Narcissism and the Art of the Christmas Letter

You know what's a hard word to spell? Narcissism. After I just spelled it, even after checking in the dictionary, I still stare at it, trying to tell if I actually got it right. Too many curvy letters. I feel that way about "anonymity." Never can spell that one without a lot of trouble, either. I just ran spell check, though, so apparently I got it right. Not that spell Czech is always a safety net. It won't catch properly-spelled typos or grammatical missteps. Its you're friend, but it won't save you from yourself. See?

Oh, and that's not my hand in that picture, though I have been known to use a fountain pen on occasion. The nails on Ms. Clip Art's hands are way too cute and manicured and perfect. Nails like that wouldn't survive a week in my life. Just too much maintenance, anyway.

Oy. I haven't even started my post yet, and already I'm digressing. Kind of like talking to me in real life. 

Anyway, to the point: the season is upon us. Incessant holiday music in stores has been plaguing us since Halloween. We're shopping and mailing and gifting and baking. Time for holiday cards and... Christmas letters.

Christmas letters are a tradition with Sean and I. We don't have kids or crazy adventures, but we somehow still manage to fill up a whole page front and back--though I try to use generously-sized font.

But let me tell you a little something. I don't like social media. I don't tweet. I've never even logged on to Twitter. I reluctantly use LinkedIn, though I really loathe the lack of functionality in LinkedIn's iPad app (are you reading this, LinkedIn people?). I've never been on InstaGram or Vine. I have a Facebook page, but my profile picture is from--2008? 2009?--and I hardly ever log in.

I hate social media because the moment I log in to Facebook and see everyone's feeds and comments and kids and status updates, I feel Scrooge-ish. I feel like I don't have an adventurous life. That I'm under-accomplished.  That I should have a higher-paying job. I feel guilty that I don't have a stronger opinion about Israel. Or Palestine. Or my local bond election. And my turkey chili that I'm eating in front of the computer for dinner doesn't compare to the proscuitto and buffalo mozzerella with homemade basil pesto and home-grown cherry tomato pizza my friend just posted for her pic. I feel bad that I'm not more in touch with all these people from high school, and maybe I really SHOULD have tried harder to stay in touch with Tammy Joe or whomever.

When I log off, I think, "waaaaiiiit a minute. I don't stay in touch with these people because we weren't really good friends in high school, and we're not even friends now. I didn't WANT to stay in touch with Tammy Joe." So what do I care about Tammy Joe's picture-perfect life?

Maybe I should "unfriend" everyone off my account except family and friends I actually want to keep in touch with.

And what's more... I struggle to remember that what people post on Facebook most of the time is not the nitty-gritty of real life. It's this perfect slice of their life that they want the world to see. They keep the struggle and the heartache and the tough stuff to themselves, most of the time. Facebook is for your happy face, the person you want to be. It's not for displaying the person that you actually ARE. A little bit of main-stream, society-wide narcissism--the pervasive assumption that other people care about what we ate, what music we're listening to, or what cute words your toddler just strung together.

Granted, I realize that I can't make sweeping statements like that. Some people really do have their highs and lows on Facebook. A lot of people don't. And a large group of people DOES seem to care about what you just ate. And some of the stuff on Twitter is hilarious. I know because my friend emails them to me.

Then I sat down and started writing our Christmas letter. As I was mentally reviewing our past year and glossing over our low points and struggles, I had an uncomfortable realization. Here I hold these fairly negative views of social media, and what else am I doing than presenting an old-fashioned snapshot of that "happy face" that I decry on Facebook? I carefully craft the letter to only show the fun stuff, the amusing stuff, the interesting stuff. Everybody does. That's the art of the Christmas letter. Holy Hannah.  All I'm really doing is sending out a really long Facebook post. I'm assuming that people I haven't really stayed in touch with all year actually CARE about what we've done.

Well, this is embarassing. And if you carry that further, I have a BLOG, for cripe's sake. Seems slightly more narcissistic than Facebook, really.

Huh. Well, I have no intention of changing my Christmas letter behavior. I guess like 90% of the people on Facebook, I prefer to play the tough stuff close to the vest. Seems that I'll be sending out my cards a little heavier for a slice of narcissism. Hope you all forgive me. And really, I actually DO look forward to all the other letters from people, so if people look forward to mine, is it still narcissistic of me?

Ugh, my head is starting to hurt. I'm just going to finish stuffing these envelopes and nursing my papercuts.

Merry Christmas!

Blessed

I'm a night owl. I do some of my most creative work in the wee hours. Sometimes I'll have great inspiration for posts while I'm laying in bed trying to sleep, and I'll remember them the next day but have no motivation, drive, or creativity to complete them.

And then there are nights like tonight, laying in the darkness next to my husband, typing madly with my thumbs or index fingers and relying on autocorrect to speed things along--or make really hilarious mistakes.

Nights like tonight are when I lay down in bed, and feel immediately comfortable and relaxed and at peace. Sometimes that sensation of tranquility is directly related to wine, and sometimes it isn't. Tonight is a bit of both.

