the year of Migration

If I were to describe 2011 in a word, it would be migration and I would mean it in a literal and metaphorical sense.

There were ups and downs, twists and turns, some doubling back and circling around. There were tears, angry arguments, frustrated phone calls and conversations in parking lots. There was unequivocal joy and dancing to silly music. It was a summer spent with no air conditioning (!!!) and a year of intense professional development. There were friends, old and new - bettering of relationships and viewpoints. There were memories made and ones relived.

This was my 2011.

In January I migrated from strength to weakness and then back to strength...on my less glorious days. This is a theme for me, a common strand that runs throughout the fabric of my life. Strength eaten away into crumbling and then from the pieces, more strength is built perhaps stronger then it was before.

In February I embarked on a continuation of my journey to physical health. I started running and training for my March duathlon. I never expected or thought I would be able to do this, but I did.

In March I was promoted to city editor. I migrated from one position into another and continue to learn something new every day about managing news, leading people and changing our world.

In April I visited my people and I wrote about him for the first time. I spent the spring playing softball with my family and doing a lot of babysitting for a mom and three kids who lived with us for a few months. Physically, I migrated, staying with a friend during the week and going home on the weekends.

In May I was loving my simple life and embraced being shirtless on the deck.

In June I spent 24 hours in Corpus Christi with my friend Colleen. I ended up with second degree burns on my face and first degree burns on parts of my body. But we ate at Scuttlebutts and were satisfied, and stayed at the Passport Inn.

In July there was a big news event in Killeen and I became more acquainted with my wild heart.

In August my wisdom teeth were removed and I drove my car for the first time in a year. I migrated from staying at one co-worker's house and staying at another's. I found the Cottage this month, though I didn't broadcast it.

In September I turned 28 and I wrote about my job.

In October there was darkness, but somehow light shone at the end. There were moments of hanging on the brink of a dark abyss and thinking "this time there is no return" but there was. There was a gracious return. I spent a week in Kentucky at the end of this month, and moved into the Cottage quietly.

In November I wrote about the Cottage for the first time. I saw a friend for the first time in 7.5 years.

In December I documented some of my endeavors of simplicity and frugality and the adventures along the way.

I migrated a lot in 2011. From one physical place to another, changing addresses. From one financial state of mind to another. From one emotional state to another, and from one level of handy-womanness to another.

"She lives life in her own little fairytale."

Project Saturday

I took a break from cleaning and watching college basketball to explore the old barn for a Saturday project.

And I found it!

An old, old window frame that I cleaned up, scraped off dirt and excess paint and hung it at the end of the bed.

I was trying to figure out how to decorate it or what to put on it and then I remembered I can write on it with a dry erase marker.

So that's what I did.

The best thing is that I can erase it and replace it with a different quote as I wish.

NYE heat

It is New Year's Eve day here in Texas and the weather is fine. Just fine. So fine, in fact, that I have all the doors to the Cottage open and if I were inclined to crank open the old windows, I would do that too.

But I'm not. So the windows remain closed.

I've spent the morning deshedding the Cottage and trying to keep the dogs out. They are confused and don't understand.


And after fighting with them many times, they win. Kind of.

the real goodwill

I will admit it.

Not only do I build my own furniture, but I shop at second-hand stores, too. Oh, and I get really excited about it prior to going and then when I've secured my deals, I text close friends to tell them.

I was involved in a discussion recently with people at work about shopping at thrift stores. Someone threw it out there, the other people around were awkward about it, I dove into the conversation, though the prideful part of me didn't really want to.

I can easily say it's a scar from my childhood and that wouldn't be far from the truth. But I can't say that now. I'm 28. The past is the past and the present is what I make of it.

What is it about equating your level of success with where you shop?

Or your religious affiliations with the length of your hair (as I did this week)?

If you saw me today, you would have seen me in my brand name jeans and assumed that I shopped there and perhaps spent too much money on them when, in fact, I paid $7.

I told my co-workers: it's not that I can't spend $80 on a pair of jeans, it's that I choose not to.

Earlier this week, someone commented on how long my hair's getting, and so I frantically asked a friend if I looked like a Baptist. She gave me an "eh, kinda" look and then added that if I were in a skirt, she'd think I was Mormon.

Me, being the insenstive dumbass that I am sometimes, posted it on Facebook. The comments I received from a friend reined in my judgmental thought process.

Why do I still do that?

I'm judging myself based on appearances, and paranoid that other people are making assumptions about my religious affiliations based on the length of my hair.

I'm afraid that if people know I shop at thrift stores that they'll make assumptions about my financial status.

Well, this is my public liberation.

I shop at thrift stores.
I build my own furniture.
I have long hair.

(and if you must know, I spent $35 for two pairs of jeans, a skirt and two pairs of work shoes. SCORE!)

he's not mine

He's like the neighbor kid who won't go away because your house is much cooler and way more fun.

My morning routine includes an obligatory "good morning, Blue" when I sleepily let Skye and Zeb outside. He plays with Skye for awhile and when I step outside 30 or 45 minutes later to play fetch with Skye, he chases her back and forth and proudly tries to steal her ball.

When I retreat back inside, he sneaks in and dives into the food bowl. And while I'm trying to leave for work, he prances around the house as I'm nudging him with my foot to get him to leave. He sits by the front door, just inside, determined not to go out.

But then he does and then he sits and watches me leave.

When I come home, it's a similar routine. He greets me before I get out of my car and trails behind me while I let Skye and Zeb outside. They play for awhile, and when I let them in, he darts back inside and we play tag around the kitchen until he leaves.

I'm not sure where he sleeps but it wouldn't surprise me if it were somewhere near the Cottage.

I can't hardly blame him. I'm a fan of the Cottage too.

she's not perfect

The Cottage has a flaw, though it began as a selling point the first time I walked through it and wanted to curl up on the carpeted floor and go to sleep.

Hot water does not flow from the shower head at a consistent rate.

The first couple weeks I was there, I thought there was a flaw in the hot water heater. Like, maybe it didn’t work.

But then one day I stood in the shower long enough to realize that the energy saving hot water heater wasn’t broken. It was saving energy. At my shivering expense.

My morning (or evening) shower is typically my thinking time, but it’s turned into a hot water manipulation session. Before I’m ready to get in the shower, I turn on the hot water and wait for it to warm up and steam the bathroom. Then I get in and I usually have enough time to get my hair wet and the shampoo foamed up before the water turns cold.

And then I stand out of range of the falling ice water, and while I’m standing there shivering, I have time to think. To think about if the hot water will return and what I’ll do if it doesn’t.

Sixty to 90 seconds later, the hot water returns and I spend the next 15 to 20 seconds fiddling enough cold water into the hot stream to make it tolerable. But by then, I’m so iced that any amount of hot water feels scalding and my tingly skin doesn’t know if it’s too hot or too cold.

I repeat this about three times.

By the time my hair’s rinsed and I’m clean, I can convince myself to wait through the cold water till my next batch of hot liquid that I can just stand there and enjoy. Other times, I just want out and into my towel as quickly as possible.

There you have it. My perfect Cottage isn’t perfect all the time.

this is not a family photo

Ah, Christmas. It came back around again this year, didn't it?

It was a good day with good food, good family, good card games, good movies, good wrestling, good photo shoot, good time spent together.

It was good.