21 Books I Keep Recommending

I read quite a bit, and I'm asked on occasion for book recommendations. And of course, which titles I recommend change drastically depending on who is asking . . . but I find myself returning to many of the same favorite books over and over, and recommending the same ones again and again.

You can find my monthly reading recaps with everything I read each month and a short review of each by clicking on the 'books' tab at the top of the page . . . but I wanted to put together one big list of a bunch of fantastic favorites that I find myself recommending again and again and again.

Believe it or not, I tried to narrow this list down to 10, and failed utterly. Also, I realized upon completion of this post that although the graphic says 20 books, somehow, an extra book sneaked in. Now I can't decide which book to delete from the post, as I love them all like children. The total tally here is, in fact, 21, but I am too lazy to go back and change the graphic, so consider one of these a bonus prize.

(Affiliate links ahead!)

Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor

I think I've mentioned this trilogy about a dozen times on this blog. I'm usually not the biggest fan of YA or fantasy, so you can imagine my surprise when I fell hard for this YA fantasy series about a world of angels and demons, connected to the world we know via a secret portal and the girl who travels between them. No description I can dream up does it justice, but it's one of the most creative and imaginative and addictive things I've read in a long time. Trust me. The audiobook is also fantastic, and I love and recommend the entire trilogy.

Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach

Possibly one of the strangest books I've ever read . . . but also one I can't seem to forget, that has changed the way I look at almost everything. This nonfiction explores, well, the curious lives of human cadavers and the many, many ways a cadaver might be used, studied, utilized, or disposed of. Roach's writing is impossible to step away from and amazingly enough, she actually brings a fantastic sense of humor to a decidedly dark and morbid arena. Be prepared to find yourself sprinkling odd cadaver factoids into everyday conversation.

The Rose Garden by Susanna Kearsley

I've read nearly everything Kearsley has written, and while I definitely liked some of her books more than others, I always enjoy her elegant writing style and the unique time travel aspect she usually incorporates in her novels. This is my favorite of her books--the story of a young woman reeling after the loss of her sister who finds herself unexpectedly transported centuries back in time, and falling in love with a man born hundreds of years before her. (An honorable mention goes to my second favorite Kearsley novel, Mariana.)

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

I'm usually a little hesitant about books that are marketed as being 'for book lovers.' I often feel like they're riding on the fact that the reader loves books and will adore the author's many references to other books, whether the book itself is actually any good or not. (Does that make any sense?) But this is truly a lovable book for book lovers. Written as a series of letters between the inhabitants of an occupied island during WWII and an English journalist, it is tender and hilarious and a surprisingly deep look at the importance of art during hard times.

Garden Spells by Sarah Addison Allen

I loved the homey, comfortable, mysterious, and slightly magical feel of Garden Spells, a story of two oddly and mysteriously talented sisters reunited after years apart. It has a totally lovable Southern charm, with a dash of magical realism that makes it feel almost like reading a modern fairy tale for grown-ups. It definitely has a few cheesy moments, but I love it. (For the record, I wasn't as crazy about its sequel, First Frost, although I enjoyed it enough and feel like it's worth reading if you love this one.)

The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman

Go ahead and get out the tissues when you read this. After years of isolation as lighthouse keepers on a secluded island and multiple miscarriages/stillbirths that devastated the lighthouse keeper's wife, the grieving couple is shocked when a rowboat washes ashore containing a dead man and a crying baby. Assuming she is orphaned, they raise the child as their own, but discover years later that the circumstances may not have been as they thought, and are faced with a heartbreaking, impossible choice. I read this a few years ago and find myself still thinking about it frequently.

Ready Player One by Ernest Cline

After having your heart torn out and ripped to shreds by The Light Between Oceans (and I mean that in the very best way!), how about something that is 100% fun? I was positive I wouldn't give a fig about Ready Player One, a novel about the bleak world that is the year 2044 and the virtual reality everyone chooses to live in instead. But I surprised myself by loving it and the intense easter egg hunt the players undertake to win an unbelievable prize. It's funny and lovable and so surprisingly good--even if you don't care the littlest bit about video games, pop culture, or dizzying mind puzzles.

Bread and Wine: A Love Letter to Life Around the Table by Shauna Niequist

It's a rare day that I buy a book without reading it first, but I bought this as an ebook on the recommendation of a few bloggers whose taste I trust. It was money well spent. I love (with a capital L) this memoir about family, friends, food, and the meals that connect us. It's thought-provoking and lovely, and makes me want to put more time and attention into my loved ones and the food that brings us together. Alternately hilarious and ugly-cry-inducing, this book is a treasure.

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

This is a novel I recommend with some caution. It is dark and gritty and terrifying in a way that I have never been terrified before . . . but only because it is so horrifyingly honest, that it shook me to my core to consider the possibilities of what I would do if placed in this situation. Background details are sparse in this post-apocalyptic novel--some sort of ecological disaster has ravaged the planet and left survivors starving, roaming, and utterly desperate. An unnamed man travels with his son through the ransacked landscape and fights for their survival. Be careful with this one. I don't think I'll ever forget it.

Peace Like a River by Leif Enger

Like any good little bookworm, I have a very hard time pinning down a single book to call My Favorite. But if pressed, I generally go with this one. Narrated by an 11-year old boy, he remembers a particular year of his youth with his unusual family, spent traveling through the Dakota badlands in search of his brother, a fugitive charged with the murder of two boys who were terrorizing their family. But that summary makes it sound like an entirely different novel than what it actually is. It is beautiful and uplifting and spiritual and absolutely worth the dozen-ish times I've re-read it. I am jealous of those of you who might read it for the first time after this post!

Complications: A Surgeon's Notes on an Imperfect Science by Atul Gawande

I'm not sure I could even put together a more dull-sounding summary than the one on the back of this book jacket--a doctor's thoughts on medicine, surgery, and the uncertainty of health and science. But it is absolutely riveting. It follows true cases from Gawande's practice and discusses the fallibility of medical care, the uncomfortable truths of very human doctors, and mysteries of the human body. It is an incredibly interesting look at a field we put an awful lot of trust in. (I also own, but have not yet read, Better: A Surgeon's Notes on Performance.)

