fuzzner

A few weeks ago, our friends emailed us with the news that they found a one-month-old kitten at a gas station. They already have two cats, so they were seeing if we'd be interested in being foster parents. Coincidentally, Fred and I had just talked the night before about getting a pet since we just moved to a pet friendly apartment, and we have more income coming in now that I've graduated from massage school.

A few hours later, we had this little guy stumbling around our apartment.

And really, he is a very little guy--so little that the Humane Society was unable to take him in, and he still needed to nurse from a bottle.

(Fred was apparently too mesmerized by Olympic diving to look at the camera.)

So here's the thing about getting a kitten: everyone wants to know what his name is.

Here's the thing about Fred and me: we didn't even think much about naming him until everyone asked.

When I asked Fred, the most clever man I know, what we should name our kitten, he thoughtfully responded, "Whiskers. Or Jaws."

My nieces offered suggestions, too.

Adri (age 5): Monsambler, Batonia, Garmon, Sam, or Fluffy Pants.
Teya (age 2): Cat.

One morning, the kitten pounced in our bed to wake us up. Fred said something like, "Hi, fuzz ball." It kind of stuck. We kept calling him "the fuzz ball," then "the fuzz," and now just "fuzz," so I guess his name is Fuzz, and I guess we are really into one-syllable-F-names around here.

These days, Fuzz is not as cute and cuddly in the previous video, as he's entered into the phase where he barrels around the apartment like something is on fire, and where he attacks inanimate objects like they're animate, and where he hides and pops out all teeth n' claws. I read that this is the developmental phase where kittens start practicing their hunting skills; unfortunately for us, we are the only moving things Fuzz sees. So ferocious. I don't feel safe in my home anymore, really.

one year

I've been taught that marriage would be one of the most rewarding things I would be part of. I heard again and again how marriage was better than dating, how (in so many words) marriage was all positives and no negatives. My parents glow when they talk about their first year--everything from the paisley drapes they sewed for their first apartment, to my dad carrying my mom through a giant mound of snow to the threshold of their honeymoon cabin (from which, lest we forget, they now live down the street, and they do not miss an opportunity to point out said cabin with whimsical sighs and dreamy eyes).

Perhaps there are some people in this great big world who merrily waltz over the placid lakes that are their marriages, their toes rarely skimming the surface of devastating arguments and broken hearts. Perhaps their marriages are full of poems, blushed cheeks, ironed clothes, padded wallets, and assumably lots (and lots) of sex. Peace is easily obtained by some people, but for me, it is worked for and earned.

My marriage is better than fireworks and rainbows. It is fierce. It is passionate--mostly in the best ways, but sometimes in the worst. It is scrubbing the bathroom not because you love the person who helped you dirty it, but because you are the only person who will. It's letting your wife pick the movie for the eighth time in a row even though she (admittedly) has horrible cinematic taste. It's humiliating your husband in front of his family and not regretting it until it's too late. It's saying that you don't care when really you do. A lot. It's moving halfway across the country for your husband to attend his dream law school, and then missing your job, your friends, your school, and your family each day. It's those days when you lie to your mother when she asks how you're doing. It's letting your wife go on a ten-day vacation in the middle of your midterms. It's coming home to your husband from your ten-day vacation and feeling touched at how grateful he is to have you back. It's bursting into tears in the middle of ward business in sacrament meeting...for the third week in a row. It's bracing for the worst. It's fumbling to hold each other when it is the worst.

It's the shared mistake of Baja Fresh burritos.

It's whistling together on bike rides, getting songs stuck in each other's heads for days on end. It's pretending to be interested in fantasy football. It's hugging your husband from behind while he washes dishes. It's catching each other's eyes and smiling from across the room. It's finishing each other's sentences and appreciating each other's anticlimactic stories. It's hearing your wife say that she's proud of everything you're doing. It's watching a dozen giggly children climb all over your husband. It's those nights in bed with legs intertwined, noses touching, breathing steadied and synchronized, watching each other's eyes become heavy with sleep.

Most of all, it's the realization of your own imperfection--every stubborn trait, every pimple, every time you have morning breath--but it is also the realization of how perfect you are in each other's eyes.

Happy one year, Freddy. We are off to a beautiful start.

running

I used to be Type A. Before the age of ten, I had a sophisticated filing system for personal receipts. I filled my journals with inventories of different places in the home--how many tennis rackets in the hall closet, how many CDs in my case, how many bottles of nail polish on my sister's bathroom counter. I ironed my clothes before packing them in a suitcase to go on vacation. I used hair spray to slick down stray hairs in my ponytail. I always measured twice before cutting. I was always in control. Of. Everything.

