I am not ... I am.

It's been a year since I posted anything on here. There have been a few moments when I had something typed but did not post because ... I didn't. But I have something to talk about right now and I don't think that I'm going to filter myself. I'm not as frustrated as I was earlier this evening (thank you people on the West Coast for answering and then just sitting quietly as I used my words) or a few Sundays ago or a few months ago but I have feelings and this is my blog so ... I'm done justifying myself in my own space. I may not understand my ramblings when Nephew and Niece are reading them back to me when early onset Alzheimer's sets in (thank you anxiety and Greys for that nagging thought that motivates me to hit PUBLISH on this and every Instagram post) but I hope those two and their cousins will catch a glimpse of the woman I am today and not ... well, read on.

I am me. And that is an ever evolving person that is trying her hardest on most days to make this life one I am proud to live. I am far from perfect but I am also far from the worst human to exist on this planet. I am a 33 year old woman who loves her dog, her Nephew and Niece, most of the rest of her family on most days, a Midwestern sky, Last Week Tonight, Chicago sport franchises, an human shield, an endless sentence (sorry about that Editor), quiet moments along any large body of water, tights, days when the windows can be rolled down, scruffy faces, winning, being someone's right hand, laughing until my sides ache, a wink from across the room, Coke, a one-word answer with a nine-thousand word undertone, rambling messages, understanding 'natural 20', all things #KrasinskiandKas, a walk after the rain, and someone else putting away my laundry.

I was raised in a home where a love of God, family, and country was the foundation. I am grateful, without exception, for the life that was mine as I grew up. I am still, again my imperfections may distract from this oft times but ... I am still someone who tries to make decisions and course correct with that foundation. But I do not fit the mold that my high school friends put me in all those years ago as 'the Mormon'.

I am am not married. I am not a mom. I am not crying on my pillow that my bed is my own each night. I am not conservative. I am not docile. I am not demure. I am not ready to follow the fold. I am not abiding by principles simple because I was told to. I am not an extremist. I am not a member of the PTA. I am not a gun owner. I have not been pregnant. I have not fought about something important with a spouse. I have not parented one child without hesitation while another one causes questions at every turn. I have not run for office. I have not signed petitions for GOP causes. I have not done so many of the things that the 17 year old me would have expected me to have done, I have not done so many of the things that many humans that know my name would expect me to be aching to do.

And I think that makes many humans in the church that I still call my own uncomfortable. I am the human without a husband, without a herd of children. But I am still a human! I am not defined by what I do not have nor what I have not done. Please do not look at me with eyes of pity or wonder as to how I managed to live for so long without doing the things that are most important, the things that you define as the most important things.

I am a woman who loves fiercely. I love my family, my God, my Savior, my country. I am a woman who has made mistakes, some large and near to unforgivable, but who has overcome obstacles and stands tall when the odds are against me. I am a woman who has her own thoughts and opinions and works very hard to understand the other side of the coin while holding tight to what I have fought to know. I am a woman who sees injustices and tries to right them. I am a woman who still gleans from the wisdom of her parents while paving a path that is her own. I am a woman who can see the difficulty and confusion that I cause for some and laugh about it while trying to explain myself. I am a woman who will make someone work to be a part of her life but once they have done that will remain loyal no matter the circumstance or differences that arise. I am a woman who stands when her nation's anthem is being sung but that respects the right others have not to. I am a woman who gets a tattoo while discussing her parent's mission in South Africa and the joy that such service brings with the artist putting that needle to my wrist (see picture below of me and Little Joe doing just that). I am a woman who relies on a man who loves men to be the lighthouse when I've lost my way. I am a woman who loves God and will continue to attend my worship service while being looked at by so many as the the 'woman who is not'. I am the woman who would love for that to change but will not allow others' opinions to derail my faith and hope. I am the woman who hopes to be a small influence for good and change in the world I live in.

Miles died two months ago now. I was by myself when Dies called to tell me that the world had lost that little boy who brought so much light and love to us. I ached and I cried and I screamed at the heavens and I wondered how this could happen. Surely if I had been married in that moment the feelings would have been the same. There are still so many moments when I stop in my own tracks and find myself on my knees in wonder and frustration about this loss that happened to two of my people who had already been through so much. I think of his Jaxon who goes to school without his Miles. I think of Chels who wakes to three boys instead of four and JR who has now enough arms to wrestle with his mobile boys and I wonder ... But I am a woman who can, when she slows down and asks, know without question that there is an outpouring of love upon her friends, a Father mindful of the endless ache, and a Savior near. My 'not being' someone that fits the common mold has no bearing on that knowledge. The heavens do not look at me for what I lack but rather for what I am trying to be.

I am not seeking attention here, that's not the purpose of this rant. If you were to be with Uncle Mike and Aunt Shelia, watching from a few rows up, you'd see me just beyond the light of center stage. My arms are probably full of books or tools to be ready for a question or when something breaks. My eyes are counting my people out there in the bright lights, absolutely literally but mostly figuratively. I have not been using my energy to find my own light. I have not been tearing down others in the light so that the light can shift and find me primped and primed for a surprise number. I am not the next Sherri Dew or Barbara Thompson, mercy. I am the woman who takes her glasses off if she stands at the pulpit, my faith does not require grand declarations. I am the woman who believes in God firmly and shares that belief often but in a quiet and personal voice. I am the woman who, sitting on her own during worship, can know that Father is mindful of her hopes to publish one day and invite people to know aspects of her as she allows.

My love for Vice President Biden and disdain for former Governor Pence does not disqualify me from being able to teach and love my 12 Sunday School students. I am a woman who can love them and teach them and be a part of their lives for 48 minutes (if the speaker isn't as long winded as I am in this post) each week.

If it were my birthday or I had an eyelash or it were 2:22 I would wish that the unnecessary and unwelcome judgments the humans make would cease completely. But it's not my birthday nor do I have an eyelash and the clock does not read all the same numbers. So I'm going to post this and hope that I will be looked at as a 'woman who is ...' rather than defined as a 'woman who is not ...'. And I would venture to say that I'm not alone in this wish. Live your life, find your happiness, and love when others are doing the same. Away We Go ...

Long night. Big Day. My Life.

I didn't sleep much last night. My heart was racing and my mind was keeping pace. #3 and I were lying on a bed, she heated the entire room with her core temp hitting near nine hundred degrees it seemed. Normally a cold person, I'm simply speaking literally here folks, I love cuddling in close with any human at night. But the children that ask for a bed buddy to keep the bad guys away who in return for safety offer to melt my skin off ... well, I keep them safe from the couch on the other side of the room. Every few hours she would stir, sit up as if we had just laid down, and verify my presence ... and I completely understood that. I do the same thing, 28 years later in life. I normally would call someone, a person of mine, but I needed to remain quiet for her and I really was not sure who to call. Which caused an even further uneasiness within me.

So I prayed. I do this, the prayer thing, often. Daily. More than once a day. More than a few times a day. My petitions to the Heavens are oft times perhaps more informal than a clergyman would approve of but my God and I have a simple relationship, that of Father and Daughter. And if the hour had not been so absolutely early where Papa was and had I not known he had been up late playing games with friends, I would have likely called him. But God, as my Father, and I talk. So I talked. I do that. I do that with people that I trust. And I trust Him. I'm uncertain His trust in me on occasion but my trust in Him is, to me, tangible. I listed things. I vented about things. I argued about things. I ached about things. I questioned things. I stated things. I wondered about things. I laughed about things. And all the while my emotions remained steady. Do you do that? Do you have nine hundred and thirty-three emotions but the second you are speaking to someone you trust implicitly the winning emotion is usually just relief and breathing. The remaining emotions can be looked at and discussed without fear of further emotion ... am I making sense at all? Regardless, to me the reader of this in 50 years when dementia has set in, it is exactly how it works. Not exactly, sometimes the tears need a minute or two to settle but they settle quickly or don't come at all when after I've placed the 'SOS' text or phone call or shown up at the house where I know the trusted person is residing. I've certainly digressed. I talked to God for a long time.

And when #3 started to stir, her stirring is a show, literally she begins her day by singing and asking the crowd of 1 to join her, I was only certain of one thing I was not six hour before. I need to start saying things out loud to more than just ... well, I need to say things out loud. I'm excellent (toot toot) at writing things, and fixing my writing, and perfecting it in my own unique way until I'm ready for it to be put out there. And let's define something here, my current 'out there' is the receiver of the Hallmark or text message or email or any other format in which I can write it down rather than discussing it. The 'out there' is not the world. Deep breaths. Further clarification, I am more than capable of stating my principles and my frustrations with another human's lack of principles. It's the feelings and the vulnerable state I find myself in when I go even an inch beyond those very concrete and founded conversations that cause me to become the 'quiet one'.

