some rainboots that would go with an emerald green dress. The forecast was calling for slush, snow, sleet and all sorts of nasty weather. My Aunt Mouse, my Dad’s youngest sister, was at the salon in a jiffy with a pair of adorable boots. When she walked in she took one look at me and asked me what on earth was going on. I really did not look very well. I started sobbing. Sobbing! Uncontrollably sobbing. Apparently, negative sleep, a super stressful week of work and finishing up pre-wedding details (with a list still go finalize that afternoon)..(plus there may have been a little bit of PMS in there somewhere), will reduce me to a very leaky pile of dark undereye circles and nail polish residue.

Luckily, Mouse is the most incredible woman I know. Within minutes she had taken over. She insisted the girls at the salon give me a full pedicure and manicure, with that fancy new shellac stuff so they were instantly dry. She had her assistant call and iron out the last details with one of my vendors (note: when the Alt Design Summit, the Outdoor Retailer’s convention, and Sundance Film Festival are all in one town the same weekend, things like getting an exact time, or even a normal range of linen delivery is next to impossible under the best of circumstances, and under my circumstances–see: melt down in above paragraph–it was absolutely impossible). Then she insisted her assistant tackle the rest of my To Do list. She went to Costco, she finalized everything, she arranged the last minute details…she saved me. I obviously was in no condition to talk to anyone rationally and logically about anything. And, as if that wasn’t amazing enough, Mouse booked me an appointment with her personal massage therapist for later that afternoon. She fixed everything. By the time she was done I had exactly three things left to do. Finish my mani/pedi, get a massage, and pick up J-Mo from the airport. Three things! Knocked down from somewhere in the 10-12 range!

I cannot imagine what kind of mess I would have been in if Mouse had not staged an intervention. I mean, Mouse saved me. She swooped in with cute rainboots and left me with my fingers and toes well attended; she and her assistant cleared their day and fixed and finished and finalized my To Do list. They forced me to take a break and focus on what was really important, and surprising to me, the important thing was not running to Costco to get an entire shopping cart full of citrus fruit.

Friday morning, Wedding Day, I went to get my hair done, set-up the final bits for dinner after the ceremony (including doing something very Pinterest-worthy with that shopping cart full of citrus fruit), went to fill up two balloons that were so ginormous they would not even fit into my vehicle, took a quick bath, changed into my wedding dress, and went to the church.

And then, my friends, I walked down the aisle and recited some of the most lovely vows to the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. I cried, but this time instead of sobs of sleep-deprived overwhelmed frustration, they were tears of joy and happiness and overwhelming love for him and for us.

*****   *****   *****

In writing this post it has occurred to me that while I can be controlling and sometimes even a bit on the freaky side of controlling, I think my biggest problem is that I assume I am Wonder Woman. I assume I can do anything I set my mind to do, and that I can do it on my own, and without asking anyone for help, and in a timely manner. So, some of those may be true, but all together? Yeah, probably not 100% true all the time. I can do anything I set my mind to do, but I more often than not need to ask for help to accomplish it in a timely manner. Unfortunately, it took me breaking down in front of a pedicurist the day before my wedding and someone–a true Wonder Woman–swooping in to save me in order for me to realize it. Fortunately, I realized it. And fortunately, I have some people around me that can help me remember that realization.

*****   *****   *****

Dear Mouse, I know you don’t read this blog, and I’ve already written a lengthy and tear-filled thank you note with far more heart-felt sentiment, but I wanted to thank you, publicly, for showing me that it’s okay to ask for help; it’s okay not to be perfect; and it’s perfectly normal for someone to love you, despite and perhaps because of your imperfections. Love always, heidi

*****   *****   *****

*No, her name isn’t Mouse, but it’s been her nickname as long as I can remember, and in our family it is a very sincere term of affection and endearment.

I turned 28 this year, I don’t actually remember what I did on my birthday. But, the next day–which happens to be Valentine’s Day–was my second date with J-Mo. I told him he could come see me if it was just another Monday and not Valentine’s Day. He brought me cupcakes that he’d made himself. With sprinkles. Swoon.

While I did not go on any international vacations (yep, move that New Year’s Resolution into the “fail” column), I did visit three new states, four new National Parks (and five more return visits) and a gaggle of other places. I went to Phoenix for the annual booksale, I walked all over San Francisco, hiked Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park, wandered through The Devil’s Garden in Arches National Park. I rode on the back of a Harley through the desert.  I went to Montana for the first (and second, and third) time and fell in-love with the gorgeous mountains and laid-back living. I visited Yellowstone National Park for the very first time and pretended I was a real photographer. I visited (and feel I truly “discovered”) White Pine County, Nevada. I went to see an old roommate in Portland and knocked Oregon off my list of states to see. Before I started my final semester, J-Mo and I went on another motorcycle trip to Glacier National Park in Montana (trip #2!) and rode the amazing Going-to-the-Sun Road. This fall I went to Philadelphia, the birthplace of America, and the famous Mushroom Festival in Kennett Square, PA. On this trip I also made a quick detour through Delaware, making my states visited 36 of 50 (only 14 more to go!). Add two weekend trips to Phoenix to see family (no photos/no blog post), a road trip of beautiful scenery around Southern Utah, another weekend with J-Mo in Zion National Park to see the fall leaves, and then the most wonderful weekend imaginable in Bryce Canyon National Park. A trip back to Montana for Christmas rounded out my travels for 2011.