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel

Here's another book I know I've mentioned quite a few times on the blog. and one that is a bit difficult to summarize. This novel travels back and forth between the world 20 years after a flu has decimated the population, and the years leading up to the pandemic. It rotates between a wide cast of characters, all with links to an actor who died on stage the night the flu broke out and changed everything. It is haunting, beautiful, and thought-provoking. I love the characters, the realistic look at humanity, and the role art took in a survivalist world. It is bleak at times, but ultimately hopeful. Definitely one of my all time favorites, right here.

The Red Tent by Anita Diamant

I'm due for a re-read of this novel (it's been at least 5 years!), but I remember it as a favorite. It tells the story of Dinah, a woman barely mentioned in the Bible, and focuses on 'the traditions and turmoils of ancient womanhood' (a rather dramatic-sounding line I pulled straight from its summary on amazon). It is an engaging look at the lives of women in Biblical times, and the strong and beautiful bonds of motherhood and female friendship.

The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion)

This novel is hilarious and happy, and I dare you not to feel good about the world after finishing it. Don Tillman (a professor who almost certainly falls somewhere on the autism spectrum) is meticulous, studious, and detail-oriented in all aspects of his life . . . but has never been on a second date. He applies his evidence-based manner to a personal project: finding a wife, about whom he has set stringent, perhaps unattainable standards. It's charming and lovable, but I'll go ahead and say that I didn't care at all for the sequel, unfortunately.

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain

This nonfiction offers an in-depth, research-based look at introverts, their qualities, strengths, value, and attributes. I knew I was an introvert before reading it, but even so, was shocked at how accurately it portrayed my personality. I learned so much about myself, how to better relate to others, how to capitalize on my own strengths, and to accept and appreciate who I am in a culture that so obviously prefers loud, gregarious types (and shames the rest of us). Highly recommended for my fellow introverts, as well as extroverts who love (and want to better understand) an introvert.

Attachments by Rainbow Rowell

I have mixed feelings on ol' Rainbow--I've felt 'meh' about some of her books, really disliked others, but wholeheartedly loved this one. Sure, it's a little over the top, but it's funny and charming and quirky. Lincoln is hired as a company's 'internet security officer,' tasked with peeking through employee emails and reporting time-wasters and inappropriate content. And after months of reading correspondence between two particular female employees, he finds himself falling in love with one of them. But how exactly do you introduce yourself to a woman you only know through a computer screen . . . who doesn't know you've been eavesdropping?

Corelli's Mandolin by Louis de Bernieres

I owe this one another re-read as it's been a few years, but I always think of it (and recommend it) as my favorite romance ever. It's a love story and a war story together, set in the early days of WWII. Italian officer Captain Corelli lives for his music, at least until he falls in love with Pelagia during the Italian invasion of Cephalonia. de Bernieres's writing is always enchanting, and I especially love it in this novel.

Major Pettigrew's Last Stand by Helen Simonson

This book came recommended by a cousin whose taste I know I can trust, but I remember hearing her summary of it and thinking . . . really? I'm glad I trusted her and read it anyway, because it's plain wonderful, so I hope you'll do the same. Elderly Major Pettigrew (of a quiet English village, of course) is wry, opinionated, and a tad crotchety (but completely endearing . . . of course). He leads a quiet life until an unexpected friendship arises, followed by an even more unexpected (and locally unaccepted) romance. Charming and funny and so, so good.

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott

I first read this for a creative writing class during my BYU days, and reread it recently (I was delighted to find that it was every bit as good as I remembered!). If you enjoy writing even the littlest bit, or if you love to read and are curious about the writing process, I highly recommend it. It is a hilarious and thoughtful look at the work of writing, and of being a person. I laughed out loud more than once, and my copy is full of little highlights and brackets around the best bits. Which there are a lot of. Jeff sometimes asks me what is the point of highlighting if I am just going to highlight everything?

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonatahn Safran Foer

9-year old Oskar's father is killed during the 9/11 terrorist attacks. When he finds a mysterious key in his father's closet after his death, he sets out to discover what it might unlock. His journey introduces him to a wide cast of characters all over New York City, and is completely wonderful. I'm looking forward to reading this one again, and I'm hoping it's been long enough that it'll feel like the first read all over again.

The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton

I've saved my most recommended book for last--nearly everyone who asks me for a recommendation hears about The Forgotten Garden, because it seems like everyone loves Kate Morton, and this is my favorite of her novels (I've read them all). A mysterious child, a hidden garden, an old book of fairy tales, and dark, hidden family secrets--this one is completely unputdownable. And besides having impossible-to-step-away-from mystery and drama, it is wonderfully written. I loved it to pieces and eagerly pass it on to everyone who will listen. I can't wait to read her latest, The Lake House.




SO MANY BOOKS. Hopefully you found something that looks interesting to you. I would LOVE to hear your most-recommended favorites!

First Ever Reader Survey—help a sister out?

I’ve never done this before, but I would LOVE to hear from you, whether you are a long-time reader or a newer visitor.

One thing that kept coming up at Build Your Blog Conference last month was knowing who your readers are and what they want from you. One presenter said something like, “Maybe you think you’re writing a parenting blog but if you asked, you’d discover that your readers’ favorite posts are your weekly family-friendly recipes . . . and it’s time to turn into a recipe blog!”

And I’ve never really asked before, but I’d love to know—what are you doing here? What do you like about this blog? What would you like to see done differently?

If you’ve got a moment to spare, would you help me out and take the survey below? I’d love to learn more about you, and find out exactly what you like (or dislike!) on my blog, so I can focus on creating content that you will enjoy.

As always, thank you so much for reading, and thank you in advance for adding your two cents in the survey!

When the reading gets tough, I run for the hills.

I know readers who finish every book they open. If they start reading it, they see it through, period. I recently read an article somewhere that suggested that readers have an obligation to finish every book they begin, that it’s somehow wrong or irresponsible to start reading a book and abandon it partway through.

I couldn’t disagree more.

If you are one who finishes everything you start, more power to you; I wish you lots and lots of happy reading. But here’s how I see it: I have a limited number of hours every day/week/lifetime to sit down with a book, and I want to fill them with books that will bring me the greatest possible happiness. Why spend my precious reading time with a book I’m not enjoying?