So I prayed again. I'm in Logan Utah for crying out loud. And my world here is consistent of humans that ... well, they've received Hallmarks and those that haven't aren't my people. So, who was I to speak aloud to? Even as I spoke the words to Him, in the cadence of Julie as she prays on that fluffy olive green comforter that match the drapes she uses later because that offers more credibility in my mind I guess, I told Him I'd do it but I wasn't quiet sure how or where or when. I played with the girls, boy games of steam roller and monkey in the middle, curled the hair on my head and #3's head, and claimed the baby for worship, three full hours of it.

And it was as easy as that. Approaching the single 32 year old with RBF, though not actually bitter, in a family congregation of my faith is not done, at least not in Utah. I'm an anomaly here. So family wards are safe hideouts for me. Until it looks like I'm a single mother or a mother who left husband and remaining children behind while I come to Logan to look for a home with the breast feeding child, then everyone approaches and I'm very glad I have the ability to pinch the baby who did this to get out of the conversation. (Relax, I did not actually do that. I thought about it, more than once, but I did not) But everyone wanted to know my story. Which is scary to me. A normal way to say hello to some, my Papa's calling card in fact, but so scary to me. I have my world, my people, and I'm set. But I'm not. Or I would not have had so many things said to the Heavens only hours before as sleep eluded me. So I responded. Initially, to the first three humans, I was curt, at best. I may have hid in the mother's lounge for a minute (picture below negates the second word of that sentence).

But I asked for His help again and the fourth human actually got out of me that I was not the mother to the child I was holding. And the fifth human, the sweet man who could not have been more like Papa (thank You), got a bit of my story. And I said for the first time, aloud to a complete stranger, that I am a writer. I am writer about to publish her first book. If Uncle, Aunt, and GAunt Em weren't there doing cartwheels I'd be very surprised. The baby started to fuss and I was able to excuse myself to the final hour of meetings but my RBF was nowhere to be found as I was laughing as I walked down that hallway. This is what normal humans do? Why? It's not comfortable. It's not my favorite. But apparently, it's now on my TODO list, to share a bit more with humans that aren't my people. But also humans that are my people, using my vocal chords rather than my fingers to type or hands to write. I'm not sure why that's something ... that's a lie. I'm a publishing a book. And that is a world so far from my world that I live so happily in. An editor, who I desperately needed, so many things he's said and my response was in an email because I didn't have the ability to immediately respond regarding something so dear to me, my writing and my world that could be altered for the a bit of time (there's a chance my book sits on my Papa's nightstand proudly and every library in the greater Chicago-land area due to the lack of sales). So, as I sit here laughing and speaking as I type (because practicing makes permanence, not perfect ... thank you Jen), I do the laughing because I'm writing about talking, talking about talking. But that's what happened today. And that is what was suppose to because I believe in not only Father, God, but I believe in my own life and my own ability to figure it out, slow but steady.

Two weeks from Tuesday I move to the other side of the Mississippi to do this. I'm sorting through a contract and trying to find what is best for me and for my potential reader. It's not as easy as I'd like it to be but I'm glad for the chance and the patience of those working with me. Kate French is who you'll see on the back of the book but she's me, not every intimate detail but I can share parts of my story as I tell a story. I can do that. Deep breaths and long drives, literally and figuratively. Here we go. Adventure awaits the courageous and I've seemed to have found a bit of that courage today and hopefully a bit more tomorrow and so on and so forth. Keep going.

I'll keep you posted on it all, apparently I'm doing that now in a very direct manner.  

Make Someone Happy

My thoughts at two am ...

I was raised by Jeff and Marcia. For those of you who have not had the opportunity to spend more than thirty-eight seconds with my parents, I'm sorry. You have not witnessed love until you've seen these two together. You may think I'm biased or exaggerating here to make my point but I am not. I am the product of two people who are madly in love with one another. I am the product of 33 years 7 months and 6 days of marriage. And I am convinced, this evening more than ever, that the world would be a better place if every person had a Someone to love like Jeff loves Marcia and Marcia loves Jeff.

You see as a kid I knew, always, that Papa loved Mom first and the most. Yes, I knew that if I cried in the middle of the night Papa would come down stairs and sooth away the fears and tears. Yes, I knew that Mom would help with the project I waited until the very last minute to complete. Yes, I knew they both would be in the audience for performances, games, concerts, or debates. Yes, I know that today they will pick up their phones if I call in the middle of the night. Yes, I know that today they will send texts to check in on their single 31 year old daughter. Yes, I know that Papa will forever be incredibly concerned for the consequences of my political affiliations. Yes, I know that Mom will forever be my advocate with myself when I'm unsure or scrutinizing my decisions. Yes, I know that I'm a topic as they petition the heavens for things. But in every instant listed and all of the moments between, they love one another first.

Papa lives to make Mom happy. Mom lives to make Papa happy. Yes, I'm no longer the naive 17 year old convinced that marriage of my parental unit is bliss every minute of the day. My parents are not perfect. But they choose one another first, above all of the other things in this life. They choose each day to kneel in prayer together. They choose each day to laugh together. They choose each day to be annoyed at the driver in the car that cut them off together. They choose each day to watch the Hallmark film while the fire burns together. They choose one another. And because of the choices they make each day, to be not only together still after all of these years, but to be happy together ... they as individuals are happy.

There are four kids, two in-laws, and one perfect grandson that have been painted into their picture over 12273 days together. And we are cared for and loved to the moon and back but we know, without doubt, that they are one another's partners in this life. We are tasked to find our own partners. Until we do/did, we were theirs but we were secondary. I wish that there were a word that defined this secondary-but-still-feeling-top-priority-while-knowing-the-foundation-which-brought-you-into-this-world-remains-steady-and-committed-to-being-a-steady-foundation-for-you-until-you-create-your-own-foundation ... but that word doesn't exist.

I look at some of my friends, more than a few into the second decade of their marriages. And some of them didn't do as my parents did. Kids have taken priority or a career or a hobby or idleness. It makes me sad, not for those couples as they made their choices and therefore have chosen the consequences that will follow, but for those kids. Yes, kids are demanding of your time. Yes, your career needs more than 8 hours a day more often than not. Yes, fishing is easier than sorting through your spouses ridiculous emotional escapades. Yes, Netflix has every season of West Wing. Yes, kids are sometimes so much easier to love. Yes, work often provides more immediate rewards. Yes, Netflix has Blue Bloods (I know, a blatantly right winged show but I have a secret crush on Tom Selleck, that mustache does me in). But to not know that Mom and Papa love one enough to sacrifice for one another ... I can't imagine my world without that foundation.

When I took a moment to be home after the not-wedding I found a couple similar to Mom and Papa. One night I was over at their house, I gravitated to their home because of that foundation of love they had cultivated. Sitting across from them, discussing my choices and their choices and how we were where we were, Annette said to me, "Kas, we still stay up late into the night talking to one another, laughing." Now, four and a half years later, I still remember my exact thought after hearing those words, "Like Mom and Papa." She went on to tell me the conversation was rarely about the four kiddos, now a few more, for more than a bit. They still wanted to laugh and tell stories, to discuss books and scriptures, to watch movies together ... they were first and foremost a couple, then parents.

Buba is married. Remember when that happened? I wigged a little bit. My baby brother ran off and did that without me, without my stamp of approval. I was his person and he was mine and now I was not and she was and ... ect. But some months later (more than nine, although the rumors flew ... bless us judgey Mormons) they had Captain and the world was made right. I made it to hold that baby for his 1 month birthday. And while I sat there for three days loving Nephew, I saw Buba loving his wife like Papa loves my Mom. I looked down at that tiny, skinny, most perfect little one in my arms and knew that no matter what comes, he has the foundation I have ... that his Papa has. He has parents that love one another first.

My most favorite film is Burt and Verona trying to find a place to create that foundation. They know that the new role of parent they are about to take on is a huge thing. They want to do it right. In the 98 minutes you watch them though you see that they are choosing to make one another happy. He yells because she wants him to (I promise, it makes sense). She smiles because he's goofy. They are doing the groundwork. Verona had exactly what I have. She wants to give that to her child. And Burt, because he's chosen Verona and loves her as only he can, is supporting each Away (they) Go adventure. They don't care what everyone around them is saying or directing them to do. He wants her to be happy. She wants him to be happy. Everyone else is white noise to them. I love every minute of it.