I read 18 books this year, which is not the 25 I was hoping for and certainly nowhere near the 60 I read last year, but I am happy with my number. I had a lot of other stuff to fill my brain with (ahem, 8 university classes and the required readings and assignments that go with them). The best book I read in 2011 was Half the Sky. It is not an easy read, nor is it fluffy, but it changed me forever. Check out my post detailing all the books I read this year for extra details.

I did not suffer any major illness, but I have the somewhat freakish, undiagnosed business going on in my chest. Hopefully 2012 will bring some resolution and peace on that front. I am still dealing with back/spine issues from the aftermath of my car accident almost four years ago. I have a sneaky suspicion my spine and hips just won’t ever be the same.

I fell in love with a boy, and I fell hard. J-Mo and I started dating in the early months of 2010 and got engaged in November. Our low-key, non-traditional wedding celebration will be this January. He is, hands down, the best match I could have ever imagined for myself. I have even started seeking out country music (I know, I know) because it reminds me of him. It’s a darn good thing J-Mo has decent taste in country music, no twangy bangoy business about missing your truck and your dog.)

I did not lose any weight, I didn’t even try.

My little sister gave birth to my new niece in November (can’t wait to meet her!) and several other friends and extended family members had new babies of their own, some in better circumstances than others.

I did not attend a funeral, although my grandfather is getting more and more frail. I don’t know if I will be so lucky for 2012.

I did not contribute significantly to my savings account, but I did pay off my student loan and my car. In February I tried a financial experiment to try and curb extraneous spending, not sure if I can feasibly do it again this year, but I wouldn’t mind trying.

Year after year, I find my largest expenses are for travel. I don’t operate on a massive consumption budget. I bought more shoes and more books in 2011 than I did in 2010, which isn’t saying much as I was employed for the entirety of 2011 and only half of 2010. Unemployment means no new shoes or new books. Except for a few “fill in the gap” items J-Mo and I will need, and hopefully a new mattress, I see 2012 going about the same way.

I wish I had done more pleasure reading (as in, not a textbook, don’t be gross), more cooking, and more exercising. I wish I’d spent less time on Facebook. Although, Mr. Zuckerburg’s recent changes have mostly eliminated my desire for it altogether. I’m kind of over social media, I’ve removed Twitter and Facebook from my phone, cleaned up my contact lists and locked down my security and privacy settings. Perhaps I’m paranoid, or perhaps I’ve just had enough.

The TV shows I managed to keep up with are Bones and Project Runway (although I’m kind of over Brennan being pregnant, I think it was a lame-sauce plot point. Angela was pregnant all last year and now Brennan is pregnant…I just want them to be smart and solve crimes, not talk about puking and breast feeding and stuff like that. I have enough blogs to cover that, thank you). I have recently fallen head-over-heels for Big Bang Theory. I think part of my brain assumes that listening to all those geeks and nerds talk about physics and…stuff…will somehow increase my IQ. So far it just keeps me up far later than I should be watching the DVR’d episodes back-to-back-to-back.

My biggest achievement this year was finally finishing my University degree, a Bachelor of Science in Economics. It has been a long, hard road, and I am absolutely THRILLED to be done with it. I honestly don’t really think it has sunk in quite yet, give me another few weeks.

My biggest failure…I’ve failed at a lot of things this year, but at this point I am over it. I’m sure I have let people down, hurt others unintentionally (and perhaps even intentionally), I’ve probably told less than the complete truth and purposefully omitted certain facts to spare myself some embarrassment. I’ve eaten too much chocolate and spent more money than I could have, but I don’t think of myself as a failure. I guess I failed at going on 2 international vacations, and I did not hike to the top of Mt. Timpanogos, I didn’t even try. So both of those things will go back on my resolutions list, however, “failure” seems like a pretty harsh label for something like that.

This year I think I finally realized how great my Dad is, growing up we had a strained relationship at best, but for the last ten years or so it has gotten better and better, and this year, in particular, I think it has really blossomed. He has been my biggest support, loudest cheerleader, and a really great friend. He’s like a trump card I keep in my back pocket, he has taken care of me for a long time and while I may not need him as much as I have in the past, I like knowing that he’s always going to be there. This is really new for me, and I’m surprised at how choked up I’m getting while writing this paragraph. You may have had your parent as a BFF when you were tiny, but for me I didn’t learn to really see or appreciate my Dad until well into my twenties. I’m glad it turned out this way, actually.

This year I was also surprised and embarrassed by the appalling behavior of others, and of one person in particular (who, I should note, is in no way related to me). I won’t go into much detail here, but her behavior is strikingly similar to something I’ve seen before. In fact, I had a front-row seat to this kind of ridiculous, immature behavior for quite a while. In the long run, things didn’t turn out so great the first time, and I really don’t see how it could possibly turn out the way she thinks it will this time. MB: you’re doing it wrong. Knock it off already before you screw yourself over for the next 10 (or 40) years. Or don’t, no skin off my nose. (Yes, I am being deliberately vague.)

Dates that stick out to me from 2011 are November 5, the day I got engaged to my sweetheart; November 23, the day I took a spontaneous, adventurous plunge; December 15, the day I discovered I passed all my classes and am officially a college graduate! (Wow, it’s been a good 2 months!)

My New Year’s Resolutions for 2010 were kind of hit and miss; some I kept, some I didn’t.  New ones will be made–per tradition–for Chinese New Year in a few weeks.

Life lessons for 2011:

1. It all works out in the end. If it hasn’t worked out, it isn’t the end.

2. Good things come to those who wait.

3. Always say “yes” to an adventure.