My collections

Here is an inconclusive list of some things I collect:

• Porcelain Dolls (JUST KIDDING!!!)
• hardbound, unlined journals
• quotes
• old books
• poetry books
• really... any books
• vintage coats
• Mikasa plates
• jadite dinnerware
• costume jewels
• my mother's jewels
• friends
• internet boyfriends
• pre-boyfriends
• gay boyfriends
• other people's boyfriends (kidding again...um...sort of)
• accents
• Daniel Day Lewis movies
• General Conference talks
• madonna and child post cards
• information about humanitarian non-profits that I someday want to run
• information about humanitarian non-profits that I think should run me
• other people's blogs
• useless pop culture facts
• weight watchers recipes
• black and white jazz photographs

The act of collecting is empowering. It's the searching and the hoping and the finding and finally owning that is addictive. Is it true that the things we collect are a reflection of our desires and passions? I should probably try to collect positive personality attributes instead of dishes. Then I wouldn't have to pack so much when I finally decide to move.

Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others

Ahhhh...the Smiths. I've always known that Morrissey was meant to be my soul mate. "The More you ignore me, the closer I get..." I think he's lived my life or at least had a bad dream one time about it. Sometimes, I imagine that Morrissey has written a song specifically for me....loveable losers who stalk people and have to sign up on internet dating sites to meet men...yep, it sounds vaguely morrissey-esque.

It's true. I'm back on-line. I took a little internet-love hiatus after a serious run-in with a deranged donald duck impersonator...but it's time to get back on the wagon. This time, I've decided to put all my cards on the table. I changed my profile to say that I am not a naturally thin girl but that I value strength and health and am working hard to acheive that goal...I think that's pretty honest. I also hope to avoid the anxiety of meeting someone for the first time by being painfully truthful. Not in a self-depricating way (although, if I'm being painfully honest, that is a problem of mine) but I think there is deep merit in telling it like it is.

Here is a sample IM conversation with my next internet boyfriend if I have my way:

DB (dream boy): Your picture is cute.
NB (NinnyBeth): Thank you. My thighs are genetically predisposed to cellulite.
DB: I love cellulite.
NB: I will call you 5 times a day and demand your attention, although it will be done in a completely endearing, non-scary way.
DB: I have unlimited cell phone minutes and never screen my calls.
NB: You should screen your calls.
DB: I like to be surprised.
NB: My family is moderately crazy but very close and supportive.
DB: I have no family of my own as I was raised by trained artistic wolves who were put to sleep after a particularly bad gallery show. I will learn the ways of your people and we will be as one.
NB: I like to have parties and will probably ignore you while I make the rounds, handing out cream puffs on toothpicks and flirting with party guests.
DB: Marry Me.

If the internet fails to yield this exchange, I am finding morrissey in his adorable cardigan and converting him to Mormonism (and overt heterosexuality for that matter). Then we may be hated for loving, but we will be happy together.

My disease is back

I'm fighting off another episode of the pox. It' s really starting to piss me off. I woke up this morning after a rather fitful night of moderate sleep to a puffy left eye with the tell-tale signs of IRITIS. Damnit. This means I have to go to the doctor and get tested for rheumatoid arthritis and lupus. Don't I feel too young to have some weird chronic illness? I think this is a sad punctuation to my earlier post about my genetic failings. I'm trying not to freak out. Everyone in the office is being so kind about it...but I feel like a freak. People get bad diagnoses all the time. my little brother just found out that he has scoliosis. sis's and itis's and any other latin etemological suffixes for flair ups and disease BITE. I think I am going to boycott itis's. Hopefully they will boycott me too.

I only had a BITE of that cake, thank you very much! 

Sweat

I got up this morning at 6:10am. It was still dark outside, but I was there in my gym pants, sports bra and running shoes...bleary eyed, but present. And I went to the gymnasium. The gym and I have always SORT of gotten along. I did ok in the squatting weight class and I survived the "incident" with the treadmill with only moderate scarring...but I have a new problem.

When I went to Trevor, my new STYLIST (so fun to say that) last week, I was chastized for washing my hair everyday. This is a not news to me...I understand that it's supposed to be healthy for your hair to soak in their own greasy juices at least every other day. I get it. But just because I get it doesn't mean I have to like it or do it. Honestly, when I was a scary adolescent, I used to get in TROUBLE for not washing my hair. In fact, my mother still likes to point out that I had to be told to wash my long stringy hair...if only my mom had known that I was really not hygenically challenged...I was FASHION FORWARD!

Ok, so a lifetime of being told to wash your hair can not easily be reversed. But I'm trying. I've been promised by Those Who Wash Every Other Day that my hair will adjust and even out. I have faith in Their words. So I'm making it happen...but this coincides challengingly with my new gym schedule. I'm not sure if massive amounts of sweat is the same thing as normally occuring hair grease and I'm afraid that I'm moving into the realm of "just plain disgusting". Trevor suggested that I use baby powder to cut the grease on my "day off" but that seems so highschool dreadlock wannabe. Can healthy hair and a healthy body co-exist peacefully? I used to actually like sweat before it became a harbinger of bad hair. I guess we'll just have to wait and see which vanity wins out?

