Deuces

Yesterday I was having a fairly crappy day. The reasons aren't really important, except to say that they were not as much within my control as I would have liked them to be. I guess I could always react better. I mean, when life gives some people crap they make art out of it. Am I right?

Anyways, when I got home from work Husband was at the library studying for DEATH I, and my small dog wasn't showing me much love-- not that I can blame her since we just paid someone to remove her ovaries and then strapped a plastic cone around her face just to make her life really great.

Some days, usually on crappy ones like yesterday, these soft, sweet whispers tell me exactly what I need. Not in a crazy way. (Not like the whispers that told this individual what s/he did or did not need.) But the whisper was clear last night, so I decided to heed it and head out to pick up some of the kids for Youth Group a little early. I figured a nice drive, a pit-stop at MickeyD's for a very large Diet Coke, and not showing up late to Youth Group for once would all help to improve the general mood of the day.

 And it did. It really did.

Although throughout the course of my evening I did lose one pair of sunglasses and that very large Diet Coke to some of the most adorable children I know, I didn't get any dinner cooked for the starving student, came home with Modge Podge and glitter all over my hands, and am more baby hungry than ever (I mean seriously, those babies!!!)-- it was so incredible to know that someone was watching out for me yesterday and knew exactly what I needed.

Plus, there may have been a dance party involved. And I do so enjoy a good dance party.

Deuces.

Agua con Gas

Dinner at Tango & Malbec on Saturday night.

Late night. W Alabama, Galleria. Ritzy. Pearls and diamonds and curls. Argentine. Que chevre, amigos.

Milanesas. Agua con gas. Mucho dinero.  Groupons not accepted on Saturdays. Sin dulces.



Word to the wise: the water with bubbles is a rip off.

Bad Face Day

So lately I've had a few bad face days. Well, more than a few. Try every day for the past 6 months. 

It's not the first time I've struggled with a long stream of continual bad face days. This first started my junior year of high school. That was the worst. I come across pictures from that year from time to time and have to look away real quick-like, afraid that the acne-monster may sense me looking at those pictures and decide to come and hit me with his zit-stick again. 

Yeah, that was not a great time for me.

I've thought about this a lot. I've thought about how sad and unfair it is that even after I've been so very accepting and tolerant of being cursed with a hideously small hind-quarter, my face has become just as unmanageable. I mean, it's not like I haven't tried! Two whole rounds of Acutane! And you know they give you hell before you can get some of that stuff. Then the hellishness of getting the scrip is followed up by 3 months of even worse acne as your body rejects having it's pores choked and dried up like so many microscopic prunes. That's 6 months per round x 2 rounds = 1 year of dry, patchy skin, nose bleeds, achy bones, and 2 forms of birth control. 

It's not fun stuff. But it works. Until it doesn't.

So here I am again, feeling sorry for myself and angry at Life for dealing me this Joker-- the kind of Joker that you get dealt and the dealer then tells you that Jokers don't count so you now only have 4 playable cards in your deck. And it may not sound like such a big deal to you. (If it doesn't that's probably because you haven't dealt with it before.) But to me, it really is. Call it vanity, call it pathetic-- whatever. Maybe it is. But acne at 22 is tough. I can scrub my face with the best cleanser 3 times and top it off with expensive, light-weight-but-not-too-light-weight moisturizer and still feel dirty. I can spend a half-hour with my concealer, foundation and powder and still look blotchy all over. I can get my hair did and my nails did and put on my spiffiest outfit and still just see Pizza Face blinking back at me in frustration. And Pizza Face just keeps blinking and blinking at the mirror until hot tears streak down and melt all that moisturizer and makeup away. And Pizza Face wonders Why can't I just be given something more manageable? Isn't it enough that I have unruly hair and funny toes and skin that scars when you look at it wrong and chubby fingers and a half-sized torso and big cheeks and a tiny bum?!

It's about at this point in my mind-rantings where I start laughing at myself. And the laughing turns to crying. And the crying works it's way down to the floor. And there I am. Kneeling and crying in all my weepy, blotchy, snotty glory. And there is nothing left to say or do but offer up all of that heartache and insecurity in prayer. And then there comes the gratitude-- for all of my functioning body parts, for the fact that it is PMS and not chemo pills that makes my bones hurt, for a husband that tells me daily that I am the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, for a mother and sister who say they don't remember my acne ever being bad (and for knowing it's because love is blind), for all of the days that pass where I don't get a phone call saying a loved one has left this earth, for a job that puts food on the table, for friends that love me because they know there is something lovely and eternal underneath my skin. For all of these things I am grateful. 

Then comes the sorrow. For all of the selfish thoughts. 

Then comes the peace.

I don't know why I've been given so much. Sometimes I catch glimpses of what I'm supposed to be and what I can really do, but I'm going about it like a three-toed sloth conquers a giant tree-- very slowly. So why I am continually given things I know I don't deserve

is beyond me. 

But today maybe I can try and show a little gratitude. Maybe I can turn this Bad Face Day into a Good Person Day. And maybe tomorrow morning when I'm blinking at the mirror I can see a little bit deeper than my own face.

Super Tuesday

Houston Livestock Show & Rodeo 2012

Is anyone else's spouse glued to primary election stats these days?

No???

Oh. Okay.

Daydream Recap

This weekend was one wonderful, far-too-short daydream.

And you know, when it first started I was like, "Huh, this weekend might be kind of a bust." Because it began with me and Mister sitting on the bed trying to come up with something to do with our tired minds (particularly his which had been drained of all its brainy juices from a week of med school exams), getting really hungry and a little cranky, and resorting to leftovers.