Why am I saying this? Yes, I know so many without a Jeff and Marcia foundation. Yes, I know so many that have become amazingly remarkable humans, changing the world and blazing trails of greatness without parents that picked each other first. So, perhaps disregard all of my words. But me, Kate (did you know I referred to myself as Kate? I do ... me and Gams are the only humans who understand that someone with the real name Kathryn should actually be called Kate but I've digressed), I think you need Someone. One Someone. And you need to make that one Someone happy.

Coke told me that today when I went to the store ... it was right there staring me in the face. (Coke knows what I need) If you spend your life making Someone happy and they spend their life making you happy ... and you stay up late into the night laughing ... and you wake up early to kiss their face off ... and you call them in the middle of the day to whine about your coworker ... and you hold their hand as you drive to get that $4 breakfast burrito that is going to make you happy for a moment but not so happy in a few hours ... and you ponder your crazy kids together ... and you support one another in hopes and dreams and aspirations ... and if you have real talk together about how sometimes choosing one another is not your favorite thing but you get to the next day and it gets better ... and your Someone is your Someone ... well, it just makes the world seem a bit less scary, right?

Tall One said to me a bit ago as I sat perched on his chair, anxious about it all, "It's my job now to make her happy. I took the leap, I'm trying." He said some days he fails but he tries again. And he's happy doing that. The rest of the pieces that make his life seem to be in a better place because that is his number one priority. Tall One, the one that for years I was certain wouldn't ever get past a plate of busy and being sure the 19 humans he took on his plate as his responsibility were cared for ... he is happy making her happy. One person making one Someone happy.

I'm not saying that we should silo our service to one human. I'm not saying offspring shouldn't be cherished and adored. I'm not saying ...

I'm saying you get to choose to make one person happy. If you are making her happy, if she is making you happy everything else, eventually, falls into its place ... at least according to my model. So make one human, not 4 or 9 or 17, your person. And make that one Someone happy. I'm pretty sure it will make your Monday better, your week better, your holiday better ... it will make life better. And if everyone had one Someone to make happy and that Someone was simultaneously working to make their happiness maker happy ... well, it would be a whole world of happy.

See, I just fixed the world. You're welcome.

Friday's French Facts

Fact 1 - If you* had asked me ten years ago my plan, I would have simply said, "I'm leaving on my mission in 10 days!" with delight. If you had asked me my plan five years ago, I would have simply said, "Moving back to California here shortly probably," with a bit of hesitation and a prayer you wouldn't ask anything more. If you had asked me one year ago my plan, I would have said, "It's an adventure, I'm sorting through." If you ask me my plan right this moment, I would look at you with tired eyes and cry, "I have absolutely no idea." And that's okay, it's honest. Give me my 17 and I'll have an answer sans tears.

Fact 2 - I'm not a sleeper at current time. I wish I was. I get into bed. I try for night time sleeping. I try for day time sleeping. I try sleep helpers. I try window open sleeping (I am Jeff's daughter). I try the sound maker Grandfather sent me while I was Sister French. I try no noise at all. But most of the time, I Netflix (is that a verb yet?) Josh or Jim. I will usually fall asleep for a bit, I know the story lines and find comfort in knowing it won't change if I don't pay attention for a minute ... and sometimes I sleep as much as an hour ... but more than that isn't my reality right now. It makes me the perfect person for holding the babies in the middle of the night or doing the 5am drives to the airport (as I did this morning, picture below ... thank you red light glow for saving me from having to filter the heck out of it). 

Fact 3 - I'm an anxious person. I hate that this word is so common ... schizophrenia, another thing people can have, is not used to describe our day to day. You don't hear someone saying, "I was just a bit schizophrenic about my morning routine." But people use the word anxious all of the time about things, "I was anxious about losing that game," or "I'm anxious to have you come see the new house!" And that use is not wrong. But as someone that has an anxiety ... I hate it's common use in our vernacular, it makes me anxious, my kind of anxious. Because you see, my kind of anxious is debilitating. It's not simply an unexpected rush of adrenaline or sweet butterflies. It's an increased heart rate, to the point where I feel like it's going to beat right out of my body. It's difficulty breathing, not simply a count to 17 and all will be fine but a I'm-losing-all-ability-to-move-because-there-is-no-oxygen-getting-into-my-blood-stream-in-order-to-move-anything and then the uncontrollable shaking begins. It's ringing in my ears. It's dizziness that makes me want to, and on occasion actually, vomit. It's the most uncomfortable feeling I've ever felt and I've had 6 kidney stones, one failed kidney (twice), migraines, a broken back, and a broken middle toe (that last one was just for good measure, I was 11 and don't remember it hurting very much but I was a bit of a hypochondriac at that point in my life). I don't love large groups of humans that I don't know. I don't love large groups of humans I do know without a plan. I don't love public speaking. I don't love talking, verbally, about things that I'm uncertain about, my uncertainty or the party I'm speaking with's uncertainty. I don't love passive aggressive behavior. I don't love hospitals. I don't love days 23-28 after someone I love has died. I have medication that I can take and I do when it is necessary. However, at 31, I've also found that not putting myself in situations is the much easier (for all involved) and much more logical. Some of you* don't understand this ... I don't understand you in totality either, and that's okay. But it's a real thing, a difficult thing. Yes, I'm Marcia's daughter ... we look almost identical and have mirroring mannerisms and only Papa can tell the difference over the phone ... but I did not inherit her love and comfort in all situations, teaching a hundred people how to manage in a crisis is her idea of a fun Saturday afternoon and makes me want to hide in the closet. I'm complicated and on occasion ridiculous. But I am trying to not inconvenience you*. I am trying not to cause a scene. I am trying very hard not to be the person you don't understand. Yes, there are humans (I can count them on two hands, if I'm including family members) that work to calm the anxiety, that see it before I feel it and know the tricks to Kasi. I'll ask them what they are and share with the world ... but for them, as I see it, it's instinctual. They know me that well, they are my people.

Fact 4 - I know that I am an excellent person to have in your corner. I believe in you* and in your dreams. I fight for you with you if necessary. I think about you and pray for you, not a blanket blessing list of humans but I've got the time (I'm not a sleeper, remember?) and so Father gets an ear full about you. If I'm in Hallmark, I likely find a card that fits you. I push you. I appreciate you. I love your kids. I take a pill and come to the hospital. I find time to be there when the guy is a punk, the girl is heartless, or the kids are running you into the ground. And I know that this is great, it's the best thing I am right now. 

Fact 5 - I know that although Fact 4 is lovely ... it's not what I would like to be best at. I would like to be best at being 1 human's person. WHAT?!?!!?!? You (general population, not my nicknamed humans) are thinking that I have my 'people' not simply a 'person'. And that is the current fact. But here's the new bottom line ... My 'people' are my favorite and it's caused some issues ('some' being a very under-exaggeration) as I've tried to have a 'person'. You* are likely reading this and can site a time you saw me ruin something because of you* without even realizing it. And I'm not loving that. Because sometimes life happens, and the duration of 17 of a rant/cry/mope/scream that is necessary is necessary to live with someone, someone that is just mine in that moment. Please understand, you*/my people are there and I know it, I love it. But sometimes, when it feels like it's Kasi vs. the entire world, I'd like to have one 'person' feel responsible for me, to be in my corner ... with no other obligations above me. Writing that seems selfish? No, no. 

These are just the facts.

*you being my nicknamed humans

My People

Lots of things happen in life. Cars break down or keep running. Shows get cancelled or renewed. Songs get discovered or forgotten. Laundry gets put away or piled neatly on the bed. Cancer gets beaten or maybe it doesn't. People stay or people go. Words get said or they don't. And it all just keeps going.

I was sitting on K's bed as the night turned to morning, using words I didn't realize I had. I said something and caught myself off guard as K and A just looked at me, smiling. I did not return their smiles but rather had a moment of frustration. They kept smiling. My frustration at myself grew and their smiles stayed the same, "Welcome to the party, we've known for a very long time!" one said as I sat perched on my knees ... both of their faces were full of ... well, it seemed to be relief, as if this secret they'd kept from me was finally out in the open and they didn't have to lie to me any longer. Mercy, I laughed so hard.

I was talking (but really he was listening to me be complete mess) to CA a few Sundays ago.  I didn't have to use a lot of words as over the years he's come to know what is behind each heavy sigh or sniffle. He knew a distraction would be best so a ridiculous and likely 98% false story was told.  As his audience listened and her eyes stopped watering he wrapped up the antics. And then, as only he could, he said, "Well dagnabit (not actually 'dagnabit' but tender eyes may be reading) Kasi Jean, at least the rumors can be put to rest that you can't love." I laughed so hard.

