Beaufort and an Announcement

We went to Beaufort over the weekend!  The Savannah Craft Beer Fest occurs every Labor Day weekend, and we missed out last year.  This year, because Mom and Dad are so close, we headed down to let them watch Eleanor while we drank lots and lots of expensive beers.

Here's just a hodge-podge of pictures from my new awesome camera.  Nick bought an Olympus Pen for my birthday, which made me just about die.  I love it!  I need to make a camera bag and strap for it, though, so if you have any good tutorials, let me know!

(Stick around to the end.  It's worth it!)

Shelton church in Yemassee, South Carolina

Senior pic time

At my parents' house:

Downtown Beaufort:

Blue moon on Nick's birthday!

Back at the house, looking at the dock:

Nick is a trooper and held up my mom's Sparkle Punch quilt so I could get pictures:

A mistake!

 The marsh during low tide:

So while we were in Savannah Saturday, Nick asked me to marry him!  We've been talking about it for a long time but it finally happened.  (I say "finally" like it's all I dreamt of.)  We don't plan on having a wedding--elopements are more our flavor--so I hope you aren't too disappointed that this won't become a wedding blog!  Ha ha.  This most I might share is my dress; I'm planning on making it, once I get some ideas.  Please feel free to share yours!

Did you have a good Labor Day weekend too?

Why Everyone Needs a Hobby

I no longer read fashion magazines, but once upon a time they were my drug of choice.  Eight times a month I'd score, devouring each magazine until there was nothing left of it.  I knew all the fashion spreads, the latest beauty trends.  I knew what celebrities liked to do with their time off.  I lived for Glamour, Cosmo, Vogue, Elle.

But as I got older, I realized fashion magazines run the same articles over and over: how to please your man, how to lose three pounds, I escaped my abusive boyfriend using a paper clip and a text message.  One can only read these articles so many times before predicting the end and realizing one has wasted another $4.00 on a magazine.So I stopped reading them.

I think it also helped that I stopped reading these magazines right around the time I was developing actual hobbies: sewing, cooking, baking.  These magazines never talked about anything I was actually interested in, but rather focused on going out, drinking, what to do with your girlfriends and how to attract a man--four topics I don't have any need for in my life.  I started to feel as if these magazines were no longer meant for my eyes, and honestly, it wasn't offensive.  It was just time to move on.

Last year, though, I did start reading xoJane.com, because I'd loved Jane magazine, and it also seemed much more diverse than Slate or the Huffington Post.  The writers were real and weren't afraid of being a little harsh or un-ladylike.  I've been a big supported, sending emails to my friends and commenting when I felt the need.  I really enjoyed it!  After being ousted by so many women's magazines, it felt wonderful to read an article and actually agree with what the writer was saying, and not feel like I wasn't being the right kind of woman because I had a differing opinion.

Procrastination

I posted this picture on Twitter last night, partly hoping someone would give me encouragement (nope!) and partly because I wanted to show myself just how bad things are:

That's my sewing table, which takes up about 1/4 of the dining room.  Maybe half.  I'm not good with math.  That's my old machine; to the left, four unfinished skirts, two baby blankets--to be fair, no one has given birth yet and I'm waiting on names, a baby dress and some wallets; to the back, a bag of wooden picture frames (I don't know), Washi fabric scraps waiting for another turn in the sun and the trash; in front, about, oh, fifty-to-sixty projects just hanging out.  On the floor is my purse.  This is what I see every single day.

I feel like that picture really sums things up right now.  There's so much promise in it!  There are clothes and products.  There's my life, my love, my sewing machine!  I mean, even the pin cushion is just hanging out, waiting for me.  But I haven't touched it since Sunday afternoon.  I can't.  Every time I look at it, I just get way too exhausted.

We're in the middle of a lot right now.  We don't feel at home in our apartment (and the recent ant invasion is really making us feel, well, itchy) but we can't go anywhere.  We dislike (okay, hate) living in DC more and more with each new day, but until we hear back from some HR people, we can't leave.  We aren't married, but we aren't dating--we're not engaged either.  Even Eleanor is just like, whatever, wake me when something exciting happens.  She's been sleeping on the DVD player in between bouts of cross-country track running through the apartment.

I'm not religious, but I'd like to think that someone is listening to me and my thoughts, and I'm hoping, wishing, praying that someone has been listening lately, because I've been thinking hard.  I'd really like some help--just someone make something happen soon--but until then, I'll just keep stacking up everything, promising to no one in particular that I'll make time for them soon.

Dream, Dream, Dream

When you become part of a couple after haaving single-centric thoughts for a long time, you feel very conflicted about yourself.  Keep in mind that I've been with Nicholas for almost two years, and until the past few months (and a few months in 2010), I've thought of us as a unit.  We will be together and will face things together.

However, lately I've been focused on thinking about my dreams, my goals, and my life, which is half of ours--not one quarter, not three quarters.  Half.  It entitles me to no more nor less than him.

