1950's!

I'll admit it, I should have been born in the past.  I used to think the 1800s would have suited me fine, but being a woman then would suck.  Not to mention, I like indoor plumbing (who doesn't)?  Recently, however, I found a new love:

The 1950's

That's right.  From big skirts to bright polka dots to bigger sunglasses--I love it all.  AC laughs that I'm stuck in the 50's, but let's face it--the fifties did a lot of great things.  Lots of amazing things came from the 1950's!

Bubble wrap!  Color TV!  Even my father! (I won't put a picture of him...he would Not be pleased if I did)

I sat down in the mindset to figure out the root and cause of my love (not obsession, I'm sure) with the era when I realized it.

The 1950's knew how to dress fat people.

Now before you go all mad-dash "How could you say that?!" let me clarify:

I am a fat chick.  I'll admit it; I've always been the chunky kid.  And y'know what?  It's not a shameful thing.  Everyone's always like, "You'd be so pretty if..." and "If you lost a few pounds..."  and I used to believe the lies.  It was honestly only recently I truly realized how harmful those lies people tried to tell me were.  My prettiness isn't a size.  I don't need to be a size two in order for someone to rate me.  I don't really wanna be rated anyway.  I love who I am--curves, rolls, arm flab and all--and nothing's going to change that. 

You see, I came to the realization because of two people.  The first is the fiance' (I know, cheesy it sounds) but when we first got together, it baffled me how he could find me attractive with my extra weight.  I understood he loved me (what can I say?  I've got a great personality) but I've never been confident about my body image.  And not only did he find me attractive, he liked it.  I wasn't a twig he could snap in two (the boy's  6'5....he dwarfs me, honestly). 

Enough about that though--not the point.  The second person, who I actually technically found before John--is The Militant Baker.

Who the hell is she, you say?  Some crazy army pastry chef?  Not so much.

She  is only one of the greatest blogs I've come across recently.  You can visit her here.

She's all about body advocacy and loving yourself and she says it a lot better than I do, so go, right now.  Go visit the blog!  ...well, let me finish my post first.  Bring it up in a new tab.

Right, back to the fifties.  Their clothing is not only super-cute (Most of the time) but the women of the fifties weren't all skinny twigs.  They were women of all shapes and sizes, and no one was telling them they were wrong for not fitting the 'mold'.

John and I at his brother's wedding.  He was best man.  Yes, they did camo and orange. 

I'm not honestly really sure where I was going with this post...maybe it was to show off my rockin' pink dress and petticoat?  Or to tell everyone to read Jes' blog because it's awesome?  Maybe a combination of both.

The dress, by the way, I bought online at ModCloth, only one of the most addictive and plus-size friendly stores out there!  Go there, but beware...it's addictive!

Hot Chocolate

Hot chocolate tastes like crisp November days and smells like fall leaves.  It teases the tongue of memories gone, remembered by smells and tastes and touches.  The steaming cup is apple orchards, snowstorms, and Christmas, all rolled in one.  It is video games in the basement, bean bag for a chair.  It's cat purrs and donkey snuggles and the lilting melody of 'Memory' played on a porcelain rocking horse.

Hot chocolate is the cinnamon, like in gingersnaps and snicker doodles of holiday time.  It's the whipped cream like in coffee on camping trips.  It is home and it is heart. Hot chocolate is happiness. I want to remember the taste forever; remember the way it feels in my hands.

Hot chocolate is love.

Turning the Page in a New Direction

More than perhaps any other time in my life, this summer is a time of change for me. I won't go into details--sufficed to say I'm on the move--but it has gotten me thinking about that age-old adage, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Which is why I am announcing a new sister blog to this 1, focused specifically on getting back to 1 of the things I love, talking about books. Nerdy? Sure. But I think it'll breathe new energy into this whole blogging thing for me & hopefully LB, who I haven't told about any of this quite yet (sorry LB).

Anyway, this sister blog "Turning Pages--Off the Shelf" will be pretty much what it sounds like, musings on the latest reads, from me & if she's willing LB. I'm also hoping to include a reading wishlist, & would love to in the future include reader recommends.

But never fear, my goal is to continue this blog with random ramblings while I have more time, & to really try & pick up some steam on here again.

Anyway, the link to the new blog will be available on this blog as soon as it's up & running. Gotta go tell LB what I've done now.

Later,
~AC

New Year, New Post

Don't you feel lucky? You should. It's been a while since we posted anything.

I am going into the 3rd week of my Christmas vacation (gotta love the work schedules of academia) & into the 3rd day of the new year. The year started off as most every year with my family does—with red underwear, grapes, lentil, & luggage. Concerned? You shouldn't be.

For as long as I can remember, this has been my New Year's. Even when we're out of town for the holidays, the staples of my Mexican family's New Year's traditions. At midnight going into the new year, there are certain things that must be done. Here's the run-down:

•Eat 12 grapes—get 12 months of good health in the new year.

•Wear red underwear—find love in the new year.

•Take luggage outside—travel in the new year.

•Throw lentil in the front door (collect it & keep it the whole year)—have money in the new year.