I was lying on A's bed being ridiculous.  "At least you cry pretty." I laughed so hard.

Bintz and Doc sat with me that hour, flanking my sides. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was but there I was. Doc distracted me with comments on Paul vs Saul. Bintz sided with me as every move was made. At one point she said something about a clean shaven face. I laughed so hard.

I called Buba as I sat in my car, trying to sort through it all.  I let it all out, all of it. He gets to know everything. And then when I was done, he swore for me.  I laughed so hard.

Boy and I talk about homemade mayonnaise. We did Whole30, we can basically do anything. No laughing folks, I'm serious (I say with a Coke in my hand ;) ).

And then reality hits. I take a minute and go stand outside, the Lake in my line of sight. Deep breaths, count to 17. I mentally make a list of the Hallmarks that should probably be written to every friend that's been where I am that I've rolled my eyes at and said without empathy, "Mercy, get over it. Adventure is right around the corner but you've got to get there!" Juanito Bandito's guns go off, rapping happens behind the curtain and little kiddos laughter makes it better. And before the night ends in my hands is a shirt and a card, I laughed so hard!

My people really are my favorite.

 

A Paper Moon and a Slight Whistle

Tonight I felt like Mom at 30.  It's rare that this happens as I do not have a husband, four children, a home, a trampoline (the key, clearly!), two cars, several church callings, and dreams of being a therapist.  As I drove home the radio played Nat King Cole's Paper Moon, thank you NPR for your nightly classics. And although this particular song was not on the soundtrack to Sleepless in Seattle it sounded very much like all of those songs and I was suddenly thrown back to our trip to Vegas, when I was 10 and Mom was 31 (my age in roughly 35 sleeps). Margie, Caroline, Amy, Bri, and I somehow fooled the boys into seeing the film, poor guys (11, 8, and 6 years old) were bored stiff but their time was bought with popcorn and Milk Duds. The estrogen charged population (Caroline and I were 10, Bri and Amy were 8 but we were just as hooked on the timeless love story as our moms) walked out of the theater went straight to the store, whichever store sold cassette tapes at the time, and bought the soundtrack to Sleepless in Seattle.  We listened to it all the way back to Chicago, it's amazing my brothers didn't come at us with knives (wait ... ).  Love was tangible at that point in my life.  Papa loved Mom and I could see that, I was part of that.  Annie was not crazy but had fallen in love with Sam via three minute radio spot and in the end would be the new mom to Jonah, Nat would sing about it as would Celine and Harry.  Love is what happened between Uncle and his wife, Gramps and Grams, my parents, and Tom and Meg on the big screen.  And one day it would happen to me. That song, Paper Moon, threw me back into that place of hope.

It was in this 'throw back' haze that I was reminded of the Lunar Eclipse that was occurring.  For an instant I was a bit heart broken that I had broken things off with humans as of late and was one guy short of a couple to experience this not-quite-once-in-a-lifetime-but-rare-enough-to-make-a-moment-out-of-it moment with. Not having a 'him' after this long with a 'him' is hard and not to fall back into that on a night when there was a 'moment' to be had was not easy ... But I rallied quickly as the earth was rotating and my window for sky-nerding-out (the only acceptable kind in my mind) was closing.  I texted A, still awake upstairs, and we met at the door.  We walked outside to see nothing but a regular moon and decided that the city lights were going to cause a problem.  So we hopped in Bleu and drove up the canyon. It was incredible.  I love the simple complexities of the sky, the grandness of it while being such a small little something on this planet.  I love looking up and seeing beyond the trees, mountains, and haze ... to a sky that is endless and beyond my own lifetime.  I've got a brother that is a genius about all of the things in the Heavens and I appreciate that. But, to be completely frank, I love just looking up and seeing the Man on the Moon in red and the stars, maybe some are planets, in all of their glory.  They are near enough to be bright in my life and far enough to provide wonder and complete amazement.  It was worth the drive in the middle of the night to feel that awe and inspiration.

My parents seek adventure in their own way, rarely was it grand or costly.   But we'd hop in the car in the middle of the night to surprise Uncle in Indiana or pack up Christmas Eve to surprise Grams at the house on the Lake, only after taking care to leave a note for Santa as Buba was CERTAIN the Big Guy would not find us at Grams with such late notice.  I remember (and with this memory that is a FEAT!) several occasions where we would be 'going swimming' only to find our bags packed for a weekend away.  There were many a Saturdays that started with chores but ended on roller-coasters at Great America.  And I will never forget that sunrise with Papa, not on the calendar but forever in my mind as my favorite morning of all time.

Papa drove a little green Geo, two doors.  It smelled of tools and pastries, that may sound odd to some of you but if I close my eyes tight enough I can smell it still.  Before the days of booster seats and laws forbidding children to sit in the front seat before 110 lbs (I have no idea what the actual law is but every time I'm in California Cowboy reminds me he is big enough or at the very least his mom has ignored the law enough that I won't be the first adult to risk his life in the front seat) I sat in the front with Papa in that little car.  The Church building was 37 minutes away, I know this because leaving for 9am church was never an easy task for Mom when Papa was called to worship with the Navy men at a different building and frequently the screams from the top of the stairs was simply, "We have 37 min to get to church!" and we'd make it in time for opening prayer.  I've digressed.  The building was 37 minutes away and we would often go to watch the young men play basketball.  I don't know if that's still something that we would do but Papa would make that drive, sometimes to ref the game and sometimes just to give the ref a hard time (the only 'bad' story we ever have to tell about Papa but I'll get to that another time).  But I remember Saturday mornings, either driving to the ball game or going to pick up donuts or picking up donuts on the way to the ballgame, Papa would have WGN radio on.  Sometimes we heard 'The Rest of the Story" with Paul Harvey and sometimes it was the Cubs game.  I couldn't tell you more than that regarding what was said by those radio personalities.

But I can tell you the sound of that radio tuned in to the AM frequency.  There was always a slight whistle behind the voices, always male voices.  And behind that whistle it sounded as if there was an empty arena where the voices would bounce off of every corner before it reached that green Geo we were driving in.  It wasn't an annoyance, it was something of substance.  It was something steady.  And so no matter where we were driving to it was of no importance ... because that car ride, sitting shot-gun with Papa, that was the steady part of it all.  He would chime in with his own wisdom often but I can't tell you what gem he offered. I can tell you that smell is still inside of me and my heart slows to a steady beat when I tune into an AM frequency now.

What I'm getting at ... My life is not that of my parents 20 years ago.  But because of the life they gave me, full of frugal adventure and AM radio stations, I love my life.  I have my moments, we all do, but the Lunar Eclipse from the canyon with the water rushing and the wind blowing completes my Monday.  And NPR or ESPN 700 can bring my blood pressure back down to a scary-low-level (thanks for that Gramps! that and the lack of a bum!) after I get word of an injustice done in the world.  It's Nat's voice ringing in my ear that makes me smile.  It's that slight whistle behind the sound of those deep bass voices that reminds me that this is my story but filled with the nuances of Jeff and Marcia, Bill and Phyllis, Max and Charma, Bill and Monica, Matt and Laurel, Mike and Robin ect.

So as I sit here at 240 in the morning, with Paper Moon playing, I smile.  Because life is good.  It's winks, whistles, and Paper Moon good.

Get that Girl a Coke

I sat across from CA at a Mexican place that, after I thought about it on my drive home, I've been to before. We were enjoying our water (it was not a Coke establishment and he realized after we had chosen this destination that he should probably have told me but he didn't and that's fine), chips and salsa (it was almost as good as Cucos), discussing life.  We're both excellent at life, truly.  We're not so excellent at communicating about it but we have managed for 7 years and still like each other well enough to keep communicating about it. At one point in our conversation, as I was thoroughly enjoying my soup, I eluded to a conversation we've had at least twice a year for the last five, "Being with someone is a choice." This time he did not nod his head in agreement and move us to the next topic.  This time he took an opposing view. "Really, is it a choice? I mean, you can just marry anyone and be okay? We're dealt cards ..." (He didn't say dealt cards but he said something like it and so there you have it ... he's not all circumstances and such though, this is the same CA who also says, at least yearly and more specifically over the very same salsa this day, how amazed he is when two people like each other enough to love each other enough to CHOOSE each other for the rest of time ... He has it figured out about as well as I do).  I ached a little bit for a Coke in that moment of confusion as I reached for my water.