So when I’m not liking a book—maybe the plot isn’t working, or the writing is poor, or the characters are hard to relate to—I ditch it and run to the library for another. I rarely slog through a book I hate simply for the sake of finishing it. To me, that’s wasted reading time that I could have spent with a book I would love.

In the spirit of ditching books I’m not crazy about, I thought I’d share some of my recently abandoned reads.

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Yes Please  (Amy Poehler)

I wondered, after returning this book to the library, if I didn’t give it enough of a chance. After all, it took me two attempts to fall in love with Bossypants.

But after listening to an hour or so of this book on audio, I realized that I wasn’t laughing. And if I’m not laughing at a comedian’s book, really, what is the point?

(I do love Amy Poehler. Just not her writing, apparently.)

 

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The Rosie Effect (Graeme Simsion)

I loved The Rosie Project (and included it in my favorite books of 2014!), so I couldn’t wait to read its sequel.

I doubt I lasted more than 50 pages—it was high on tedium, but low on charm. The first book was definitely detail-oriented, but written so charmingly that it was a pleasure to read instead of a chore. This one didn’t have the lovability of the first.

 

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Those Who Save Us (Jenna Blum)

I feel especially disappointed when I fail to be thrilled by a book that is almost exclusively praised on Goodreads, which was exactly the case with this one.

After spending an hour or so reading Those Who Save Us (set during WWII), I felt almost positive that I knew just where the plot was headed and how it would get there (I could be wrong! but I don’t care enough to google it and find out).

I was feeling very iffy about the writing (which aimed for deep literary waters but belly flopped into the shallow end instead) and the characters (who I felt no connection with whatsoever). Then a very strange, sorta rapey sexual encounter clinched it: time to set this one aside.

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The Cure for Dreaming (Cat Winters)

After enjoying In the Shadow of Blackbirds (by the same author) last month, I hopped on the library hold list for this one, a YA read set in the early 1900s. It took me a solid 80 or so pages to decide I was enjoying Blackbirds, so I was prepared to devote a little time to this one before falling for it.

But I never fell. It felt slow and boring without the addictive creepiness that made Blackbirds so very fun. (The creep factor in Blackbirds: ghosts. The creep factor in Dreaming: hypnotists. Not all that creepy, you know.)

And have you ever read a book that hits you over the head with a moral takeaway instead of gently nudging you toward some lesson to be learned? Well, this book might as well have been a sledgehammer. It pounded that moral as hard and as frequently as it could. Big turnoff for me.

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Dissolution (C.J. Sansom)

Sometimes I don’t have specific complaints about a book I set aside unfinished—something just isn’t ‘clicking’ for me. That was exactly the case with this book, a murder mystery set in in Tudor England.

The setting was interesting, the plot was engaging, the writing was solid . . . but for some reason, I just couldn’t get into it. When you find yourself not giving a hoot about whodunnit in a murder mystery, it’s probably time to move along to something else.

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Astonish Me (Maggie Shipstead)

This novel about the professional ballet world has gotten lots of love from many readers whose taste I admire, but it ended up in my ‘unfinished’ pile.

A reading pet peeve of mine is being told what characters are feeling without being able to see/feel it myself—and that’s exactly what this book felt like to me.

I kept being told about various characters’ passion and emotion and deep connections with each other, but none of it rang true to me. When I can’t connect with or make sense of the characters—and especially when I’m being told who they are without being able to see it myself—I have a hard time forging onward in a book.

What sort of reader are you—a forge-aheader or a wanton abandoner?

The Lost Art of the Thank You Card

This post is sponsored by Shutterfly. All opinions are mine.

Growing up, my mom was always very firm about writing thank you cards after Christmas and birthdays. We were always told to make a list of anyone who had given us gifts, then dutifully work our way through it and send each person a note to thank them. Bonus points if we included a drawing or a particularly thoughtful note (not allowed: “Thank you for my birthday present.” High fives for: “Thank you for the book you sent me! I started reading it right away and my favorite part was  ____________.”).

And the tradition goes back (at least) two generations . . . I remember spending a weekend with my grandparents when I was in middle school, during which a friend took me out for the afternoon for lunch and a movie. When I was dropped back off at my grandparents’ house at the end of the day, my grandma had already set out a stationary set in my bedroom with a little note to remind me to write a thank you to my friend before going to bed.

What a nice lesson to teach your kids—to take a few moments to express gratitude for someone who has gone out of their way to do something special for you.

I’ve tried to keep this tradition going, especially since it seems to be getting more and more rare to get thank you cards. (Are they in fact becoming less common, or is it just my own guilt manifesting itself since I know for a fact I didn’t send out thank you cards for many of the sweet gifts given to Darcy when she was brand new? It’s been almost a year and everyone has probably long since forgotten about it, but I can’t remember who gave me what and I haven’t stopped feeling guilty about not sending out thank-yous yet.)

It seems to be getting harder for me as the years go by to stay on top of sending thank you notes, even though I feel they are important. Our lives are constantly getting busier, I have more to distract me than ever before, and I always seem to remember a month too late, ‘hang on, did I thank so-and-so for Forrest’s birthday present?’

But I try.

In case you’re wondering what makes a thank you card particularly nice (although I do believe that any thank you is appreciated, even a hastily-written, overly-late one), I’ve done the dirty work. According to Martha (the queen of all things homey and domestic and polite), thank you notes should:

- identify the gift
- state why you appreciate it/why it has personal meaning for you
- how you plan to use it
- if a gift was given in person, thank the person for their presence/attendance at your event

And if you happen to be in the market for a lovely set of thank you notes, might I recommend the Mix & Match Stationary Sets from Shutterfly? There are 7 themed designs to choose from, and each can be completely personalized with your own name, initials, and message. And within each set, you can mix and match cards to your hearts desire—get multiple copies of your favorite card design, or up to 12 different coordinating cards.

I thought it was really fun to shop the different designs and put together a set that looked just right for me. I think this would be a fun gift for a bride or newly married couple, personalized with their names. You can check out the Mix & Match sets here (my set is the Vintage Fleur).