No, really. In third grade, it was brought to my attention that I didn't know how to type, so what did I do but request a typewriter for my eighth birthday--a typewriter, I insisted, because it seemed intellectual, and being intellectual is everything to Type A. My biggest birthday wish was granted, and I taught myself to type on that dusty, clunky thing.

I felt so in control of myself. If I wanted to improve my grades, I did. If I wanted to pick up singing, I did. If I wanted to graduate high school early, I did. Nothing was impossible...

Well, there were some things, like that time when I could not run a sub-9 minute mile in middle school. It's not even that fast, I know I know I KNOW, and I could not understand for the life of me what the deal was. After my final class of the day, I'd go home and run around the neighborhood until dinnertime. I went to the library and researched running drills. But alas, I could not pass 9 minutes. That killed me, not because I wanted to be a fast runner, but because there was something that was seemingly impossible for me to accomplish, and the thought that I was limited NO MATTER WHAT scared me to tears at the end of each Wednesday when all us students ran around that stupid field in those stupid purple uniforms.

Some time between then and now, I lost my Type A personality. I traded it in for Type X, Y, Z, I don't even know. Let's just say that I do not file my receipts because I typically forget them at the cash register--with my wallet, phone, and purchased item. I don't know how many CDs are in my case because not only are CDs ancient (ha), but I'd be lucky if I was organized enough to keep them all in one central case. I am the frazzled mess that drives the wrong way on one-way streets and doesn't realize it until the ginormous semi barreling towards me lays its horn and shrieks to a halt. The concentration and focus, the assurance I once had about myself has faltered into obnoxious insecurity and paranoia (I claim to be fighting it).

So let's talk about why yesterday I was able to run a mile in fewer than 9 minutes, because while you'd think this event would fill me with delight and a great sense of accomplishment, it only frustrates me to think that I was able to accomplish what I so desperately wanted a decade ago with no effort compared to what I gave back then--and let's not forget that I am probably, like, 30 pounds heavier and I eat cookies for breakfast and maybe perhaps kind of sort of probably totally definitely for lunch and dinner and second dinner.

Why is that?

Why is it that I can look at my old schoolwork, and even though I have not taken a geometry class since high school, my old tests look so much easier now than they did then, even though I invested in tutors and late night study sessions in trying to understand all that junk? (...and that is why I graduated in English.)

What changes? What it all boils down to (and here comes the over analytical, symbolic world view), IS THERE NO RHYME OR REASON TO NAVIGATING THIS UNIVERSE?

fringe festival for the outcasts

One of my favorite people is my friend Lori. We became friends last year when we worked together on a group project in a technical editing class. Our first conversation was about IUDs. I mentioned to Lori that I had just gotten one in lieu of my upcoming marriage (yes, I like to test possible friendships with blatant over share). Without missing a beat, Lori told me about an article she read about IUDs and camels. IUDs and camels--like it was no big deal! The rest was history. Whenever I'm hankering for a conversation about cognitive therapy or sociolinguistics, Lori is my go-to.

Lori recently emailed me her Honors thesis, which is a collection of personal essays she wrote during a study abroad in London. I wanted to share one of the essays that I particularly loved. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Fringe festival for the outcasts

I can find reasons to feel sorry for everyone; it's a little overwhelming. The longer I've been awake tonight, the more I've worried about the two comedians who passed us fliers this morning to their shows today. As I clipped my toenails, I had to turn the handouts upside down in the trash can so I wouldn't be staring at their faces, wondering if anyone showed up for their performances, hoping that they were funny and their audiences (however large) stayed for the whole thing and bought them drinks at the end. They were both free, after all. And these two men were definitely not the only people trying to convince tourists to spend their time with them.

There's some festival going on--Fringe--and the main street here is full of people handing out fliers, people dressed up like cows or soldiers or ghosts and holding posters drooping in the rain. I smiled and said "no thank you" to people holding glossy handouts with their own photos on the front above words describing how awesome their performances might be. I smiled as if to say, "it's not you, it's me," as if rejection doesn't always hurt. I don't want them to waste their printouts on me who will throw them away when I get home and remember them for days afterward.

massage, bodies, miracles

If I told you that what I've been doing all day every day the last week (and will continue to do for maaaany more weeks) required me to bring my own pillow, bedding, a sack lunch, and comfy clothes, you'd probably think I was enrolled in daycare.