A few days before another CA made a surprise visit to worship ... not a surprise that he was at worship but that he was there at that particular moment half-way through the second hour (I'm sorry, I know you are likely confused and will likely continue to be a bit lost but when I'm telling my nieces about life all of this will be enough to jog my memory and not enough that they won't have to ask me for details ... that's how I roll here folks).  I was happy to see him, truly.  But I had already decided that I wasn't going to be there for the third hour and so I made quick conversation with him.  He made a face, it's something we both do.  Then, somehow in less than the 29 seconds that I sat there with him before leaving, he brought up jobs and hating them and dream lives and a euphoric way of life and as I sat there I ached for a Coke a little bit because as it would turn out, I may not be built for that kind of euphoric life he is convinced is out there somewhere.

That same evening I was talking to Mom, and with everything on her plate right now, the woman decided it was time to tell me to 'stop sabotaging yourself' ... I hung up and called Buba (not because she was completely off base or out of line but simply because I was going to ignore her motherly/therapist words for a bit longer).  He didn't answer right away, so I made a few rescue (read avoidance) phone calls, and then Buba called back with the wife, who I now actually love a lot. I didn't end up hiring a hit man to take out Mom (parents are kind of important and, as it would turn out, I'd like both of mine to be around for a good long while still, please and thank you) as Buba talked me down from there with talk about the baby (it's public knowledge now, I think ... they are having a baby in August, piles of books already purchased for that little one). I had three Cokes that night though and still count two living parents.

Thursday, my third of four 4am mornings last week, I was in an accident before even making it to the MacArthur exit.  I'm fine. But I was not thrilled with the beginning of my day.  Then work blew up in several different time zones and made for some hectic hours.  Then CA met me at the park for an hour.  Initially when the plan was presented I thought it was brilliant ~ the weather was grand, the phone would be turned off, kids would be laughing on the swings ... but I was in a mood and he was in a mood, using his words to articulate his feelings, and really ...  all I wanted was a Coke and Ryan, the physical therapist back here in Salt Lake, to make me not hate the fact I was in a ridiculous, text induced (not me, my phone was sitting on the seat next to me being used as the device to play Murdoch as I tried to keep calm in traffic), car accident on the 405 ten hours earlier.  But we were in the sun ... the sun was good and the ducks that were being fed by the cute little humans were straight out of Hans' story it seemed. A Coke would have made it better though.

That evening was excellent! (I'm not all 'boo and hiss' today) And as I sat out on the patio of Connie and Ted's, I had a Coke (several) and enjoyed my company.

When news comes to me, the news that I can't quite wrap my head or heart around, I like to disappear to process.  So yesterday I went to Logan. I love that place.  I didn't need a Coke all the day long, nope.  There was a reality left back in Salt Lake and I lived soberly for the entire day. Logan is magical that way.  (Please understand, my 'family' there would have supported me getting a drink, they would have joined me in it ... but I was wrapped up in the littles playing basketball, the toe-head needing her hair redone, the pretty dresses and lace, the favorite conversation, and the mustaches ... I didn't think outside of that moment I was in as I lived it ... but now that I do, a Coke may have been good for me and Baby Kace as he woke from his nap, bring that blood sugar right up!!!)

I made it back to reality and before the 3rd hour of worship was halfway over, I ached for a Coke.  It came, Good Man is called such for a few reasons but after his pop-in with a cold 1 liter of the Real Thing (see what I did there?) no further explanation will ever be necessary. And then, in a perfect moment when stars and planets aligned, Good Man pointed out a funny commercial that was on as my Bulls lost their lead to the Heat (well, they had lost it by a lot at this point and that wasn't the perfect part of this story unless you are Boy or Carter or anyone loving Eric, D Wade, or that evil Lebron).  I took a drink as the commercial played.  Funny old ladies, sure.  But then, oh but then folks ... John's voice came on to preach esurance after the funny ladies. I had my Coke in hand and Krasinski's voice in my ears.  This happy moment brought to you in part by Good Man, in part by the good people at ABC who believe in advertising, in part by esurance, in part by John Pemberton, in part by the famous half of #krasinskiandkas, and I firmly believe in part by an Aunt on the other side who loved a classy man's soothing voice and her Coke as much as I do (thanks Aunt Em).  It was a necessary moment.

Because reality came back and hit me in the chest a bit later. And I'm handling it.  In spite of me saying so many time, 'It's a choice to be happy. It's a choice to be in love. It's a choice to happily work,' ... it's a choice but sometimes it's circumstance that puts us in a place where the choice is a bit harder to make or perhaps even not possible for 17 seconds or so (CA may be right in this moment but I'm not convinced I'll be saying that come dawn and a cold Coke).  So when the phone rang and Papa spoke about Fringe and House (who says he's lost memory?!? That man can tell me at any hour of the day the exact ending, middle, and beginning of any book he's ever read and any show he's ever watched! I should probably be his doctor as I'm pretty sure he's as healthy as a horse) I was fine for a minute.  But then, as single Utahians do, Potter went into a "what would you tell me as a dating coach" thing. And so that happened in the reverse and ... well, reality and such. Boy didn't make out quite as bad as I did I feel like.  But then the goodness of Dads was discussed and the necessity of if all and vulnerability was echoing in my ears and I had listened to this eternal perspective in 3rd hour and shed some tears because my eyes are attempting to acknowledge the emotions I attempt not to and so in the midst of being told how to be a better girl to date and family talk and temple talk and everything ... well, I wished I hadn't downed that Coke as quickly as I had this afternoon.

I'm Kasi/Kate/Magnum/Marsha/French/Kathryn J/Sunshine ... and I believe that the simple things (read a cold Coke) can make the world (read my life) a better place (read take the edge off a not so easy time to choose to be happy). Tomorrow is Monday. It's going to be 59 degrees and clear skies in Salt Lake.  That's not a bad way to start the week! I'll add a Coke to the day and it will all be just PEACHY!!

Feeling Lucky ... or Blessed ... or Seeing Clearly for a Minute

Just over five hours into a new day and I am wide awake still, fantastic. {if read without sarcasm, please reread with such an attitude as it was written with such}

Now please dispense of said attitude and remember I'm not up early this morning but rather up late through the night, so have patience with the random and jumbled thoughts please.

There was a thick fog here last night. It wasn't a majestic fog that sits over a pond in the morning before the sun can burn through or even the type of fog that sits on my Lake late in the evening, almost as if to keep the memories of the day locked right there for just a moment longer.   It was the type of fog that makes you pull your car to the side of the road and wonder if you are going to be able to make it home safely.  So I sat there, at the top of the mountain {kinda}, for a moment.

It had been a while since I'd stopped. Life gets busy, plans get made and the calendar is booked up a month in advance.  The TODO lists that give me such great satisfaction become the driving force of my days. Somehow the people that mean so much to me get pushed off for weeks, even a month, at a time because there just doesn't seem to be time to squeeze in a hello.  I'm not sure when life became so busy or started moving so dang quickly. But when I stopped last night up on that mountain my mind began to do the whole unwinding thing.

At first it was the TODO list for tomorrow {or today} that won ~ the fresh office supplies that my team and I will use for the first time as we create our OCD world in the conference room in just a few hours, the laundry that could be done before I get back on a plane Saturday morning, the thank you cards that need to be written, the location of the birthday dinner.  Then it was a review of the day ~ the PPI and welcome from Cache, the awkward while funny wink over lunch, East Coast learning about the restructure with WCF on the line, the frustration at the office supply store, the discussion of slavery over dinner, the use of the word invincible, and the fresh forced moment with Potter.

It was then the phone rang, CA.  There was a part of me that didn't want to answer it, I had stopped and wanted to exist in my own little place for a minute longer, to let my mind wander for a bit and see where it would go.  I answered in spite of that part of me and was glad to hear his voice.  What I didn't realize is that this stopped moment had caused me to get emotional, contrary to what I may say sometimes or what I may show often I am a personal with feelings, I feel.  So as I replied to his "How are you?" my voice broke, we were both surprised, perhaps me even more than CA ... I said I feel, not that I understand all of the feelings or why they exist.  The questions came fast as he tried to figure out why I was crying.  Because I was so caught off guard by myself I became defensive.  Luckily for me, he's used to my ridiculous walls and automatic behavior.  More questions came and within three minutes I knew why the tears existed. And it's nothing to go into now.

"French, what was it that your Uncle said to you?"

I have a few uncles and they direct a lot of words at me but I knew exactly what he was talking about.  It was that first and final letter from Uncle Mike. "You've been running around the country for the last three months for work and for family. Tonight was bound to happen." He didn't say anything for a bit as I shed some tears of exhaustion, grateful for the release and his understanding. "Lucky for you, you'll be here in the sunshine this weekend. Don't bring the fog though." He laughed at his own joke as I internalized his words, as a female does, with more weight and implication than he intended.  He stayed on the line, although we both knew I was done talking for the night.