Do you write thank you notes? And if you have kids, how do you encourage them to write thoughtful thank yous? I’m running late on thank you notes from Forrest’s birthday, so heaven knows I could use a little inspiration to get moving.

A response to “Dear mom on the iPhone”

On Friday, the Deseret News posted an article by Tonya Ferguson called Dear Mom on the iPhone. The author shared a letter-style article written to a mom at the park who checked her phone as her kids played. Ms. Ferguson informed this mom of all the sweet moments with her children she was missing or only engaging in halfheartedly while she placed most of her attention on her phone. She informed this mother that although she is sure her heart is in the right place, she needs to “put [her] eyes back on [her] prize” and stop showing her kids that “the phone is more important than they are,” because their childhood is passing quickly and (apparently) every moment not spent fixated on the children is a reminder of their unimportance in their mother’s life.

As I first started to read the article, I’ll admit to feeling the defensiveness of the damned. Why, just a few days ago I took my son to the park and planted myself on a bench to read a book while he played. Every few minutes, he’d come over to me and take my hand, and I’d stand ready to catch and ‘swoop’ him at the bottom of the slide or help him climb up a high step, then I’d head back to my bench and pick up my book and let him play on his own for a few more minutes. I felt a guilty prick as I read the article: was I really that terrible of a mother because I didn’t spend every moment at the park playing with him? Did he really feel he was unimportant to me simply because I brought a book to read while he played? Was I really teaching him that he was unloved or unworthy of my attention because I stole a few moments of playtime at the park to enjoy a moment of quiet with a book?

Then my guilt transformed into a feeling of annoyance, and different questions replaced my self-doubting ones: when will this judgment stop? When will we, as mothers, band together in love and support of each other instead of continuing to come up with an infinite number of ways to criticize others’ parenting style and choices? Why can’t we, as mothers and parents and women, trust that we are each doing our best, no matter how different that ‘best’ may look from one woman to the next? Why can’t we each be given the respect to make our own choices with our children, and not be made to feel like failures when we don’t all make identical choices?

My visit to the park with a book would surely have warranted the criticism of Ms. Ferguson. Because I heard my son “whee!”-ing his way down the slide and continued reading after only a quick glance up at him to say, “Good job!” Because after a few minutes of chasing and tickling him while he laughed and shouted in excitement, I told him, “Ok, have fun! Mommy’s going to sit down for a few minutes.” Because once or twice, when he came to take my hand and pull me up from my seat on the bench, I told him, “Go on and head down the slide! That looks like fun!” and chose to stay sitting with my book instead.

But what Ms. Ferguson doesn’t see is the rest of the picture. Every other moment of my—and the infamous ‘mom with the iPhone’s’—life. She is armed and ready to criticize us for our moment of quiet at the park, but what she doesn’t see are the meals enjoyed together, spent laughing and joking and talking about the day. She doesn’t see the game we played together before heading to the park, or the snuggling while we watched a movie together after we came home. She doesn’t see the book we read together before naptime, or the comfort we offered after a scary nightmare last night, or the ‘tickle monster’ attack when Daddy got home from work that day. She doesn’t see our tears as we question our choices or worry about our children or wonder if we’re doing a good job raising them. No, just the moment with the book or iPhone in the park is enough for her to decide that “the phone is more important than [the children] are.”

I want my children to know how precious they are to me. I want them to know that they are loved deeply and cherished and worried for and thought about and prayed for, and I do everything I can to make sure of it. But another important lesson that I want them to learn is that mom is a person, too. Just like them, Mom has her own needs and wants that might be different from theirs. I want them to know that the world does not revolve around their every whim and desire. I hope to teach them, perhaps, that mom could sure use a few minutes on the couch with her book to regain some energy to play with them more a little later, and that I have responsibilities and interests outside of their daily care. I want them to learn that I trust them to be able to entertain themselves, that I have confidence that they will be able to play on their own and have fun without Mommy’s constant interaction. I want them to see and know that just as they sometimes want a moment to play alone or watch TV or not participate in an activity that doesn’t look fun to them, Mom also sometimes needs a few quiet minutes or a chance to catch up on something she needs to do.

So, no, I do not feel guilty about reading my book in the park the other day. And I’ll do it again, gladly, because as important as my child is to me, I also value myself, my own wants and needs, the person that I was before I had a child and the person that I am today who, just like my son, also deserves nourishing and time and growth. I love my son and I make sure he knows it, and I do not believe that taking a few moments for myself detracts from that love in any way. In fact, I truly feel that I am a better mother after taking some time to focus on myself and meet my own wants and needs, and if that time for myself comes in the form of a few moments to read in the park or—gasp—to use my phone to text my sister or catch up on friends’ news on facebook, I will gladly embrace it. Sure, I might miss a few sweet moments here and there while taking time for myself, but the trade-off, for me, is worth it: I’ll be rejuvenated enough, renewed enough, and whole enough to appreciate more greatly the moments I am fully present for.

Now, I don’t mean for this post to just be a backlash to the “Mom on the iPhone” article. I have no doubt that Ms. Ferguson is a fabulous mother, and I hope that she didn’t intend her article to be a criticism of other moms and their need—which maybe she herself doesn’t feel—to take a moment for themselves amid the wildness that is a day with young children. I hoped that I could touch on something bigger, and could maybe start to reverse the idea that we, as mothers and women, somehow have the right to criticize each other, that we have the role and responsibility of making others’ decisions for them and deciding after a moment’s observation that we know what is best for someone else’s family and their children.

From now on, this will be my mantra: “I am doing my best. And so is she.”

I truly can’t think of a mother I know who does not appear to be doing her best with her children, who doesn’t value and cherish those little ones and make sure they know her feelings toward them. And I similarly can’t think of a mother who isn’t already acutely aware of her shortcomings and failures with her family, who doesn’t despair over the things she’s done poorly and try to improve them. I can’t think of a mother I know who would hear a parenting criticism from a stranger without thinking, “I already knew that, and I already feel badly about it.” We don’t need to criticize each other—we’re all doing a magnificent job of criticizing ourselves already.