But then you would see the oil stains on my sheets that I can't afford to wash out and the anatomy textbooks that I could barely afford to purchase.

You see, all my time has been spent standing on my bare feet, standing over a massage table learning all the intricacies of the body. As I run my hands over a plastic skeleton and memorize chart after chart of muscles and nerves, I feel completely overwhelmed at the miracle that is the human body.

My 5'11 German instructor, Keesha, guides her gigantic hands over mine, her pin-tight curls cascading over her broad shoulders as she sways to and fro, telling me, "Zee thigh eez very sensitive t'ere." She holds back big German chuckles when my first male client gets an erection during a foot massage, or the time when she accidentally farted in the middle of a 60-minute relaxation massage. She tells me again and again and AGAIN to quit tensing up my wrists unless I want to suffer from repetitive motion injury. When a battered woman peels into ugly sobs when I massage her hands, Keesha pulls me aside, her eyes filled with worry. She explains to me that we all carry energy that can be passed through each other; it's important I do not internalize this woman's pain. As I look at her in bewilderment, she struggles to find an explanation that sits well with her non-native English. With her powerful hands still on my arm, she says, "Our muscles carry our memories."

I was in a yoga class a few days ago. The session was wrapping up; it was time for a cool-down meditation, and we got into hip and chest openers. As I spread my arms out on the floor into the chest opening pose, I found myself welling up with tears--but I wasn't crying out of physical pain. I felt this hot energy move from my chest, up my throat, into my eyes, down my cheeks. The teacher calmly knelt by my side and whispered, "It's okay. Release it. Mend your broken heart." After class, she informed me that my unexpected eruption was due to heartache. She rolled up her capris to reveal a silvery scar near her knee, explaining, "I tore my IT band awhile back because I was afraid of moving forward."

While my friend was living in Thailand, she received a full body massage. She said that while the therapist worked on her shoulders, she felt nauseous and humiliated, whereas when the therapist rubbed her glutes (where you would expect her to feel a "personal bubble" violation), she felt fine. "I thought I was going to throw up because of the anxiety and embarrassment that filled me," her email read. "Not for that situation, but it was like leftover emotion from having felt that way and not faced it in the past."

Our bodies really are miracles--miracles of bones and blood and muscles. It's a miracle that our parents, against all natural odds, conceived and birthed us--that we too, against all natural odds, can conceive and birth offspring. It's a miracle that we have circulatory, lymphatic, muscle, nervous, immune, digestive, and skeletal systems that, despite their complexities, fit together so perfectly. And now I'm realizing that the most miraculous part of our bodies is that we have the ability to heal each other of the things we cannot heal ourselves.

before we were dating

I found some messages in my inbox that Fred and I wrote long before we were even dating. This trying-to-play-it-cool message from Fred made me laugh:

"Hey, I feel a little awkward writing this so soon after getting yours, because you probably think I'm a loser or something (I know up to this point you've just thought of me as pretty much the awesomest, most popular guy you know) but I was online when you sent it, so whatever. By the way I am also watching golf right now. I just figure if you're gonna think I'm lame you might as well have several reasons."

And my just-as-cool response:

"I didn't think the instantaneous response or the golf watching was lame. You wanna hear lame...I've taken TWO naps today already."

We're both pretty smooth. I know.

bikists*

Fred and I bought bikes last week. Said bikes are used, ancient, rusted, and together cost less than $150. My bike has stem shifters and rumbles in agony when I turn left. Fred's bike was evidently made in an era when neon pink was considered an emblem of masculinity. It also pops and clicks every block or so. Fred claims it's because it has "bicycle incontinence" (I'm not sure he knows what incontinence really means), and it just has a hard time knowing what speed it wants to go.

We guard our bikes with our lives. So far we've refused to let them out of our sight because Davis is notorious for stolen bikes. At the very least, we're convinced someone will steal parts from our bikes (although admittedly we're not sure which rusty parts someone would want to steal). This newfound paranoia has presented several interesting predicaments, such as rearranging our entire living room furniture to accommodate the bikes as permanent fixtures and the mocking looks we receive when we insist on wheeling our clunkers inside restaurants. We even plan on riding them to church. We're in love. Oh, with each other? Right, and our bikes too.

Don't mind the construction paper Christmas tree donned with string "twinkle lights" and (not pictured) an origami star colored with a yellow high lighter marker. We realize Christmas was two months ago. We also realize a construction paper tree is a pathetic poor man's excuse for a real tree, but in case you didn't already know, paper comes from real trees. See, they're practically the same thing anyhow. We can even smell pine needles if we pretend hard enough.