I allowed my mind to finish wondering, sitting up on the side of some road off of Wasatch, phone connected to silence and 55 degrees.

Thursday last I was sitting next to and across from CA, two together and with me we made three.  It was a night, yep.  CA to my left, always the one asking questions, attempting to avoid an odd moment, posed this question, "When was the last time you really felt lucky? Like really really lucky?" {asked honestly, not a la Dirty Harry} CA across from me immediately sited a winning night of Black Jack, naturally.  I had no answer.  The conversation moved on quickly without a response from CA to my left and myself, that particular grouping of humans doesn't do comfortable silence.

Is lucky and blessed the same thing?  I don't know.  But maybe it's just a matter of semantics.

I sent out three group texts about different things from Park City this weekend and only one of my humans, of 16, replied to all. My people are smart!
My straightener, a $173 investment made by me while Girlfriend and Cowboy were my main concern, fell to the hard hotel bathroom floor while I was in Phoenix but that little red light turned on and the magic wand heated up to 400 degrees to manage my hair.
While in CA I was able to see all of my CAs within a 48 hour period.
Even with a new position at work the month of May is still dedicated to a land far far away.
The man that will have his name on that second page, the one on the left, of my book has more patience with me and my thoughts than I thought possible in a professional setting.
My peanut butter jar seems to be created by the same people that created Mary Poppins carpet bag.
Friday night I was surrounded by some of the most kind and genuine people, not of my particular faith and in fact with logical reason they had every right to not be such, but rather they reminded me of just how innately good the human race can be.
Kevin Bacon returned in The Following this week.
My studies of baseball have led me to believe I saved the easiest sport to understand for last.
Boy did it too so the judgement wasn't as harsh as it could have been.
With three weeks of laundry laying in my hamper, on my floor, and in my yet unpacked suitcase, I still can steer clear of the washer as I'm heading back to warmth and therefore am in a separate summer wardrobe.
Papa's Friday texts are coming from mainland America.
The accountant man next to me on my flight to Santa Anna last week smelled like every guy I kissed my sophomore year of college, thank you Aqua Di Gio, and was calm in the face of a 50 minute flight next to an anxious flyer.
CA is able to reference words of Uncle.
Those leaving my office are still sincerely smiling.
Falling asleep to episodes of Sam/Josh/Toby often lend to dreams on that side of the country, in that wing of the House, with those three.
I can usually get that knuckle at the base of my thumb to crack.
Cowboy's birthday just happens to be the day before work needs me in the neighboring zip code.
Pete and Wendy are 'on' for the next two weeks at the House on the Hill before a rotation is put into place that I'll have to figure out.
Doc was willing to give me that information.
My Spanish is good enough for the people I'm talking to.
Ernie Halter now exists in my life.
Krasinski's voice comes on to provide esurance to the football watching population.

CA spoke up after some minutes and offered solutions to problems, as he does. And then I put Bleu into drive and came back down the mountain, very slowly.

I'm lucky.  Or blessed.  I have emotions and confusions just like every human on the planet.  And just like so many in that same group, I forget to recognize the great joy it is to be me.  Yep, moments in the fog happen. Sometimes, like last night though, the literal fog comes to force a realization.  Its not anything new or profound, nothing brilliant that should be quoted at the bottom of every email you send from your inbox. Rather it is the realization that helps me see through the fog, the realization that my life is mine to live. It is full of daily choices and checklists, created by me.  But I've only the chance to joyfully live this moment, this early morning moment, once. Uncle was right. CA posed a good question.  Bing sang truth written by Mr. Berlin.  It's my choice.

"We cannot recycle or save the time allotted to us each day. 

With time, we have only one opportunity for choice, and then it is gone forever.” 

Apostle Crush

Time to be Thankful

A few weeks ago I sat next to CA in a booth {yep, same side}, Coke in my hand and a water in his. He had, as he usually does, helped me to see things in a different light and gave me some things to contemplate before I ventured away from the safety of our hidden booth.  My mind continues to contemplate a few things he said, as a few of the other CAs contradicted his thoughts and I find myself a bit confused.  But one thing, the lesser of everything perhaps in that particular moment, I have decided to follow through with this week and holiday season.

As we sat down he pulled out his phone. It allows him to send me text messages and to answer when I call with a crisis or a soccer achievement.  More than that it doesn't do.

And as he held my iPhone 5 in his right hand and his Nokia 1.0 in his left (uncertain as to the specific model but it is the phone pictured above) he said, "Kas, this {lifting his right hand} just isn't necessary." I looked at him, batted my eyes {which has no effect on him at this point I'm afraid}, and attempted my rebuttal. He interrupted, "I'm just as productive and far more present." He then set both of our phones aside.  We had 'real' conversation.  

I've spent the past month clocking time on the phone ... it's ridiculous.  Mind you, there are nights I attempt to be 'present' with friends while D Rose is playing {or was playing, too soon to discuss folks} so the usage is high.  I've tried to leave the phone home while on dates, although requesting an 'out' phone call is difficult without a phone. I'm reading the Good Word in a book that can be held in my hands with pages I can turn.  But the phone is used, a lot.  And it's a distraction most of the time, an unnecessary distraction {is that redundant?}.  

As Thanksgiving comes my mind often turns to Uncle, the one that isn't able to call and check in or argue with me about my politics.  He lived on the other side of the country and our time together as I grew up was limited.  But I remember, with clarity, the night we had right before I left on mission. He took me to sushi, we sat around the round table and he played his guitar.  He didn't once answer his phone or even look at it.  He was present. And though it seemed like nothing at the time, it means everything to me now.  He saw me that night, saw my fears of leaving the 'ailing' parents and relationships that were perhaps something more than nothing.  He saw my fears of not knowing enough about what I was going to do.  He spoke of things that I needed to hear. Even now, the memory of his presence is tangible. 

The parents, in their last month of time on the other side of the world, have lived without so much that we deem necessary on this side.  They have seen a life that I have never experienced.  They have given their all to the betterment of a people.  As I've read of their experiences I've found a common thread, simplicity.  Being where they are when they are there, listening to the voice that is speaking rather than preparing for the next question.  Even more in this month, since the storm, their focus has been on the 'now' that they exist in and being grateful for it, for the air they are breathing, the water they are drinking, and the hope that energizes them for one more day.  They are present.

CA was asking the other day as my emotions got away from me, turns out I cry all of the time, about Good Man.  I attempted to change the subject to PacMan or Boss or sports {baha!} but after 13 years of me he knows how to avoid my avoidance tactics.   He sent me a wrap up of the whole situation after I had used words, he does that because I don't write things down and my memory sucks.  He used a lot of words, which is excellent, but the ones that matter now and to this subject are these, "{Good Man} heard you.  You weren't fixing a problem together. You were not avoiding a problem together. He talked to you and you talked to him. You were enjoying life together for the time that you were together. You don't do that unless you are with me." He's right.  I was there, in that, for a minute.  And that's probably why I enjoyed it so much.  It's probably why PacMan has been told to give me a minute to regroup, so that I can enjoy time with him and not be focused on 973 other things.  

So, this week and as I venture into next month with goals of understanding a few things that the CAs brought up and finishing the 'changes' that were requested by the guy that has my book in his hands, I am going to put the phone/computer/distractions away.  I'm going to focus on my family.  I'm going to focus on my friends.  I'm going to focus on the reason why my world is as great as it is.  I'm going to be present in my conversations.  I'm going to be grateful for the chance I have to put things aside and focus on the important things in my life.  It seems simple, it seems like a goal given by a frustrated teacher to 17 year olds, it seems like something that the 78 year old grandmother asks her grandchildren that are sitting in her living room but not talking to her.  But I'm not going to have her ask.  I'm not going to frustrate CA with the 'tricks and information' that the phone brings.  I'm going to be present and productive.  Grateful and gracious to those I'm with when I'm with them.  Because, as I sit here with Uncle fresh on my mind and on the brink of the parents return, all I can wish for is their undivided attention.  Because, if I'm being frank (700 words later), I miss that attention and the peace that accompanies the undivided attention of someone that cares for you. I'm grateful for CA and our time together on the same side of the booth.

Ready Ready Ready to Run

Yesterday I was in a MOOD. The usual suspects saw/heard my moody tone early on in the day and attempted to make life better.  But I had chosen to be ornery and no funny video or song on the voicemail was going to change my mind.

I got into Bleu after work, where I was far from productive, and called my Physical Therapist (PT).