Some moms’ best might include balancing a full-time job with motherhood—more power to them. Some moms’ best might involve homeschooling their children or planning elaborate Pinterest-worthy activities to educate and entertain them—good for them. Some moms’ best might mean frequent iPhone checks throughout the day to connect with family and friends to feel supported and loved and validated. We’re all doing our best, whatever that may look like. And I hope we can all start trusting that our ‘best’ doesn’t all have to look the same, and start doing each other the favor of respecting and supporting each others’ ‘best’ without feeling the need to criticize or look down on their choices and actions.

House Hunting: And so it begins . . .

I think I mentioned in a post recently that we’ve started searching for a house. This is something I’ve looked forward to for a long time and expected to be very exciting. I was right, it is exciting, but not so much in the “kid at Disneyland” way . . . more in the way that being chased by a rabid dog is probably exciting. We’ve had a few Disneyland moments, but plenty of rabid dog moments, too. Maybe house hunting is kind of like being chased by a rabid dog through Disneyland? Actually, house hunting with a plentiful budget is probably Disneyland. Our budget = rabid dog. There are plenty of houses on the market in our price range, but 90% are short sales (which makes me a little nervous—after 5 years of waiting to buy a house, I’m not sure how much more waiting I want to put myself through), and the 10% that aren’t short sales are generally pretty scary.

We’ve been renting for about 7 or 8 years now and you know, it’s starting to feel a little old. Renting has its perks--no repairs, no yard work, no snow-shoveling--but it certainly comes with its own set of issues . . . no options in style/paint colors/etc., Satan’s-minions landlords like we had in our previous rental, slow-moving [but very friendly!] landlord who hasn’t fixed our broken toilet in the 9 months we’ve lived in our current rental . . . you know the drill.

We took our first trip out with our realtor a few weeks ago and it was certainly an eye-opening experience . . . our eyes are bulging-out-of-their-sockets open now.

Our first stop was at a 150-year old ivy-covered stone house north of Salt Lake. I’m a sucker for old houses—one of the homes I grew up in was a 200-year old farm house in upstate New York, and I love the charm and personality that come with an older house. The MLS listing for the gem we looked at has been taken down so I can’t snag a picture to include, but I’m sure you can use your imagination. The pictures made the house look country-cottage-y-adorable, set in a big yard with a fence, and the interior shots looked spacious, bright, and welcoming. The house was near the top of our price range, but I was dying to see it, so it was our first stop.

I pictured Thomas Kincaid cottage charm . . . I got Scooby Doo haunted mansion. The house was a nightmare. The ‘spacious yard’ in the pictures turned out to be a little patch of dirt circled by a fence with half its slats missing. The inside was shockingly awful . . . dirty beyond belief (I actually said at one point, “I wonder why they gave all the trim this gray antique glaze,” running my finger over it to come up with a handful of nasty, 150-year old grime), ceilings that even we shorties could barely stand up straight in, a maze-like layout that had us lost and confused more than once, itsy-bitsy door-less-and-closet-less nooks that were billed as bedrooms, additions that didn’t line up or connect with the original structure (picture the floor just ending and starting up again, 3 inches over and half a foot higher), a staircase to nowhere (not making that up—a door in the wall that we expected to be a closet was hiding a staircase that went up about 6 steps and then just stopped). Even the realtor was shocked—he said he’d never, in all his years as a realtor, seen such deceiving photos on a listing. I still think it would make an amazing house . . . if a buyer is willing to put probably $50,000+ into repairs and updates and a complete cleaning overhaul. I am definitely not that buyer. Strike one.

After stopping by a few townhouses that I was not terribly impressed with, we looked at another house that I had hardly even wanted to see—the listing price was over $10k out of our price range and I didn't particularly want to fall in love with a home I knew we couldn’t afford.  But the house was amazing . . . it was in our dream neighborhood—the one we can’t actually afford but love to drive through, slowly and creepily, peering into people’s windows—and had everything we wanted in a home. Clean, spacious, updated, with plenty of room to grow . . . and it was a HUD home, which meant the government was just trying to sell it fast, so maybe we had a chance at it! We put in a bid as high as we felt comfortable going . . . and didn’t get the house. Not surprising, and we hadn’t gotten our hopes up too high, but of course that hadn’t stopped me from planning out all the decor, checking out paint samples, and window shopping for new furniture. Smart moves on my part, all around. Strike two.

Which brings us to this past weekend. Our realtor was out of town, so we thought we’d just drive around to get a feel for some different areas and maybe drive by (creepily, of course, that’s how we do it) some homes on the list of places we wanted to check out when our realtor got back. As we were driving, we spotted a for sale sign in front of a home that we hadn’t seen in the MLS listings . . . it was in a decent-looking neighborhood with a pretty-okay-looking exterior. It wasn’t an amazing house, but I saw potential. We hopped out to grab a flyer—the price was near the bottom end of our budget—and saw that the home was vacant and shoppers were encouraged to take a peek. We looked through all the windows and decided the previous owners must have moved out mid-renovation . . . all the carpets were ripped up, doors were missing, etc.

No big deal—if we got at at or below its listing price, we could afford to put some serious work into the place. I was actually a little excited at the thought of all the renovations—for the price, we could not only snatch that house up and remodel it to be exactly what we wanted, but we’d probably still come out with extra money bouncing around in our house budget. The backyard was what really sold me—it was set on a corner lot and had a spacious, beautiful yard, fully fenced with a garden in one corner, a stone walkway and patio. I pictured myself setting Forrest free in that gorgeous yard while I sat inside eating cupcakes and watching Ellen. It was a lovely moment.

We called the listing agent twice without hearing back from him and started to get anxious—what if someone else had snatched up our bargain house? What if someone was signing a contract for it right now? In typical fashion, I was already planning the new floors I’d put in and shopping around for outdoor furniture for that amazing backyard, working on my garden layout (I’ve killed every plant I’ve ever owned in record time, not sure why I thought I could handle a garden).

Last night, we finally got a call back from the listing agent who was very excited to hear from some interested shoppers. He and Jeff had a long phone conversation—well, it was long on the agent’s end. Jeff got maybe two words in while I watched his expression morph slowly from excitement to horror. Wonder why that house was such a bargain?