When I found out about the DC job, and the fact that it was pretty much mine, I told him I was going with or without him.  And so he came.  I always felt like I owed him for doing me this favor, but seeing now what has become of him--promotions, a mature attitude--I realize that he was doing it for himself, though he didn't know it yet.  Had he stayed in Jacksonville, he would have kept his job at the pharmacy, his open-ended college enrollment (technically a student, though hadn't taken classes in years) and he probably would have found someone else.  I would have moved on, either liked my job or hated it, and done my thing as well.  We make these choices and then live with the consequences.  Thankfully, he came with me, and we were just saying over the weekend how glad we were to have moved in together, because it has made us a stronger couple.  We wouldn't have known that living at our parents' houses in Florida.

Because I don't love DC--sadly, what happens to dreams when they fail?--and because I'm completely, utterly unfulfilled at work and because I don't have a social life unless you count playing with my cat or going to Chick-Fil-A with Nicholas, my sights have been set elsewhere for months.  Over a year, maybe.  I am not one to stick it out and plod through.  I am one to run away to the next thing.  However, this coupleness means I can't do that.  I must stay at work so we can pay our rent.  I must think of him when I think, "I could leave and be back in the South by daylight."  Because it really has nothing to do with Nicholas.  It's everything I've brought on to myself.

It's setting in that I'm 24.  Twenty-four is not 34.  I don't need to get married, have babies, buy a house just yet.  As nice as those lives sound, it's also wonderful to think that the next five years could be spent in five different places and I would still turn out 29 at the end, no matter which path I took.  I love change.  I live for it.  While my day is structured, thoughts of leaving, of new places, of open windows and sunny spaces and weeping willows--that newness fills my dreams.  Should I feel bad for this?  I'm in love with a very stable person who spent the first 24 years of his life in the same house, eating the same food and talking to the same people.  I am not that woman.  I am not a root-planter.  I went to three middle schools, two high schools and two colleges.  I go and then I'm gone.  It's only been since living here that I've become meek and afraid.

How do I approach these ideas?  How do I say, "let's do it"?  I've only had to think of myself and my plans until this point, and now, thinking of someone else's makes me realize I have no idea how to do this.  I'm afraid he'll go along easily and will resent me if he doesn't love the tourist life.  I'm also afraid I will wake up at 50 with grown children and a beautiful house, unable to say I lived in Charleston or I returned to Savannah.  How do I reconcile this?

Weekend Baking

I've instituted a new rule in our house called Naps and 'Zerts.  The name is based on this:

However, the idea has nothing to do with Pawnee.

I made a strawberry cake last week while Nick was napping after a busy Saturday morning of errands.  I realized that being alone in my little kitchen, listening to music and measuring out ingredients, really centered me.  (I know how dumb that sounds.  I'm ashamed.)  I rely on sewing usually to calm me and satisfy that need to create, and I also cook every night, so I'm no stranger to my kitchen.  But there was just something about doing this alone that really helped me chill out.  I'm not normally on my own schedule at home--either I'm making dinner in the hour between my getting home and Nick's arrival, or I'm waiting on him to finish making pizza so I can clean up (on the weekends)(side note, how can one man make such a mess with flour?).  Either way, there are outside pressures, none of which were present while I was alone with my cake batter.

So I figured I'd start enforcing naptime.  Sorry, Nicholas, but it had to be done.  Honestly, he doesn't mind, because I'm not bugging him to go with me, and then he wakes up and there's food!  It's like magic!

This weekend I made a cake while he was awake (I know, I'm already breaking my rules) but I made muffins the next morning before he woke up--so I guess it counts.

Coconut-lime mixed berry cake

Ingredients all laid out--yes, I do that.

Chocolate espresso banana muffins

The coconut-lime mixed berry cake was Nick's choice, and he likes it, though his one gripe was that he can feel the berry's seeds while he eats.  Everyone feel sorry for the boy with the cake.  I chose the muffins, which are a recipe from Baked bakery (found here) and they did not disappoint.  We originally had 17; we are now down to eight.  I made them yesterday morning.

Anyway, I really like having goals and projects, if you couldn't tell.  I have earmarked my cookbooks (Flour bakery, Mad Hungry, Back in the Day bakery, A New Turn in the South...) and I hope to keep cooking for the foreseeable future.  Stop by my cubicle--maybe you'll get something!  Also to make sure I don't weigh 400 pounds.

Whatcha baking?  Care to share a favorite recipe?

Rest

My brain hasn't wanted to turn off lately.  I am certainly tired--I feel it when the alarm goes off before six--but, when I crawl into bed, I don't want to sleep.  My head seems to be housing millions of tiny people, each writing my to-do lists: for tomorrow, next week, next month, next decade.  It doesn't matter that these planners have no respect for 10:00 at night; they're constantly there, and I can't get these guys to get it a damn rest.