*What Fred said when he meant "bicyclists."

a [valentine's] day in our life

6:13 a.m.

I had set my alarm for 6:30, but my excitement makes me wake up earlier. I get up, put on my fuzzy pink robe, and tip toe into the kitchen to whip up hash browns, french toast with strawberries, and a little yogurt parfait for Fred.

6:50 a.m.

I place all of the food on a breakfast serving tray (a cookie sheet) and carry it into sleepy bed head Fred, who perks at the sight of so much food. He pretends to be surprised, but we both know he could hear me whistling and giggling (clanking and cursing) in the kitchen all along.

7:45 a.m.

Fred leaves for school. When he isn't looking, I slip a Snickers bar into his backpack. I go back to bed for another thirty minutes, then wake up and do some reading.

10:00 a.m.

Fred discovers the Snickers bar, as shown by the following text: "YESSSS!!!!!! Thanks, sweetie pie!!!!!!"

12:00 p.m.

I meet Fred on campus so we can attend a student meeting that's serving free Indian food. FREE INDIAN FOOD! Free Indian food that was 10, then 20, then 30 minutes late, so we grumpily left the meeting to go home to work out and eat vegetable soup.

12:40 p.m.

We pop in a P90X DVD. We're on week three, so we're both pretty buff. Never mind that Fred still has to assist, like, 99% of my weight each time I do a pull-up. Nothing to get in the Valentine's spirit than to hear your husband grunt in pain as he hoists you up into the air so you can attempt a set of pull-ups.

2:00 p.m.

Fred leaves for his next class. On his way out the door, he tells me with a mischievous smile that we'll be having dinner at six o'clock.

2:40 p.m.

Fred sends me a text with a picture of a movie ticket. The ticket is for a 4:15 showing of The Vow, which I've been dying to see because I have a horrible taste in movies. Accompanying the picture text is an audio clip of this song, which Fred and I decided we liked after we heard it in a trailer for The Vow. I've been gushing over this chick flick since before it came out, but knew that we probably couldn't afford to see it until it hit Redbox. Overwhelmed with elation, I text back, "REALLY!*!?!?!?!?!?!!!11!!" and change my outfit to incorporate every pink, purple, and red articles I own.

3:30 p.m.

Fred gets home from class. We decide to walk downtown to the theater. Usually I get huffy and mad when we walk somewhere together because Fred walks faster than average, and I tend to walk slower than average. Our walks are typically filled with me whining, "Wait for meeee. Why won't you just walk with me? Why are you in such a hurry?" Today, I am too excited to mind. I half-sprint with him all the way to the theater.

3:45 p.m.

We're totally the first ones in our theater, so naturally we claim the seats right behind the bar that has no other purpose than to act as a footrest.

6:00 p.m.

End credits roll. We kiss and jokingly say at the exact same time, "Wait, do I know you?" (A joke reference to the movie.)

6:10 p.m.

After a quick potty break for the Mrs., we walk to a new Thai restaurant for dinner. It is the perfect place for us, and the deep-fried cream cheese wontons not only clog our arteries six hundred times over, but they are also really delicious in a I'll-think-about-something-other-than-how-bad-these-are-for-me-as-I-chew-and-swallow way.

7:00 p.m.

We stop at Ben and Jerry's for Fred to get a free ice cream cone.

7:15 p.m.

We arrive home. Fred pulls our bedding into our front room, suggesting that we have a slumber party tonight. I am a huge fan of the idea, of course.

7:30 p.m.

The Phantom of the Opera (the movie) is on, so we watch it while having a little chocolate picnic on our bed. When Raoul sings, "Christine, I lo-o-ove you," Fred says, "That's my favorite part in the whole movie. It makes me teary-eyed. I think it's sweet."

9:35 p.m.

The movie ends. Fred stands up and announces he has another surprise. Then he turns on the song we danced to at our wedding. We dance and, yes, cry a little. We're so mushy. Ew.

9:45 p.m.

We wipe our eyes, blow our noses, and turn on an upbeat song. We dance like goobertons.

10:00 p.m.

The day before, we received a Valentine's card from my mom. Heart stickers were inside the card. We sit on our bed and take turns laughing and putting stickers on each other. We think we're pretty funny.

12:00 a.m.