It was a meth house.

A meth house.

A METH HOUSE!!!

The agent was telling Jeff not to worry—the previous owners were just recreational users! It’s okay! Just recreational meth users! They weren’t making meth! Just using it for fun! No worries! It’s cool!

And the meth-lab-tester-people had to tear out all the carpets because they tested positive for brain-damage-inducing meth levels! No biggie!

Oh, and the druggie previous owners also stripped the house before they left! There are no toilets! Or sinks! The furnace is gone! The water heater, too! It’s just an empty, hazardous, life-threatening shell of a meth house! When would you like to come see it?!

Strike three. The search continues. I can only hope that this weekend’s showings keep up this streak of rabid-dog-chase excitement, because I sure would hate to get bored by this whole house-hunting thing. It is just as exciting as I had imagined.

Is this real life?

(If you’re stopping by to enter the 5 Berries pattern giveaway . . . we’ve postponed until next week—sorry for the inconvenience! Check back Monday, March 19th for the giveaway!)

These past two weeks have sure been a doozy. (Or, since it was multiple weeks, am I supposed to pluralize and call them doozies? That just doesn’t sound right. Doozies? Doozy? I give up.) We took a whirlwind trip to Pennsylvania to visit Jeff’s family, then came home and started house-hunting (yikes). I played single mom for a few exhausting days while Jeff pulled 12-ish-hour workdays, all while I was crocheting like a madwoman to stock up for the Queen Bee Market next month.

My fingers hurt. My brain hurts. My ears hurt, because of course Forrest is teething (constantly) and misses his dad and is not shy about expressing his anger. My hat is off to actual single mothers. And last night, I woke up to my sleep-talking husband sitting up in bed in the middle of the night, demanding to know who I was and what I had done with Forrest. (Yes, I’m a kidnapper. I took your child and then climbed into bed with you and fell asleep. That’s what we kidnappers do, didn’t you know?)

Anyway. I’m sure what you REALLY wanted to hear today was a crazy story about a naturopathic nutso calling me fat, right? Isn’t that what you scour blogs for? That’s the reason I’m a blog reader, really . . . I just keep waiting for wild fat stories. Well, today I. CAN. DELIVER! This should be a nice Monday pick-me-up for you . . .

The reason Jeff was having such long days at work was to man his office’s booth at the Salt Lake Tribune Home and Garden Show. He got me a few free tickets, so my sister, sister-in-law, Forrest, and I headed up Saturday afternoon to check it out. We were standing by the Vitamix booth, scoring ourselves some free smoothies and doing our best to avoid eye contact with any salespeople. I’m a master of the awkward mumble-and-sidestep move to get around booth pitchmen. I feel like wearing a sign to these sorts of things—“I have no money. I seriously cannot buy your stuff. But I will gladly accept your free samples.”

I feel a tap on my shoulder as someone says, “Ma’am, is that your baby?” In a moment of panic, I spin around, expecting to see Forrest has escaped from his stroller and is being carried off by a stranger (the sort of person who will later fall asleep in our bed after kidnapping our child, I’m sure), and see a middle-aged man pointing at Forrest (who is just sitting in his stroller). I say yes, and he immediately launches into an extremely confusing sales pitch . . . after a brief intro of himself as a wildly famous and successful naturopath (which I somehow doubt), he starts talking about his wife, who was able to have a vaginal birth against all odds, and don’t we all dream of a vaginal birth, and wouldn’t you like to have a vaginal birth, and so on. I’m not sure if you’ve ever been in the position of having a male stranger accost you in a crowded room and preach to you about the excitement and wonder of a vaginal birth, but I’ll tell you this: it’s kind of awkward. I didn’t particularly want to hear about his wife’s vaginal birth. I got really tired of hearing him say the words “vaginal birth.” You’re probably getting tired of it, too. And all this time, I still had no idea what he was trying to sell me . . . a vaginal birth? Do they sell those these days?

He finally hands me this little card, pictured below, and says to me with great intensity, staring me down in a sort of sisterly, compassionate, I-feel-your-pain kind of way, “I know how hard it can be for moms to lose weight.”

OH NO HE DIDN’T! Tell me that a stranger, a middle-aged man, did NOT just approach me, ask if I was a mother, and tell me he gets it. He can finally help me lose all this baby weight I’m dragging around. Really, sir? This is your sales pitch? To find women carting children around, approach them in the middle of a huge group where they can’t possibly escape from you and your uncomfortable vaginal-birth-ridden sales pitch, and tell them, “I can help you lose that disgusting chub clinging to every inch of your body!”?

While I’m puzzling through all of this, wondering if this is real life or maybe there’s a hidden camera somewhere and this will be airing on TV later, he’s pointing at the woman on the card and telling me that if she did it, I can, too! With his help and his magical herbs, I can lose the stomach pooch (that’s a quote! he seriously said “stomach pooch!”) that plagues us mothers! I think he started to realize how awful this was sounding (and maybe noticing the looks of complete bewilderment and simmering rage on my face), so he tried to backtrack with a less-than-tactful, “And I, uhhhh, I’m only offering this to you because you look, uhhh, fit and slender! I don’t even try to talk overweight people into this program because they just don’t care about their health!”

GOOD SAVE, DOC. First I was a chubby, poochy, pathetic and unmotivated mom who needed your rescuing, but now you’ve changed your mind and decided that I am actually slender and that is why I need to lose weight with your assistance? Not to mention that you think being overweight means you just don’t give a crap about your health? I would have to disagree with that statement . . .

He finally bowed out not too gracefully by letting me know that I could email him with any questions and he’d just looooove to work with me. I bet. I do have a few questions, come to think of it. Mostly about the nature of his sales pitch and the questionable wisdom in calling potential customers fat. I’d also love to learn a little more about his wife’s vaginal birth, because I certainly didn’t hear enough about that.

(By the way, this is SO not a request for compliments and reassurance about my figure. I feel just dandy about my appearance and my health, no thanks to Mr. Nutty Naturopath up there. It was just one of those “is this real life?” moments that simply cannot be kept off the internet. And if you are interested in his products or want to get his email address . . . I am definitely not passing it along to you. A salesman of his caliber needs to go out of business, pronto.)