But I should have known. I just should have known that weekends are for being wonderful. They are for putting fake bets on a dog because he poops the most at the greyhound race track. They are for waking up at noon, barefoot running in the "morning," and the development of lovely feety-callouses. They are for faux fur and stripes and orangey-red lipstick (just like Iris!) and finding a new obsession (um, Chick-Fil-A's fresh lemonade...holla!). They are for The Cheesecake Factory and lots of love and laughter around a tiny table with your Texas-family. They are for wearing stretchy pants all the time, and baby-watching on the train. They are sunshine naps and pleasure reading on a warm blanket in the park. They are for long distance calls to your Mom & Dad & sister (who has to stay up late to do homework again) and wishing so hard that you could hug them all very tight. They are for snuggling up in front of a movie with a cup full of frosty Blue Bell & milk. 

They are for falling in love over and over again.

They are for preparing yourself for another week in the real world.

Happy Monday!

Email to Husband

Here's a little glimpse into life right now.

Hello Dominator of Block 3 Exams,

Firstly, I hope you are able to take a huge nap when you get home from the exam. Your body is probably wicked tired right now. 3 hours of sleep x 6 nights = Well I'm not really great with mixed measurement equations, but that roughly equals Not Enough Sleep.

Secondly, this is our theme song for the weekend, so be excited:  

We Are Young

Thirdly, (and unfortunately) we have some grown-up people issues to deal with in the form of the Maxima (aren't they always in the form of the Maxima?!). I started on my way to work this morning and had to turn around before I got as far as the McDonald's on Holcombe due to some very disturbing sounds coming from one of the belts (I think) under the hood. So I am currently using your car (I haven't stalled even once!), and mine is hanging out in the G-briar parking lot being as helpful as the bird terd it is probably being covered with as we speak.

I thought we had a couple of options about where to take the car and when to do it. (You can see said options pictured in a flow chart on my Instagram.) But upon reflection, we really don't. I don't think it is wise or safe to drive the car to Cypress to get it to your parents' mechanic. Plus, even if all goes well, we wouldn't get it back until at least next weekend. And with how much I drive these days, I don't know if that's the best scenario. The Shell guys did a good job last time (as far as we know haha-- I mean I didn't find a dead body in the trunk, and they didn't tell me I needed to replace the non-existent "timing belt"), so I think it would be best if we meet up at the Shell after work and leave my car there. It should make it to Stella Link just fine, but if you have any issues, at least we know we can get it towed through Geico without incurring any expense. (Whereas, if we were to have it towed to Cypress they would charge us our first born child. And depending on how cute our first born is, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be okay with that.) Anyways, what do you think is best?

Fourthly, I love you. Be of good cheer, for I bring you good tidings of a great weekend. Even if it does begin with adult issues that clearly should not be our problem. Doesn't the universe know we just want to be party rockin'?

Love,

Beck

Thank the heavens above it is Friday once again.

The Magic

2010

See those people?

The one on left right is my grandpa-- Edson King Barton. Grandpa Ed. Strong Edson King with a heart the size of Texas and the best hugs in the world.

The one on the right is my grandma-- Ellen Ann Allen.Grandma Ann. Dreamy Ellen Ann with the loveliest silver hair I ever saw and the grace of a queen.

These are remarkable people. And they are full of magic and beautiful things.

When I was little, their backyard was the place I wanted to be most out of anywhere in the whole world. The white stone walls around it were my safe haven. The place where I existed as a princess. The giant cherry tree was my castle, and true love was forever waiting on the other side of the rose garden.

Their living room was like a dream. The afternoon sun would filter through the rosy pink glass and cast its spell on me. I would lie on the green velvet couch and bask in the lazy light and feel the warmth of contentment melt through my little dreamer heart.

There were paintings on the walls that I could stare at for hours (well, minutes, but to a kid...). There was one oil painting depicting a little girl with long, golden braids walking through a dark forest. Illumination came from above her where an angel watched every step she took. I knew at those moments staring up, almost smelling the pines, nearly hearing the crunch of the forest ground beneath me, that that little girl was me and that angel was my namesake, my Aunt Becky, making sure I didn't get lost in the dark.

That home was my little slice of heaven on earth. The place where happiness covered everything and made life sparkle and shine like the fresh dusting of snow that always topped the mountains just beyond the white walls. And I knew that there, in between those white walls, nothing could ever go wrong. And I knew it would be there forever.

I'm all grown up now. I lived in that house, out of the goodness of my grandparents' hearts, sporadically during my days at BYU. And although I can now see that things are not perfect, that tears are sometimes shed in that house, that sickness and sadness and all hard things can touch the lives of the people I love most even inside those walls, I have never been able to deny the magic that is there. It's the magic that Edson King and Ellen Ann have created. It still crackles in the fireplace, even though the logs fake now and the flames turn on with the flip of a switch. It still dances through the curtains with the afternoon sun. It still shines down from Aunt Becky's face where she watches over everyone from her place on the mantle.

And it's there in the way my grandpa looks at my grandma-- like he's never seen anything so beautiful in his life. It's there in the careful way my grandma toasts her husband's gluten free toast in the labeled side of the toaster. It's there hovering above them as they read together side by side before bedtime.

Beauty and magic are all around us. And I'm so glad. But I'm starting to see that nothing beautiful or magic is easy to come by. It's created only through love. Lots of love. I am so grateful for wonderful people like Edson King and Ellen Ann who love and create beauty and share it with the world.



Speaking of magic... it's Friday. (I truly thought it might never come.)