I got a timebomb in my mind, Mom.

I've been listening to Timebomb by the Old 97's. I think this song is appropriate considering the fact that I am a genetic timebomb. Bad teeth, heart failure, scoliosis, arthritis, macular degeneration, diabetes, obesity, clinical depression, male pattern baldness. THe list goes on and on...I'm sadly reminded of my ancestral failings everytime I go to the doctor...and I realize that this is my anti-dowery.

In the good old days, fathers would bring gold, cases of expensive whisky and cows to the potential husbands of their daughters...in essence buying them a "good" match. What would my father have to offer? They would take one look at my medical history and run out of the room realizing that I can offer nothing more than pain and a future of waiting for the floor to drop out. They can expect to wake up one morning to a bald, blind hunchback, crying uncontrollably and going into convulsions from low blood sugar. Our children will be fat snaggle toothed cripples who can't play soccer because of their heart condition. Don't you want to marry me???

I realize this is a little over the top, but I blame it on my penchant for drama...oh, did I forget to add that to the list??? Honestly, it's going to take a strong man to get past my genetics and I wonder if that is possible. This is the hidden stuff...the quiet truths that have prompted men to say, "look at her mother if you want to see what the woman you marry will be like in 20 years". And you wonder why I'm NOT against genetic engineering?????

OH what a world...what a WORLD

I am a farmer. I farm. Or rather, I pick the fruits/vegetables of the farmer's labor...so I guess I'm more like a farm-vampire. Last Saturday, I went with my friend Lena to the Day Farms in Layton and we picked like 400 pounds of tomatoes and some eggplants and peppers. There is nothing more beautiful than washing your green stained hands and watching the dirt of real work circle down the drain of your inner-city sink.

Now some of you know that I hate the suburbs. You've heard my rendition of "welcome welcome suburban morning" and know that the versatility of the colors beige,eccru, eggshell and the like are a personal affront to my spirit. The truth is, that if I can't live IN the city, then I want to be as far out of it as I can. I think I'm a rare half-breed, part hipster, part hippy. Farms and ranches have always been intriguing to me...living on the land, sustainably, growing your own food, learning how to not kill all things green. Maybe a sheep or a goat or something that eats clothes on your clothesline. Simplicity. It seems like a quirky enough existence to keep you interested. And your kids would at least be unique...maybe a little weird but I can't decide if being a weird artist commune mom is worse or better than soccer mom. I don't know. All I know is that sometimes the idea of escaping the reality of societal living is so tempting.

After my faux farming day, we got in the car and listened to NPR all the way home...it was a current events quiz show called, "Wait, Wait...I know the answer" or something like that. Lena was rattling off answers and would certainly have won had she been on the show. I on the otherhand was abysmal. My complete lack of awareness of current events forced me to admit to Lena that I rarely pay attention to the news. I mean, I just don't read, listen to or watch it. I'm not ignorant and I'm certainly not stupid (uh, except when it comes to men, then I'm positively daft) but I think I'm too idealistic to handle the day to day traumas of politics, missing children and natural disasters. I'm consciously unconscious. What I mean to say is that I'd rather get to know the people that are living these news-worthy lives than read about it in the paper. I want to change the world one person at a time and if my optimism is to survive the barrage of horrifying images, then I will continue to stay away from the press.

This is exactly why I will never purposely live in the suburbs. The suburbs are the newspapers of america. THey are voyuers, the readers, the listeners. I want to be all or nothing. Far-away- from- it- all farmer or in-the-trenches city girl. But never anesthetized watching it all go down around me while I mow the front lawn. Maybe this is too much of a generalization and maybe I'm wrong to not read the paper. I certainly know more about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes Scientological relationship than I know about Hurricane Katrina...so maybe I am a hypocrite. And maybe you think I'm completely wrong. And maybe I will be sorry someday...but for right now, I'll eat my tomatoes in my 4th floor apartment overlooking downtown Salt Lake and try to think of ways to change the world without having to turn on the Television.

Addictive Personalities Make Better Stalkers

THis is going to be my new bumper sticker....

I went to weight watchers last night and found out that I lost 2.2 pounds. Yay for me!!! There is something really cool about being in a room that looks like a jehovah's witness kingdom hall (no windows) with a bunch of chubby people all admitting that when the breadbasket gets passed to them, they CAN NOT say NO. No one gets up and says their first name. No one gets a keychain if they go 30 days without dessert, but the idea is the same. We're food junkies and we get together to support each other in our quest to be moderate in the face of Godiva Chocolates, 18 inch pizzas and all things fried.