Are you there, Blog?

You know what always cracks me up? When I see a blog post that starts with, “I am SOOOO sorry I haven’t posted in like 4 whole days!!! I’m still alive, I promise, LOL! Don’t worry!!!” As if every reader has been gnawing at their fingernails, constantly refreshing the page to check for updates, wondering if they should send out the search and rescue squad to solve The Mystery of The Missing Blogger. I have rarely, if ever, noticed when the bloggers I stalk have taken a little break, so I’m going to assume that no one noticed (or fretted over) my week-long absence here.

I mostly haven’t had anything interesting to say or show you—the past week was an unusual mix of busy-ness (2 doctor’s appointments consisting of 3 long-overdue vaccinations for a very unhappy Forrest as well as some steroids for me . . . I can’t even describe the nerdy good-girl-turned-rebel glee I feel when I pop my steroid pills in the morning, even if it’s just to treat a wacky rash on my chest), and laziness (I read 3 books this week while languishing on the couch in a drug-induced stupor—what a nice change from watching Gossip Girl on Netflix). I even tried to crack a steroid joke with the pharmacist when picking up my prescription—I overestimated the extent of our friendship (I guess asking his advice on how to treat bronchitis because I didn’t want to pay for a doctor’s appointment a few months back did not forge as deep of a bond on his end as it did on mine), and he did not seem particularly amused by my ‘roid rage humor. I’ll win him over sooner or later, just you wait. I’m coming for you, Mr. Stony-Faced Pharmacist.

But there’s been another whisper of an underlying reason I didn’t post much this week . . . despite the busy-ness and tired-ness and rash-fighting-ness and lack-of-friendship-with-my-pharmacist-ness, I’d think about writing a post and realize something: I’m not really sure what my blog’s deal is anymore.

I mentioned that I often enjoy a little private laugh at bloggers who apologize for infrequent posting, as if they owe it to me, somehow, to be constantly dazzling me with new projects or amazing ideas or stylish outfits or gourmet recipes or hilarious anecdotes. Another blogger phenomenon I’ve giggled over in the past is bloggers posting some sort of poll or survey asking readers what they enjoy about the blog . . . “what kind of posts do you like to see? What keeps you coming back for more? What would you like to see more of here? What posts do you skip?” I used to see posts asking for such feedback and think to myself, “Good gracious, just write what you want. It’s your blog.” But I totally understand that now, and although I’m resisting the urge to make a survey and beg for your thoughts, I read through a few of my older posts recently and realized my blog has been going through a bit of an identity crisis—at first, all I posted was tutorials, sewing projects, my own craft ideas or other ladies’ projects that blew my mind. It was a craft blog and a venue to shamelessly promote my etsy shop (see how I resisted the shameless self-promotion there? no link!). I rarely wrote anything that was personal or not craft-related.

In recent months though, I haven’t come up with any new ideas or tutorials, and the only crafty projects I’ve shown have been things I’ve made using other people’s patterns/tutorials, but didn’t think up on my own. I feel fine about this—honestly, why come up with a new tutorial or idea when there are a zillion amazing patterns and instructions out there already?—but it almost leaves me a little uncertain about where this blog is headed, and where I want it to go. Do I want it to turn into a simple project gallery? Or a lifestyle blog with funny stories about my kid? Do I need to keep posting tutorials and craft ideas to keep readers coming back? Should I even care if readers keep coming back? And then there’s the occasional oddball post like my haircut pictures recently that gets, like, 400% more comments than anything else I ever write and I end up thinking, “Should I even pretend this is a craft blog anymore when the posts that get the most comments are about my hair?”

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m not positive where this blog is right now or where it’s going, but I think I’m just going to let it wander where it wants to wander. I’ve seen creative bloggers mention feeling pressured or competitive—if they don’t have new ideas, original tutorials, large-and-in-charge content, big events or changes always in the works, they’ll fall behind and seem boring or behind-the-times or unexciting. I have somehow avoided feeling any such pressure to perform, and am kind of enjoying just writing whatever comes to mind, even if it doesn’t necessarily fit what I thought this blog would be when I began. I can hardly call it a craft blog anymore since there’s an undeniable lack of original craft ideas, but I’m not sure what to call it instead. Just my blog, I guess? Maybe it doesn’t need a category. When I think of the blogs I most enjoy reading, I sort of have a hard time categorizing them . . . sure, I appreciate and want to read good content, but the blogs that have remained favorites of mine in the long run instead of just popping up and then being quickly forgotten are the ones whose writing really grabs me. I do care, to a degree, what they’re writing about, but I mostly just love reading what they have to say and how they say it. Maybe that’s where my blog belongs . . . somewhere in the “Is that girl still blabbing?” category.

And, without begging for it, this is me quietly wondering aloud why you read this blog, exactly, and what you enjoy about it? Because I kind of have no idea what any of you are doing here, if I’m being honest. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so glad to have fun readers that seriously feel like real-life friends (no matter how many times Jeff tells me I need to air-quote “friends” when I’m talking about blog friends) . . . but I’m not exactly sure what makes you want to subscribe or come back for more.

And since you’re already here and, quite frankly, are probably bored to tears if you’re still reading this, I’ll reward you with some pictures that will be getting their own posts sometime soon . . . a quick and adorable scarf I spent a whopping 15 minutes and $3 on . . . I’ll share the 3-step how-to in a day or two:

And my sister and I pretending to be much more suave, sexy, and sophisticated than we actually are in a mini photo shoot featuring the darling clothing section at Bungalow Boutique . . . more photos to come later. I’m still sad every morning when I open my closet and it only has my regular old clothes inside instead of these ones:

Over and out.

Confessions

I'm sure this makes me a creative misfit, but the truth is . . . 

I'm getting tired of chevron. And burlap. And excessive ruffles. And headbands worn straight across the forehead. And especially chalkboard paint used on anything and everything. (Edited! Thanks to Toni for reminding me that I'm also so over mustaches and the various Keep Calm & Make A Stupid Poster prints.)

I get embarrassed when I find out someone I know in real life reads this blog. It makes me feel a little ridiculous.

