saving my life: comfort zones + the color run.

I ran out of time to post about what was saving my life last week, which is unfortunate, because I know exactly what I would have written.

What saved my life last week was stepping outside of my comfort zone and doing things I didn't necessarily think I'd ever do. Near the top of the list? Running a 5k. So the weekend before Easter, Jordan and I met up with three of our friends, piled into his car, and headed up to Atlanta to join in The Color Run, a 5k with a focus on fun, not speed.

If I have the cheesiest, biggest, abnormally-wide grin you've ever seen in the above photos, know this: It's completely genuine. Being pelted with paint as you jog along the streets of Atlanta has that effect on a person.

The Color Run isn't necessarily a race for serious runners. (A fact I think should be obvious since you're pelted with paint every kilometer.) Instead, it's more about gathering together with friends and strangers and having a good time. I think our faces show that purpose was certainly met.

Here's what I'm learning: Sometimes, it's good to stay in your comfort zone. You have those zones for a reason. By the time you're in your mid-20s, you understand better who you are and who you want to be. Sometimes, it's good to listen to the voice inside of you begging for attention, begging to be heard above the fray. It's good to know what would upset us or challenge us or make us happy. It's okay, I think, sometimes, to be comfortable, especially when that comfort looks a lot like contentment.

But it's good, too, to occasionally step outside the box, to do things you'd never really do otherwise. It's good to be brave, to take chances, and to do something just a little different from your norm.

As a general rule, I don't run. I also don't make a habit of getting colored cornstarch thrown in my face.

But for one Saturday, I broke both of those rules. I'm really glad I did. I think, sometimes, breaking the rules looks a lot like saving your life.

spring fever.

 It's only March 16, but I can already tell: Spring fever has hit with a vengeance.

The weather in Tallahassee has been absolute perfection, nothing but blue skies, warm breezes, and azaleas popping up everywhere.

Unfortunately, I have been at work, stuck behind my desk at a computer, which makes me all kinds of grouchy. Jordan's been working late, and they're doing construction in and around my office, which has made it rather difficult to focus. I don't even know if I've been able to carry on full conversations with people because I've been so preoccupied with planning imaginary vacations in my head (something I do quite often). My entire existence this week has been utterly schitzophrenic. One minute I'm filled to the brim with new ideas, renewed energry, and fun adventures to try, and the next I'm utterly exhauted and in need of a nap.

I'm going to go ahead and blame Daylight Savings Time and my poor body's inability to cope and just hope that this weekend, things will get better. Something about being out in the sunshine instead of looking at it with my nose pressed to glass will probably help.

Things that have made me smile this week:

- Crossing to Safety. This book is so, so wonderful. I just feel like I'm reading a classic; I can't wait to finish it up this weekend. I've never read any of Wallace Stegner's work before, but this book alone has made me a fan.  

- March Madness. There are currently two television sets and one computer screen set up in our living room, all tuned into various tournament games. There are six brackets taped to the wall, and our friends have been in and out of our home, screaming at the TV with us. Jordan is in heaven, and I'm a pretty happy camper too. (The Seminoles play this afternoon, and somebody in my office better have a TV on.)

- Late afternoon jogs in the park. On Monday, I jogged 1.8 miles without stopping, and I've overcome my fear of running through the park across the street from our apartment. (The "beware of alligator" signs freaked me out a little, especially while I was going through my Swamp People phase.) The weather is glorious, and even though I still can't really say running is fun -- it's just not -- I can say I enjoy being outside. 

- How I Met Your Mother. Half of you probably think this show is lame, and half of you probably are over it because it's been on so long, but I'm a new convert, and I kind of think it's fantastic. It fills my "mindless television" void (I'd been watching Gossip Girl on Netflix during my lunch break) and reminds me, at least a little, of my favorite Friends. 

- Women in love with Jesus. Okay, here's the thing: BSF isn't perfect. In fact, there are some things about it that drive me a little batty. But it's what I need right now, and on top of that, this week, as 100 of us sang "Nothing But the Blood of Jesus" in ridiculously high-pitched voices, this precious 80-year-old woman was dancing along, doing hand motions... She just looked so incredibly happy and carefree. I kind of hope I grow up to look just like that.

- Chocolate cake. I made my first-ever chocolate cake from scratch on Saturday, and it was delicious. (I used a recipe from this book.) I'm rarely in the mood to bake, but Jordan was out of town last weekend, and I had some time on my hands. I missed Jordan, but the cake was a satisfactory substitute.

I guess it's been a pretty wonderful week. Something about being stuck in an office for 8.5 hours a day makes that tough to remember, but making lists helps. (Also, I'm taking off work next Friday. I can only handle so much.)

Here's to a weekend spent out in the sunshine!

starting over.

It hasn't been the 2012 I envisioned, not at all. 

Here's the thing about a new year and fresh starts: Sometimes the old stuff has this way of following you around. The cloud of distractions and frustrations that began in November tiptoed along into December, then rallied their way into January. 

Last Wednesday, my grandmother "peacefully exited this life and entered the arms of her Lord." That's how I wrote it in the obituary, because that's what I believe happened. Her fighting for life here finally stopped, and I have to believe that peace and celebration followed.

I am hoping that is what follows for those of us left behind, too. 

We are ready for peace. We are ready for celebration, yes, but I'm convinced that won't really come until later. For now, all I am asking for is peace.