"Hey, Kas. Are you calling to reschedule on me for tomorrow?"
"No! I need to talk to you."
"Well, its a good thing you called and I answered then."  He normally would have gotten a laugh out of me for that but I was on a mission and could not be thrown with his charm today.  His charm gets me to do all sorts of things I would normally refuse, like go up and down one step for 12 minutes to show him I can keep my shoulders back and not add pressure to my lower back because I'm lifting my legs properly.
"I need you to tell me I can run."
"No, I'm sorry.  You can't run. Also, you hate running."
"I've got to move and today I need to run, please."
"No, I'm sorry.  You can't run Kasi. You have a fractured L2. No batting of the eyes or well timed gaze is going to get you running. I like men."
"Okay, let's say that you said I could run.  What would my parameters be?"
"I didn't say you could run."
"Let's say you did.  I need to run or punch someone and as the latter is not quite my style, let's have me run."
"I'd rather have you punch someone."
"Let's say you'd rather have me run."
"Okay, if you were to go running without my approval I would tell you to stay away from the downhill and wear your brace.  I'd also tell you to stop running every two minutes and walk three so that you could see if you've ruined all of the work we've done."
"Okay, that's all I needed."
"Kasi, are you going running?"
"Yes."
Heavy sighs and then a wish for me not to completely kill myself.

I got home, made a bit of a mess of my space simply because creating chaos when you feel a bit chaotic is logical to me.  Then I tied my shoes and hit the pavement.

Folks!! I ran and I ran and I ran!! I have never been a runner, I'd do 2-a-days at Bikram to avoid running even a quarter of a mile.  But there was something therapeutic about the rhythm of my shoes hitting the pavement. I turned on Murdoch (who still gets a child named for him) and ran.  I did stop once or twice to be sure I hadn't killed myself or done something that PT wouldn't be able to fix.  But I was just fine.  My body knew it needed to get out. So Murdoch and I made our way through the fall trees, watched a beautiful sunset, smelling fall, and made it to institute (church mid-week class ~ it's a new thing I'm trying).  I was feeling excellent.  I had let go of the MOOD somewhere between mile 4 and 5 I think. Mile six had me beat but it felt so great to be in charge of my body, not letting it determine my sobriety or activity.

Also, God is funny. It was announced that class was on COMMUNICATION in relationships. Of course it was. I looked towards the heavens, laughed, and sent Boy a text indicating just how hilarious life can be. I was thrown a bit of a break when the teacher discussed the 96-97 Bulls vs. Jazz championship, won by the Bulls.

PT texted late last night.
"you dead?"
"Alive and well."
"you on meds?"
"No."
"are you sure you are not on meds?"
"Yes."
"did you run?"
"Yes! And I liked it."
"you are on drugs. i'll check in tomorrow."

But remember how I loved running yesterday? I just may do it again today.  I'm not in a mood.  But guys, I loved it.

Also, to add to that 'runners high' (which I thought was fake until yesterday), my D Rose is playing like a champ!! Diet (I love that all of you just pronounced his name wrong), Boy's boy,  and Good Man have indicated preseason is worth nothing but they are wrong.  Preseason is our vocal warm-up, it's our stretching ... it's vital.  It makes us happy. Tuesday night's regular season opener in Miami will increase my low blood pressure (thank you Gramps for that, its better than the lack of butt that comes from you as well) to be sure but cause my heart to soar with excitement as the two finest players in the league go head-to-head.

Also, I ran into Susan the other day at City Creek.  I'm certain it is because I haven't seen her since before Sherrie passed but there was a wave of relief that hit me as we spoke.  She reminded me of home.  She reminded me that the missionaries I love are out there, in third world countries, eating goat legs like its normal and more than happy with their Calling at current time.  It reminded me that people are kind and good, instinctively. It reminded me that people care for people, no matter how stubborn a person can be.  It reminded me that sometimes leaving work at 230 to meander City Creek is exactly what should be done.

Also, my parents come home in 54 sleeps.  Sister Bells will be home in 7 sleeps.  I'll be in CA in 8 sleeps, not running but rather facing life. Life is good, I'm a runner now.

Spitting and Sharing

Cowboy, Girlfriend, and I had a routine while we were together in that perfect land of Southern California. After a long school day, preschool can be rough!, we would hop into the truck, singing our made-up songs about our silly family, and end up at Laguna Beach.  I loved our habit for multiple reasons, not the least of which was the fact that it wore all of us out and made bedtime a bit easier.  We would play in the sand, roll up our pants and get chased by waves, throw the football around, and makeup stories about the passersby. Oftentimes I would let CA know that his job was the worst and invite him to join us, he usually did.  

One particular afternoon I was discussing the diggers we had seen earlier in the day with Cowboy while CA and Girlfriend were off discovering something.  Girlfriend had a bit of a crush on CA, as it was only natural for a 5 year old to think that the salt-and-peppery 28 year old was the cat's pajamas and he adored her so I let them have their moments as often as possible {positive male attention at a young age}.  I was discussing the color yellow or the hook on the digger when I looked up to see a look on CA's face that I didn't recognize, something had happened.  I looked to Girlfriend but she was walking away from both CA and I with an attitude in her strut.  CA made his way to me, his face unchanged.  He took a minute to distract Cowboy with something and then replayed what had happened.

He had brought a treat and given it to the kiddos.  He then asked Girlfriend for a bite.  She said no.  He asked again nicely and she once again refused.  He let it sit for a moment and then asked for a third time.  She then spit on him.  Yes, spit on him. She was five at the time, almost 12 year old Girlfriend is mortified every time this story comes up because she still has a bit of a crush on 'hot' CA, but she knew better than to spit on someone.  I was shocked.  I laughed a little bit but only because I had no idea how to appropriately respond.  I looked off to be sure the waves hadn't taken away Girlfriend, her tiny frame was standing with feet in the ocean, her itty-bitty body looked like it could have just been swallowed up the massive body of water she was wading in.  CA and I chatted for a moment about what to do, this is the phase of my life when I was learning that adults don't have all of the answers simply because they were the adults.  

I got up, leaving the guys to chat about diggers.  As I approached Girlfriend I saw her eyes, she was crying. She already knew she had done something she shouldn't have done.  With a quick look up to the heavens to Uncle for some help with his dramatic daughter, as disciplining this little one was my least favorite thing to do, I sat down a few feet away.  She took a minute to join me but once she sat down she cuddled in, we fit together pretty well.  The sun was going down on the other side of the water. I asked a few questions and ultimately the truth came out, she just didn't want to share with CA.  It didn't matter that he had shared with her.  It didn't matter that he had come to play with her at the beach.  It didn't matter that she saw him all of the time.  It didn't matter that he was cute.  It didn't matter that he was kind.  She just didn't want to share. And since she didn't have the words at 5 to convey that and why that was, she spit.

I get that.  Sharing is hard.  Sharing something that you have with someone is hard.  It's yours.  You are in charge of it.  You have control over it. Giving it to someone else leaves your hands empty.  

Over the years Girlfriend and I have had countless chats, normally its as we get ready for bed or she watches me curl my hair.  She shares more if we're not sitting at ice cream or talking on the phone, all eyes or ears on her. She shares feelings only if I ask the right questions and no one else is around. She'll give one word answers if she can.  If I make a face at those short responses she adds a smirky-smile or tries to distract me with a strand of hair that I missed. She'll talk about horses until she's blue in the face and she can tell me how Oliva, her BFF, feels about things.  But getting Girlfriend to talk about the 'good stuff' takes effort, patience, and the perfect situation.  

I get that.  Sometimes its just easier to spit in someone's face.  

But sharing is necessary and good.  Sharing your snacks with CA makes him smile.  Sharing your words with your favorite cousin makes her smile.  Sharing your life with someone who is trying to get to know you is, rumor has it, a great thing.  Girlfriend and I are learning. 

My People

First of all may I say ‘Welcome’ to the new readers of this blog.  I average somewhere between 130-145 in readership within 24 hours of posting, climbing to 210 before the post falls off of my radar.  This last post got 254 readers the first day with an additional 100 or so in the following three days.  Whoever you are, welcome to my thoughts.  And a notice: You’ll rarely see actual names or read incredible details of a particular situation.  CA refers to four different people.  Boy is actually a girl. Original Pete no longer exists as such as he grew up but there are several replacement Petes.  I once referred to one friend as Sir but he vetoed that, and as he is a longstanding friend who has seen me through thick and thin I allowed said veto, and so he became Doc.  But then Doc 2 came into my life and it was more fitting so Original Doc was retired and Doc 2, henceforth known as merely Doc, exists now.  Nicknames are mine to give at any given moment and mine to change on a whim.  Papa is my Dad. He’s the #1 reader of this blog but I doubt if even he can match all nicknames to actual humans or distinguish which CA is being discussed on any given day.  This blog is, selfishly, my place in the universe where I discuss what I want to.  So, come and go as you please but understand that I do not write to be controversial nor to be known. Kismet of me is a journal of sorts, a place where I can put down my thoughts and sort through my feelings. 