I have a lot of plans for myself.  I want to do well.  I want to make my parents and Nicholas proud.  I want to buy a house and start a business.  But it's the things which aren't as well-defined that start to creep in.  Do I want children?  (I don't know!)  Am I ready to start writing a business plan?  (I'd like to say yes, but I have so many questions!)  Where will we live in six months?  A year?  (I want to say the South, but without a transfer paper in my hand, I say for sure.)  When will I finish these stupid skirts?  Who will win the 2012 spring top sew-along?  How will my etsy business do when up against the world?  Can I afford to buy tags for my items?  Are ladybugs a good sign?  (I hope so.  One stopped by to say hello earlier today.)  Will I ever feel like I'm not drowning?  Can I make friends again?  On and on and on and on....

These aren't "What Ifs?" as much as they are "What Whens?"  These are all topics that will come up at some point, either in a week or a year or whatever, but I feel the need to answer them all right now, right this moment.  I must have the answers.  I need to.  If I don't, who does, and can I trust them?  I've always been the kind of person who needs to be everything to everyone; I choose jobs which allow me to cross departments and I never say no to an assignment, but I make sure I leave early enough to go home and cook dinner and clean the apartment, even if that means getting in at seven the next morning to keep working.  There isn't a facet of my life that isn't somehow controlled by me, and I'm starting to think I'm my own worst enemy, creating these self-destructive schedules.

I have an image for my life, and I'm not living it.  I want to live somewhere warm with seasons.  I want to own my business in a downtown area.  I want to stand behind a large, wooden cutting table, folding fabric with puppies at my feet, while customers nosh on the cookies I've set out.  I want my mom to ring up purchases and then help me choose lines to order.  I want the sun to be streaming in, catching the dust in its rays.  This work situation--which is the only life image I have, oddly enough--is one which gives me control, over how long I work, for whom I work, with whom I work, and what I do.  In this situation, I don't think about babies, Nicholas, dinner, or bills.  I think about what makes me happy, and that is it.

I have a very abstract plan for myself over the next year or so.  I have never started a business.  I don't know how to project retail sales, but I'm willing to learn.  It scares me that I may someday hire someone.  I have lots of technical questions, but I also have downloaded templates, a supportive boyfriend and parents, and ideas.  I hope that's enough--or, enough to get some sleep.

Friday Night Date Night

I'd imagine this happens to a lot of couples who live together (but who aren't married): you slip into a routine to make the transition easier, and six, eight, ten, twelve months later, you realize you haven't been on a date in forever, and, in fact, the only time you actually go out to eat is to grab lunch before hitting up Harris Teeter or Target for toilet paper and cat food.  You haven't dressed "cutely" (Read: not just jeans and a sweater) since before you moved in together, and that excitement that filled your relationship in the beginning has dissipated, replaced with monthly dinner plans and being unable to stay awake past 11:00 on a Saturday night.

The cure for this ailment?

Friday Night Date Night.

March

We're having a real, honest-to-god thunderstorm tonight. It's March. Eleanor is tucked between me and Nick, who is sleeping through it. I ask him if he wants me to turn out the light and he mumbles, so I leave it on.

Rain makes me long for summer, and the South. I miss sleeping during midnight storms, or walking through a shower on my way home from work in Savannah. I'd carry my sandals in one hand and my umbrella in the other. One time I splashed through confetti from a store opening. It had drifted into the street and I remember walking on it, noticing how it glittered in the puddle. I remember how lonely I was, just me and a kitten, but also how alive I felt.

March is a turning point, where days get longer and temperatures begin to rise. I can shed layers and cook lighter. March is when I know we'll be okay, because winter is waning. We'll make it another year. The cherry blossoms bloom, the magnolia blossom, and I'm somewhere in the middle of it all.

Busy-ness

Two nights ago I traced three patterns, and last night I cut them out.  All of them.  They're sitting on my sewing table right now, as I'm at work.

I like to keep busy.  I don't like to be stagnant and I like to have things weighing on my mind--if I have an obligation to something, anything, I know I'm doing alright.  But I tend to worry that I have too many obligations, that one day, they're all going to fall off and tumble around me.  And what if I let someone down?  What if I let myself down?  I don't even like to feed Eleanor late; something much larger than a half-can of Friskies could fail and it would be my fault.

So I create projects.  I buy fabric, paint, embroidery floss.  I create lists and spreadsheets.  I blog (sometimes) and drop off film.  I promise gifts and volunteer for potlucks and assignments, knowing too well what I already have on my calendar.  Just stay busy.  Don't stop.  Don't sit.  Work.  Keep your head down.  Be quiet.

I wonder what it's like to be able to create your schedule, to have more than three hours a day not devoted to work or sleep (true story).  To have a garden, to have a dog, to see sunlight in the middle of the day on a Wednesday.  I wonder what it's like to go out to dinner or have friends over.  But I don't wonder for long: there is dinner to be made, a shirt to be sewn.  There are things to do, and I must do them.

I'm doing alright, don't worry about me.  In the small moments between projects, I have a few minutes to wonder, to think about what the future holds, and I make my plans.  I don't know if they'll hold true or if they'll change before the time comes, but for now, they keep me busy.