I talked to my mom about the fact that I was really depressed lately, and she blamed it on my diet...excuse me, I mean...MY NEW HEALTHY LIFESTYLE. She pointed out that I use food to comfort me and now that I am counting every point, I no longer CAN use food as my reward or panacea for my emotional blah blah blah. I agree to some extent. It's all about finding substitutes, so instead of eating a canoli, I call people. I text them three or four times in a row. I take a drive to peer through their windows right at dusk when the blinds are still open and the lights are now on. JUST KIDDING, but the impetus behind it is true...I've found that without my food crutches, I need people more than before. I need distractions and I need support. I need to talk about food and no food and not having that piece of pozza that I really really just wanted to scarf even though it had been in someone's refrigerator for a month and was no longer even really edible. I need something to fill the hole left by 1/2 a cup of brown rice and steamed vegetables.

So this is why weight watchers is group therapy for fat people and why that is so freaking necessary. Last night in my meeting, I was talking about the lack of control I exhibited the last time I went out to eat with my friends. They ordered calamari. Fried Squid, people. I don't even love it. I like it, but I don't LLLLLLOOOOOVVVVEEEE it. And as I was eating my like 8th piece, I was chewing the rubbery circle of squid and thinking...why can't I just say no???? What should I have done???? The cute lady sitting behind me, a veteran in the food addiction war, said, "next time the calamari comes near you, tip your water into the basket, ruin it!!!!" I laughed and laughed and realized that this really is WAR and even my friends and their appetizers can not be spared.

I want to be healthy. I want to be moderate. I want to be happy about my body since it is the only one I'm getting and I won't be whole until I can accept it and love it. This morning I woke up and realized that 9.2 pounds of fat (which is the total amount I've lost thus far) is like heaving around a newborn baby all the time. A big newborn. I am feeling lighter. My heart can beat just a little slower. I can breathe just a little bit better. I can't guarantee that I'll stop filling my food need with people, so you might prepare yourself for a few extra texts and calls these next few months, but I promise it will be the best thing for all of us. I'm good at what I do.

another day, another dollar

My 28th year goal is to become more fiscally responsible. By the time I am thirty, I would like to be able to purchase a home. Saying this openly is supposed to be a motivation for me to stop dreaming about the ipod I will never have and stop coveting things that I want, but certainly don't need.

In the same vein, I don't think it's unreasonable for me to take steps toward my fiscal responsibility and goal of home ownership that are a little less than conventional. Necessity is the mother of invention. Therefore, this blog is dedicated to my continued search of a man willing to help me become the trophywife that I was born to be. I have the blond hair. I have the appreciation of small dogs and large diamonds. I am willing to acquire "altered" body parts if someone else is willing to pay for it. I am open to lazy afternoons of shopping with someone else's money, dropping the 2.5 children off at daycare while I get my manicure and running errands like telling the help to get a pint of ben and jerry's while they are out grabbing dinner. I don't mind being the one to suggest couples therapy and hypnotism when things aren't going so well. I think I would be amazing.

So if you are able to help me reach my goals, please email me. I can't promise much in return...just some arm candy to make your squash buddies jealous, countless opportunities to be told how to dress better and maybe if you're lucky, less than 3 crying/pouting freak-outs a week....

Lady bug, Lady bug

Last night I was doing dishes after a flurry of weight watchers cookbook creativity and I noticed a lady bug, legs up, flailing around in the dish water. I don't know what made me do it, since normally, I am a little less than altruistic to bugs, but I grabbed a spoon and scooped her (it's a "LADY" bug afterall) up and set her rightside down on the sink. I tried to blow on her to dry her off since I was not sure if bug wings retain water like people-hair...but I didn't want her to die. I watched her kind of twitch around a little, waterlogged and tenuous. I felt a little guilty for several reasons. 1. I didn't actually stop doing dishes. 2. I didn't think, if I had just had a near death experience that I would like to have someone leaning over me watching my life struggle. 3. I probably could have done more. I think she died, I havne't gone back to the sink since the dishes were done. I don't want to know.

I have a sort of sick affinity for lady bugs ever since I lived in South Carolina and had an existential moment in my attic bedroom watching what seemed like thousands of red and black dotted wings flying around the ceiling trying fruitlessly to mate with the bare lighbulb. I got their futility. I understood that feeling of bareness. I felt that heat that kills eminating from a need or a want that will never be filled. In short, I felt connected to their mating dance aimed at a false idea. That's me.

So you might be able to see why I had such a bizarre reaction to a drowning bug. Maybe this is a repetitive metaphor...lady bug death as a representation of my emotional state. Today I am drowning, flailing in soapy water that is supposed to clean not kill. Once again taken in by shiny objects only to find myself face down and stuck. I want flight. Everyone else is moving...London, New York, St Louis (ok, the list gets progressively less exotic, but it doesn't matter, it's movement, damnit!!!)...I'm in a pool of dishwater, trying to make my wings work.

When I moved to Salt Lake City, it was a miracle...things conspiring, congealing in a way that I didn't think possible to make me believe this was meant to be. Maybe it was childlike, but I could not escape the hand of God everywhere I looked. I think I need to rediscover that wonder. I have purpose here...it's not like my life is completely shiftless...I just don't have the wide eyes of amazement right now. And maybe there is a hand with a spoon willing to scoop me out of the dishwater if I just stop struggling long enough to allow that sort of salvation.