I might be the absolute worst teacher of sewing and crochet there ever was. I think everyone I've ever tried to teach has sworn they'll never attempt it again.

It takes like 200 shots of me modeling something I've made to get the two or three decent pictures that make it to the blog. (You thought Forrest's outtakes were goofy? They're frameworthy compared to some of mine.) And usually, in the two or three decent shots, I'm looking away from the camera. Boy howdy, I sure end up with some doozies.

I've never been to Anthropologie, and I feel somewhat annoyed by how much I'm supposed to love it.

#1 way to get me to unfollow your blog? Write about how amazing your husband is. Really, try it.

Anything you'd like to confess?

While you're here . . . my knotted crochet headband tutorial is over on Artsee Bloggers today (a really fun new creative blog directory)--go check it out!

Lessons Learned on a Cross-Country Move

A grandma in the backseat with the 10-month old is an absolute must. If I wasn't already (I was), I am now forever indebted to my mom for spending 20 hours playing pat-a-cake with my cranky baby (another lesson learned: the baby who won't sleep in the car on hour-long car trips still won't sleep in the car on 20-hour-long car trips). (Don't worry, Mom, I'll make it up to you. I'll put you in a real nice nursing home someday! The kind that doesn't make it onto CNN for elderly abuse!)

A portable DVD player for said baby is also a must. I can now quote the movie Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs in its entirety. I'm fairly certain about 19 of the 20 hours in the car were spent with this movie playing. I'm sure this will come in handy while trying to make friends in my new town. (Lull in the conversation? Never fear! Meatballs quotes to the rescue!)

When the neighbors at your old apartment joked that the landlady was a horrible old hag who wouldn't give you a cent of your security deposit back when you moved out, they weren't joking. It will take oodles of restraint to resist running her over with the moving truck as you drive away. And the first 2 hours of the drive will be spent mentally drafting the hate letter you plan to mail to her (which may or may not be laced with anthrax . . . note to self: work on the self-restraint issue before mailing the letter).

Leaving your husband driving the moving truck alone while you, mom, and baby drive the car may make him go mildly crazy . . . not scary-crazy, but the kind of crazy that calls the "How's my driving?" numbers on the back of semis just to have someone to talk to. 

People can make anything look good online. The townhouse that looked like a dream come true on the website turned out to be a tenement with holes in the walls, peeling paint, and frightening, shirtless, leering neighbors. (But don't worry, the slumlord who showed it to us boasted that it was move-in ready. Maybe the hole in the wall that I was afraid my baby would climb inside of leads to a play room?) Plan on the housing search taking a tad longer than originally expected.

Having a mom cook for me everyday as I squat in her spare bedrooms is fantastic. Why were we all so excited to leave home? I want to come back! Forever! 

When it's all said and done, the stress and hassle of moving from Iowa to Utah to be near family is made more than worth it when I get to hug my sweet nieces, see Forrest giggling with his grandpa, be instructed in the proper execution of the Bernie by my goofball sister, and watch my little boy fall in love with his relatives.

A Cautionary Tale: Stray from the instructions at your own peril

In my early elementary school years, my teacher once handed out a worksheet and told us to read the instructions and get started. Being a typical young student, I got out my pencil and started right in on question #1 without bothering to read the directions first. A line at the bottom of the worksheet said, "When you have answered all the questions on this paper, you may write your name on the blackboard!" Also being a know-it-all-teacher's-pet-showoff, I finished as fast as I could, sprinted to the board, and scrawled my name in gigantic letters so everyone would see that I was done.

Did you have an assignment like this in elementary school, too? Do you know what the instructions, which I failed to read, said? "Don't answer any of these questions; turn this paper over and doodle on the back side until your teacher says the time is up." 

It was an exercise in following directions--those who had taken the time to read the instructions knew that we showoffs hadn't bothered to figure out the purpose of the handout, and doodled smugly in their seats until the teacher pointed out that some students didn't know how to follow instructions.

An important lesson that I clearly didn't learn.

(sigh)

Where to begin with this disastrous failure . . . well, like everybody else with two brain cells to rub together, I love this shoe makeover that Katy of Sweet Verbena came up with:

 $5 Walmart sneakers? A packet of fabric dye? I can totally handle this!

Or not.

Everything started out okay . . . I gathered up my supplies and could hardly wait to see my shoes take on that lovely turquoise pictured on the fabric dye:

But it became clear pretty quickly as my shoes bobbed about in the dye that they were not going to be turquoise, or anything remotely resembling turquoise. I should have taken a picture for you (but your corneas will thank me for the lapse)--they were fiercely blue. Atomic-ly, piercingly, nuclear blue. This is where a lesson learned in elementary school about following instructions would have really paid off . . . I could have stopped here, realized things had gone awry, pitched the shoes, and started fresh by following Katy's instructions a second time. 

But I launched a rescue mission instead. First, I tried scrubbing the shoes under boiling hot water. The shoes and their offensive blue-ness were unaltered, but I think I need to get some skin grafts for my melted hands. Then I got out my big jug of bleach and dumped it over my sneakers, thinking that I could soften it up to more of a robin's egg blue.

That's not so much "robin's egg blue" as "stomped in a puddle of kool-aid."

I know what you're thinking . . . just stop. Let the shoes go. Accept your failure. But no, there's more.

I remembered that I had a bottle of fabric painting medium in my basement, which you can mix with any old acrylic paint so it will adhere to fabric. Brilliant, no? (No!)

Not only did I completely decimate all the portions of the shoes that were supposed to stay white, but it is painfully obvious that I painted my sneakers. The pictures don't quite do it justice--they are downright crunchy. 

And just when you think I can't possibly do anything more to humiliate myself with these sneakers, inspiration struck again! I thought, "Maybe if I run them under really hot water and scrub them, I'll be able to get rid of that crinkly, painted look."

Another fail. I guess you can't scrub away fabric paint--they began to turn a sickly gray in what I can only assume was a desperate plea for me to just let them die, and I finally took pity on them and put them out of their misery (may you rest in peace in the garbage dump, you poor, poor sneakers). 

Lesson learned: follow the instructions, dammit.