Nights like tonight are when I luxuriously stretch out my toes to the bottom of the bed. I am the perfect temperature.  Our uber-fancy temperpedic-ish bed is cradling my body in a sublime blend of soft give and hard support. My husband is breathing loudly and evenly in his sleep in the darkness next to me, and my little dog--my living teddy bear--is curled up against my side.

One of my favorite feelings in the world is when I have clean sheets and freshly-shaved legs, and I have both tonight (possibly too much information, but who cares?). And If I'm OCD about anything, it's that my blankets have to be JUST SO before I can relax enough to try and sleep.  At this moment, my blankets are just so.

Sean took me out to a steakhouse tonight with his birthday money. It was date night, and we sat in the gaudy-gothic-fab Latin restaurant and talked and ate and laughed and drank, just the two of us.  Sometimes when people who have kids say, "what do you mean, 'just the two of you?' Isn't it always just the two of you?" I begin to think they have a fair point, and I feel stupid and selfish for not wanting to share our time with others. But then I have to step back and look at our situation.  We both work full time, or more than full time. Sean travels for two weeks of the month, usually.  Weekends are taken up with errands and housework. We have standing Monday night dinners with his sister and our nephew.  Weeknights are full of dishes and email and work triage on the couch with laptops and iPads.  We're side-by-side, but not really together.

When I say, "just the two of us," I mean no laptops, no emails, no tv or cell phones or iPads.  Just us. And on nights like tonight, everything feels just perfect. I am so lucky to have my husband, and sometimes can't believe my good fortune to have snagged him. He's better than I deserve. And for reasons I don't understand and can't logically follow, he seems to think the same about me.

The wine might be getting to me.  I might regret this post later. But for now, in the darkness and surrounded by what I hold most dear, I am blessed.

I am blessed.

Wine Country and Back Country

Guys. GUYS. Oh my gosh. Did you know that there's a place in Idaho City that sells slices of pie the size of your head? GUYS. This is serious.

But let me start at the beginning.

Did you know that we live in Wine Country? I know. I didn't, either. Well, I knew, but I didn't understand.

Sean and I have been to a few galleries and shops here when they've had wine tastings, and there are always several wineries at the farmers market on Saturdays. We've talked often of going out to see the wineries, but hadn't gotten around to it yet. Well, my Bestie came down last weekend for a visit, and the weather was great--so we decided to give it a go.

Holy Hannah. I had no idea that there were something like 30 wineries in a 6-mile radius. Some were understated, but some--like Bitner--had views of the vineyard and the Snake River Valley that threw us right out of southern Idaho and straight into Tuscany. Amazing. Breathtaking. Beautiful.

And the wine is surprisingly top-notch. Idaho's wine country is up-and-coming in a BIG way. I actually joined the wine club at Koenig Winery just so that I could walk out the door with their members-only Pinot Noir. And the bachelorette party that kept following us from stop to stop--increasingly intoxicated as they each stumbled out of their stretch limo--wasn't even enough to dampen our fun. 

We cut ourselves off after four wineries because we got started late-ish in the day--and ironically we wanted to head back to a new microbrewery/pub in Boise for dinner. After a day of winetasting, we capped our day with good beer and surprisingly great food at 10 Barrel Brewing. So often I feel like new, crowded, trendy restaurants are often not worth the hype (like when PF Chang's or Cheesecake Factory opened--yougottabekiddingme), but this small chain (out of Bend, OR) was well worth the hype.

On Sunday, it was chilly enough in the morning that during brunch we convinced my Bestie that heading up to Idaho City to take a dip in the hot springs was actually a good idea. A 30-minute drive from our house and a left turn into a parking area, and we found ourselves at a "day resort" in the middle of nowhere. The facilities were small but surprisingly swank, and we spent just under two hours toasting ourselves in the pool-sized hot spring in the beautiful autumn sun while a guy in the jeans-and-flannel-shirt uniform brought us wine and beer. Not a bad gig.

Nothing makes you hungrier than doing absolutely nothing while toasting in a hot spring and drinking booze, so we left to explore Idaho City for a late lunch. Five minutes further down the road, and we entered what felt a like the set of Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman, except with cars and stuff.

(Am I the only one who remembers Doctor Quinn? I used to idolize Jane Seymore, and I had a crush on Sully. Whatever happened to Sully, anyway? And I no longer idolize Jane Seymore. I grew up and realized how insufferably preachy the Quinn character was, and how insufferably weepy Jane's acting often is. Though to be fair to her, I haven't seen her in much lately. Wasn't she on Dancing With the Stars? Was she insufferably weepy as she danced? Maybe she could recruit Sully for next season. I'd like to see that.)