Second of all, I am protective and possessive.  I received a text Saturday last at an hour that was acceptable.  CA had just poured his heart out and was rejected.  I wanted to hop on a plane in that instant, back pain be darned, fix him breakfast and then go punch Rejecter in the face or key Rejecter’s car or somehow inflict on Rejecter the pain that CA was feeling in that moment multiplied by 100.  I have my people.  The number of people included in this group is not ridiculous.  It is maintainable.  I invest myself in these people, their hopes and prayers intertwine with my own.  I mourn their misfortunes with them.  And although I do not feel as some of them would like me to or fully comprehend the depth of befuddlement they find themselves in,  I believe merging that gap of emotion and understanding with appropriate Hallmarks, chocolates, movies, beer bread, or even bottles of wine.

I believe in my people.  I believe they can conquer their demons, take on the world, and speak to the hearts of those important to them.  They are the best of all of the humans I have ever known.  They deserve to be loved by the best of the other humans, none of those D-bags or emotionless girls {ha!}.  They deserve to be told often and in sincere tones that they are kind and generous, needed and valuable, stunning and sexy.  When they are not treated properly, the properly that I desire for them, I get frustrated. When they make a decision to alter their life for change sake rather than for good, I get frustrated.  When they do harm to themselves, physically or emotionally, I get frustrated.  And my patience is thin.  So there are times when, within this group of people I have deemed as my own, I will be at odds with someone.  I want them to see things as I see them, change their course to the course I see best and most appropriate.  But my words are often jumbled or unclear, my direction often off the mark somehow.

Stick with me. I sat Wednesday last in an Institute class, a spiritual seminary of sorts.  The teacher was the son of a man whom I admire and miss spending Wednesday mornings with in that House on the Hill in Logan, Vaughn J. Featherstone.  He, the son, is very much his father, so much to wisdom to share and never enough time to do it in.  This particular class was discussing intimacy in relationships.  At one point he asked of people’s versions of romance, quickly the class turned to a spotlight on couples who have made it through time together.  With a back aching and my anxieties flowing willy-nilly at this point I was tempted to get up and take an Anxious Annie moment outside, ucky-love stuff and I handling life on my terms. Instead I sat and listened, spelling First Love’s name in sign behind my back while taking deep breaths.  Soon the anxiety subsided and I could appreciate the conversation and thoughts of others.  He then discussed how valuable it is to share your thoughts and emotions, citing his own relationship with his sweet wife.  The subsided anxiety heightened once again.  Several comments were made about how you will feel directed when the time is right to do that.  My hand popped up. “I disagree, I’m always going to have to take a step in the dark when divulging bits of myself and becoming vulnerable in a relationship.” President Featherstone took a moment to process what I had said and then replied in a tone of sincere love, “I don’t think it’s always going to be so frightening.” His wife, who was standing near, met my eyes and shook her head.  Boy, sitting beside me, agreed with me in my circumstance. I was at a bit of a loss.

After class Sister Featherstone came and sat with a small group of us.  It was a sort of lab post the lecture.  She shared with us her love and kindness.  She looked in each of our eyes and told us that we were fantastic and worthwhile individuals.  She brought of my statement of fear and indicated that a step into the darkness with a knowledge of His love is sometimes necessary but that quickly, after that step is taken, light will come. This was my second occasion spending time with this woman, the first was in the House on the Hill in the city.  On both occasions she shared an acceptance and kindness that I can only compare to Sherrie or Papa.  She spoke simple words, without lots of adjectives or superfluous flattery.  She reminded us, four not quite young single gals, that we were on a path the He is happy with.  I was, because of her kindness and lack of judgment, willing to speak more about my fears.  She heard me.  I felt as if, with these short two encounters, I had become one of her people, cared for and loved.  And although I’m certain that she can be feisty and fierce when the situation calls for it, her love seems to be a calming and reassuring influence.  A love to buoy up those that she brings into her group of people.  One that I hope to one day master and give to my people.

As I work to that end I ask for a favor, patience with me.  I love my people, far from perfectly, but I do love them.  

And Then I Yelled, Actually Yelled

Yesterday as I was sitting in the passenger seat with Work-Church-Friend (WCF henceforth) driving home from my favorite house in all of Utah, as it is occupied with my namesake, I found myself yelling, “{Good Man} and I are still friends!” at the top of my lungs.  He laughed, hard.  And I sat there, more than a little bit astonished at the decibel and tone of my own voice.  It was a bit of an out-of-body experience.  I watched an irrational girl let loose on the innocent WCF. And then I spent three minutes attempting to rationalize the completely irrational behavior. 

Jump back three years.  I had just returned from a hide-away period of life in Indiana.  Ace and I were roommates.  And as he was gone most nights entertaining people as the Man in Chair, Pete {the original} was around to cook dinner or be that guy that was around but didn’t force me to face the entirety of life with words, quite yet.  I had been asked out by a guy in the ward, a cute guy.  I was happy about it.  But then things got fuzzy.  Pete heard the details, as much as a man wants to hear the details, and didn’t say much.  Until it became clear that I was stressed out by cute guy in the ward and his ridiculous behavior.  {Without using too many words, he was simply indecisive and this girl was confused by his indecision, not that I was anywhere near decided but I couldn’t even venture toward a decision without knowing I was on solid ground and wanted by Cute Guy}. We were at the House on the Corner, without owner, one night in the middle of all of this.  And I was using my words.  And Pete was listening.  “Pete, I just don’t think that there are any good guys left out there without some sort of serious issue.” He was standing at the sink, back to me as those words flew out of my mouth.  He turned around, slowly, and took a step (he’s a tall fella and only need one) towards to counter that separated us.  Hands were then firmly planted on the counter and he met my eyes, “Kas, there are still good guys out there.” He pointed out that he, only six months younger than I, was still single and without any of the issues I had listed.  And he was not the anomaly, he was certain.  I was not but his conviction was enough for me to hold on to for a bit.

Jump back to yesterday, Carmen {the car} and WCF.  There was no justifying the yelling that had occurred.  But then WCF said something, “Are you may be upset because he is a good guy?” He had a smirk on his face as the entire story was not before him, just the pieces he had placed together. I put my head to my knees, avoiding eye contact as I tried to process the yelling that had occurred and his last question. I processed in Carmen, as well as to CA later yesterday afternoon, and then as I sat in silence on first date with Glasses. {‘Why silence on a first date, Kas?’ you may be asking. Fair.  Well, he greeted me with a hug, told me I looked cute and then, before we had even gotten to the car, indicated that he was in UT looking for a wife.  Which, is a fine reason to be in UT I suppose, but LIE to me after knowing me for only a minute and a half in J’s kitchen the night before! LIE to me! As I’m the girl that hears that and then all of the serious conversation – there was not one moment of light hearted conversation as much as I attempted for it - that follows it and FREAKS OUT inside and doesn’t care how charming you are or how dedicated you may be … I just detach and focus on earlier conversations from the day that I hadn’t quite finished processing}.  And after all of the processing here’s the answer to the questions that WCF posed, “Yep.”

Because as sure as Pete was when he told me that ‘good guys’ still exist, I am certain of their how rare they are.  There are good guys that love God but don’t necessarily love to work.  There are good guys out there that are passionate about something but dip a bit in the naked women viewing.  There are good guys out there that think my inability to discuss feelings is cute but they have tempers.  There are good guys out there that find my family charming but tithing a burden.  And then there is the other side of the coin, the good guys that are thinking I’m a good girl but that loves John Krasinski films, no matter the rating.  They see the good girl but don’t like the fact that I’m good at my job and I love it.  They see the good girl but hate that one time I was in a ‘dark and twisty’ place.  So there are two sides to this coin, two versions of the story.  And so, in the two weeks {yep, I’m dramatic} that Good Man was in the picture I was hopeful that Pete’s statement was right and, in complete cryptic disclosure, he was.  ‘It’ just wasn’t there.  And that is frustrating, so frustrating that I scream at WCF en route home from Baby Kace’s house.  Sorry about it.

Also, Buba got married last night.  Yep, that’s a fact.  Which is likely why I’m writing about feelings for a boy that no longer exists in that facet of life and not the life event that I wasn’t included in or consulted about or made aware of until after the fact {Queen of the Land of Passive Aggressiva, thank you McDreamy – and recognizing the problem is the first step to fixing the problem}.