Apparently, there are about 8 more of these for different things, but these are the 4 we always do. & they always guarantee a few things.

First of all, we always start the year off laughing. Between choking down 12 grapes, dragging the luggage out, and diving to grab as much lentil from the front hall as possible, you're guaranteed a few laughs. 1 year, I knocked someone over grabbing lentil. Another my dog's leash got tangled in the luggage wheels. And I swear grapes get bigger each year. Stuffing 12 of them in your mouth as quickly as possible? Never easy.

Also, these traditions guarantee the holiday spirit carries into the new year. You've got to understand, for my family it's not over with Christmas, or the New Year for that matter. No, our last holiday in the holiday season is Three Wise Men's day on January 6th. (The short version—shoes go under the Christmas tree the night before, the 3 Wise Men leave presents in your shoes for you to find in the morning.) That being said, it's important to keep the holiday spirit going into the new year. Traditions are a great way to do that.

Finally, they maintain continuity. Maybe that seems wierd for me to say, since all traditions by definition do that, but the truth is there isn't much continuity in my life, so I cling to what I can. We (that being my parents and I) never know where or who we spend the holidays, and unless we stay home the 3 (Christmas, New Year, & 3 Wise Men's) are usually in different places or with different people. The familiarity of red underwear, grapes, lentil, & luggage matters. For us, it's what makes New Year's special.

It's 2014. The world isn't ending, the decade isn't beginning, & it's not even a leap year. But there are still some exciting things coming. The Winter Olympics & the World Cup are this year. There are new movies (X-Men!) & new music (Ed Sheeran!) on the way, as well as great books & TV shows written by & starring people we've not even heard of yet. A new year means a new chance, & that can mean almost anything. How exciting is it, that every 365 days or so we can reset & start over or choose to continue what we've begun?

In a week, I get to go back to business as usual. Whatever that means. New semester for my tutorees, new challenges for me. Lots of new snow (boo) if the forecast is any indication. I may freeze to death. I may get mad. I may even get a little lost. But I ask you, dear friends (Hello? Is anyone out there?), what is life without a little adventure? What would be the point of turning pages if we already knew what was coming next?

~AC

Roots

I miss Sunday mornings at breakfast, the same five restaurants, the same five dishes.  I miss Wednesday afternoons, coffee perking as Mama, Amz and I sit on the porch and discuss the day, the coming and goings.  I miss Thursday nights, watching the latest Swamp People while we eat the blizzard of the month, or the tried and true brownie and ice cream.

I miss the cold, snowy days where chili or vegetable soup were often.  I miss making hot chocolate--my own experimented recipe--for my sister and I.  I miss the winter days when rain would fall and the snow would melt, if only for a little while.

Spring days too, I'll long for.  The days where we'd wait not-so-patiently for the first thaw to bring up the irises and daffodils.  For the warm day when we could finally till up the soil.  For Chet, lovable Chet, to run headlong down the fenceline, shaking his winter coat.

For summer barbeques, for Dale Hollow and the jet skis.  For my niece riding her bike, without training wheels.  For weeding and mowing, for the dinner picked up after at the Frosty Boy's.

For fall harvest, and the many, many days of canning, canning, freezing, and pickling.  For failed sauerkraut.  I miss the smell of cinnamon and freshly-made apple butter.  I miss orchard trips and the cornfields.

I missed things I never got to see, I'll never get to see:  Manny, the nephew, learning to walk, birthday parties, my niece Jazzy shooting her first gun.  Card parties and camping trips.  The many, many, many games of Yahtzee with cookies and coffee after work. 

I've traded them in for a chance to find my place.  My family, my home, things that can never be replaced.  Closeness to all I've known and loved.

I've traded them for Christmas eves wearing matching pajamas at the boyfriend's parents' house.  For Saturday evenings in the balcony at Seven Dolors, singing with John and his parents at mass.  For vicious games of Monopoly with his parents.

I've traded them for Monday night bar shifts with my favorite regulars.  For dinners with Kenny and Annette--family friends whom I've known since I was a child. 

For independence.
For roots.

Funny thing is, the thing I'm finding out is that I had them all along.

I am my mother's stubborn, hard-headed daughter.  The girl who's finding her way.  My father's child, a woman with habits that mirror his own.  The one who has searched so long to find whatever was missing, and to find it when she wasn't expecting to.

I've been gone over six months now, and I'm still not sure how I feel about that.  I love Minnesota, I do, but looking at all I've missed--it strikes a chord deep within.  In Indy, I had family.  They may not always be there, but they stood up for you when it counted.  Here, I've found out that family isn't always that.  The family you thought you knew and could trust can still stab you in the back.  And the ones you wouldn't expect to have your back, do.  In John's family I've found one like my own--something I am forever blessed for.  And in mine, I've found that perhaps I trust too easily.

 Therefore, I'm going back to my roots.  All I've learned in my twenty-three years of life will help me now.  To stand up for myself..  All my father's conviction, my mother's determination.  Add to my sister's stubbornness and sass.  These are my weapons, my family is my shield, and I am ready to jump to the next step.