Nice and warm in the covers, listening to rain and wind outside the apartment, we excitedly chatter about everything under the sun--how Rachel McAdams always finds a way to show off her booty on-screen, how similar we are to the characters in The Vow, how our calves are sore from P90X, how it's crazy to think that we got engaged only one year ago, how we want to hit up all the grocery stores the following afternoon for discount Valentine's candy. Our conversation slows as sleep begins to take us over, and soon we wish each other a happy Valentine's Day and fall asleep with our bodies spotted with heart stickers.

pride and prejudice

Fred and I have started listening to audiobooks on road trips. This last road trip over winter break, we failed to plan ahead and consequently did not deliberate and agree upon an audiobook to purchase. Thankfully, I had a copy of Pride and Prejudice on my iPod--a free audiobook I found back in the day when I took a British literature class at BYU. Although Fred has seen the (new) movie, and I have read the book already, we decided this would have to do.

Fred had never read the book, but I think we were both a little surprised to find that he. loves. Pride and Prejudice. LOVES. He will sheepishly deny it, but I was there when he asked me to put it on again and again and again. I sat through all the dinner conversations when he repeatedly brought up Mr. Darcy in a way that he considered "casual" (I know better). I noticed he began speaking with a slight accent, saying things like, "Oh Rachy, have I no respect for your nerves?" The kid was hooked.

One day, after break had ended and we were back in the swing of things, I was going through some old textbooks and packaging them up to sell back to Amazon. Fred sat down and listlessly shuffled through the stack.

Suddenly, he gasped. I looked up from my packaging, only to find him furiously holding up my copy of Pride and Prejudice that I had purchased for my literature class years ago.

"You OWN this?" he accused. "And you didn't TELL me?"

"Well, I'm selling it back anyhow," I explained, at which he positively unraveled. The next few days, Fred tried to convince me not to ship off my book. I explained to him that Pride and Prejudice is probably the easiest book to get our hands on, thus it was not a big deal to not have our own copy. Eventually, Fred let up and, through a pouty face, agreed that Pride and Prejudice should go to Amazon with the dozen other textbooks and novels.

What a sweetie, right?

A few weeks passed. Life was beginning to get back to normal. Fred no longer brought up Mr. Darcy the way a twelve-year-old brought up her crush, and it seemed that Pride and Prejudice was finally behind us.

Until it came.

The cardboard box that was dropped off at our front door with a brisk knock. The cardboard box with Amazon.com embossed on the side. Fred said that he had bought some resistance bands for us, so that was probably what was in the box. He ripped off the tape, opened the flaps, stuck his hand in the box, and retrieved...

Pride and Prejudice. Yes, THE copy that I returned to Amazon that Amazon then decided it didn't want anymore.

I couldn't believe it. Fred couldn't believe it, either, although the sentiment between our disbelief was quite different.

Pride and Prejudice now sits on our kitchen table--the table where Mr. Darcy passes between our mouths in conversation. The table where today I realized Fred hacked our Netflix queue, because sitting on the table in the Netflix envelope is...

the first half of the 6-hour Pride and Prejudice on DVD.

time

I realized a few things the other night when I was driving through the rural parts of Sacramento. The full moon draped a blue slip over the fields and across the sky. It was the way you expect driving through enormous planes of nothingness to feel: cold, sober, a slick black road rolling beneath the wheels. A*Teens came on the stereo (because some loves never die), and it dawned on me that I'm grateful for the season I'm in.

It's nice to be old enough to pretend I know better, but young enough to reap forgiveness with each mistake I make (and there are a lot of mistakes). I "don't know anything about anything," but that isn't so bad because smarter, more capable adults don't expect answers from me--only questions. And my mind is like a bonfire, sparking popping eating growing...and full of questions.

It's nice to be young enough to not yet have a past filled with regrets.

But why is it that when we're young, we're pressured to grow up? And then once we're grown up, we try and chase our youth until we die?

I hope I stay with someone into their old age--not literally. Not like I will with Fred--two geezers yelling at each other because we forgot to turn on our hearing aids. I'd like to touch the center of people and make them laugh (or even cry?), to inspire a change that stays long after I'm gone. I've spent so many years trying to abolish insincerity, to inspire awe, to cultivate special things, but now I'm not sure if I've changed a thing. I'm not even sure if I've succeeded in changing myself.

In seventh grade, I took a friend's picture with a disposable camera during lunch. She was hugging a tree, her backpack tossed to the side and her tongue sticking out to proudly display a mouthful of chewed-up Cheetos. I don't have that picture anymore. After the camera flashed, she laughed and it made me laugh, and that's what I remember now. Not the picture, but the laughing.

And when I think about that, I realize that maybe I'm not sure what season I'm in anymore.