Anyway, I digress. We swept the main street of "town" (population 480) and swung a u-turn to hit the diner with the crowded parking lot. We got one of the last tables (at 2pm), and they kept flipping tables the whole time we were there. CRAZY busy. The inside had its own charm... the kind of place that would only survive in a time warp or tiny town. Apparently an antique store exploded inside the cafe, and was only partially cleaned up. When you see the display case of pies, though, you're pretty much ready to forgive them anything. Trudy's has great--if somewhat standard--food, but they have pies the size of my badonkadonk butt and serve slices as big as my head. Holy Hannah. My Bestie--who loves pies and cobblers--said that her raspberry rhubarb crumble was probably the best crumble she has ever had, and I--who tend to dislike cooked, squishy fruit--couldn't stop stealing bites even though I had a slice of pumpkin cream pie the size of the Yukon holding down the table in front of me.

Trudy herself came out to talk to us. Turns out that was the busiest day she can ever remember having in her 16 years of proprietorship. And when she saw our eyes rolling back into our head in rhubarb ecstasy, she said, "Yeah, you know I'm single? My momma always told me that if I could bake, I could snag myself a husband. She lied." She sauntered back behind the counter to serve more pie, and when three more parties came through the door looking for a table, she sarcastically--but sweetly--remarked, "Boy, I sure do wish we could find us some customers today."

Overall, it was a most patriotic and all-American experience. What is more American than eating pie in a teeny tiny Old West gold rush town?

Let me tell you: Not much.

 

Long live pie--and wine.

Rolling Out the Welcome Mat

Welcome! Most of you have probably linked over here from my other blog, Cupcakes Are the New Black. If you've just accidentially stumbled here from someplace on the world-wide interwebs, double welcome! Hope you stick around a while.

I've decided to split my blogs in order to try and keep Cupcakes more, well, cupcake-related.

Please bear with me. This page will probably be under construction for a bit as I tweak it around and see what works best for me.

In the meantime, here's hoping I post more regularly.

I know the name is a little bit odd.... but it seemed to fit for me. Non-sequitur is Latin for "not pertaining to anything." And I travel lots, so pronouncing "sequiturism" a little like "tourism" seemed like an appropriate fit. A little hard to spell? Sure. But that's what internet bookmarks are for.

Anyway, I appreciate you stepping on the crazy train with me. Thanks for stopping by, and hope you come back!

A Day of Intention

There are two huge windows in my office, which means I can watch the neighborhood go by… and since I haven’t put up curtains yet, the neighborhood can watch me, too. I’ll get around to curtains eventually, I’m sure.

Each morning I seem to get bored at roughly the same time, and I sit back for a moment and turn to look out the window. And each morning, regular enough to set my clock by, the groundskeeper for the neighborhood putters by in his golf cart loaded with shovels and clippers and all sorts of landscape-y things. He’s an old man hunched over the steering wheel, leaning precariously out the side as he rolls slowly down the road, peering carefully into the median to check out each of his plants—then he reaches the end of the road and pulls a u-turn and putts down other side of the median, perilously scrutinizing the plants on the far side. Each time, he reaches the end of his lap and hits the gas, maxing out the speed of his loaded-to-the-gills golf cart.

Of all the times that I’ve seen him make his examination, I’ve never once seen him get out of the cart and make any adjustment. I’ve also never seen so much as a single weed trying to peep its head out of the carefully landscaped garden. Perhaps they wither under his gaze each morning.

Blue coveralls are his summer uniform of choice, but as the mornings get colder, he’s taken to wearing a plaid jacket, gloves, and a furry black hat on his rounds—the kind of hat with the fleecy earflaps, which he leaves tied-off on top of the hat.

I don’t know his name. I don’t know if he’s as old as he looks, or if he’s been weathered by wind and sun and crouching over steering wheels. I don’t know if he’s nice, or gruff, or married, or single, a grandfather, or a widower. I know absolutely nothing about this man—and I doubt that he has ever once lifted his head from his plant-based scrutiny to see me in my window—but all the same he has become part of my routine. How often does this happen each day, to each of us? How often do we unwittingly become part of someone’s routine—stepping into their lives without intention and without thought, touching them simply by existing? How much more of an impact could we have on the world around us if we DID face each day with intention?

I find myself rushing through my errands at the grocery store, the dry cleaners, the big box stores, always rushing rushing rushing, edging away from the cashier who talks too much and rolling my eyes in exasperation when I turn away. But why am I in such a hurry? Is an extra five minutes going to make a huge difference in my day? I highly doubt it. And maybe what that cashier REALLY needed today was someone who was willing to slow down and listen up. Maybe she’ll go home to her crazy house and umpteen kids and busy husband and dirty kitchen and be just a smidge happier because she got an extra smile, laugh, and 45 seconds of listening from a random stranger who simply made her feel like she was heard.

And maybe not. Maybe that cashier has a perfectly happy life, no worries, and really doesn’t care if each person through her line doesn’t make eye contact and snatches the receipt away from her with impatience. But does that really change anything? Slowing down and listening up has done as much good for me as I imagine it may be for others.

And soon, before I know it, maybe I’ll have inadvertently worked myself into the landscape of someone else’s life with no effort at all.