Due to circumstances outside of my family's control, my grandmother's funeral wasn't until Monday. That left the family with four full days to wait and to grieve, four long days on top of the 20 or so we'd spent waiting and grieving since her December fall. I had a beach trip with girlfriends planned, and after some consideration and prayer, I decided to go. It was a trip cut short -- I knew I needed to be with family, so I spent one night instead of two -- but just that one night spent away felt like just what the doctor had ordered. 

I sat with precious friends and talked about my grandmother, about marriage, about friendships and life and happiness. We spent an hour or so wandering the local bookstore, ate chicken salad by the beach, set feet in cold sand until it felt like our toes might fall off. I sat outside in the frigid morning air and breathed deeply, covered in blankets on the pink porch swing. We laughed and shared and read, and more than once, we looked at each other and said, "Why can't real life look like this?" 

It could be depressing, I guess, if we compared our real lives with our vacations. But if we use those vacations as a starting point, if we count on the beach air to bring us back to ourselves, sometimes real life becomes a little easier to bear. 

This week has been hard. Grief is not easy, and the real world doesn't wait for the tears to dry. But my time spent at Seaside -- even those few, brief hours -- reminded me of the things that make this life so spectacular: gorgeous sunsets, good books, delicious meals, fresh air, and the company of dear friends. Those few hours gave me the new start that January 1 just couldn't. 

Sometimes all we need to press on is just a change in perspective. For me, that change often coincides with a trip to the water. I'm glad I listened to my gut last week, glad I made that trip, even though the circumstances were less than perfect. 

I hope I can carry that feeling with me during the coming days, even when water and fresh air might be a little hard to find.

The truth is, it's time to start over. It's time to seek peace and pursue it. It's time to leave the past behind, to press on to what's ahead.

Celebration will follow, but for now? For now I'll happily settle for peace.

it's a new year.

It's a new year, so in the Jones' household, we are...

- getting up early.

- drinking green smoothies for breakfast.

- doodling in new prayer journals.

- bringing home groceries in reusable bags.

- taking long walks.

- making creative messes.

- leaving up our Christmas lights just a little bit longer.

- listening to good music and making plans for Jazz Fest.

- adjusting to new routines.

- cooking yummy meals.

- going to bed really, really tired.

---

What have you done so far this new year?

there are good things.

I love my family, and I love this series of photos taken for my parents' Christmas card two years ago. We are a happy bunch, and I can't wait to spend an entire weekend with everyone. 

This year, I am so grateful for...

- Quiet vacations

- The promise of an eternity full of good things

- A creative Creator

- A husband who is my very best friend

- Excellent marriages

- Friendship with my brother

- A home that makes others feel welcome

- Redemption

- Blogging-turned-real-life friends

- Writing as worship

- A peace-filled holiday season

- This very, very, very good life

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. May yours be full of the very best things.

pals.

"I don't want to hear about the endless struggles to keep sex exciting, or the work it takes to plan a date night. I want to hear that you guys watch every episode of The Bachelorette together in secret shame, or that one got the other hooked on Breaking Bad and if either watches it without the other, they're dead meat. I want to see you guys high five each other like teammates on a recreational softball team you both do for fun. I want to hear about it because I know it's possible, and because I want it for myself." 

- Mindy Kaling, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns)

---

Of all the things I loved about Mindy Kaling's new book, the thing I loved the most may have been her obvious appreciation and respect for marriage. Not just any type of marriage, of course, but the all-elusive excellent marriage.

I've written many, many times before about marriage, about how valuable it is, about how I don't just want a normal one, a good one, but an excellent one. 

Our marriage, I have said before, is hard, in the sense that sacrificing of yourself for the good of someone else is always hard. It is worth it, but hard. 

What I maybe need to also mention is that it is fun. 

Kaling writes over and over again about pals, about how her parents' marriage works because they enjoy each other, they enjoy doing things together. 

Quite simply, they're friends. 

Jordan and I are friends. Yes, we have our own friends that we enjoy spending time with. Jordan, oddly enough, does not particularly enjoy crafting, and I can only handle so much disc golf. 

But we are friends. We like hanging out together, love watching shows and movies together. We crack each other up until our sides hurt and take turns on 17-hour car drives. We scare each other silly watching creepy movies and hiding behind doorways. 

Last weekend, Jordan found me coming out of our hotel bathroom with a towel wrapped around my head. Typical behavior for me, but this time, he kept looking at me with this bizarre fascination. 

"I've always wanted to know how girls do that," he said. 

So I showed him. 

And we laughed hysterically taking pictures of ourselves in the mirror. (Pictures I'm sure Jordan thought would never see the light of day, poor thing.) 

The point is, Mindy, they're out there. Couples who have fun and who love each other and who enjoy each other? They exist. 

Our marriage isn't perfect. We're only approaching three years, so I know we aren't quite experts yet.

But we sure are having a good time. 

And I think, really, that might be half the battle.

sisterly duties.

I've often been asked if I ever wished I had a sister.

Aside from a brief period of personal history in which I had a minor obsession with becoming an Olsen twin, my answer has always been a resounding, "No." 

The reason for that is two-fold: First, I have a brother whom I have grown to love dearly, who I wouldn't trade for a thousand sisters. My brother prepared me for marriage by leaving beard trimmings in the sink and dirty underwear in the bathroom floor. He used to tell me which shoes looked best with which outfit and would happily watch Meg Ryan movies with me without complaining. (I, in return, provided gift ideas for old girlfriends and have seen Dumb and Dumber and the entire Star Wars saga.) We both love to read, both love the written word, both have a passion -- I hope -- to think and be like Jesus. 

So I have this brother who I consider a dear friend and sidekick. But there's another reason I've never really given much thought to having sisters. 

I  kind of already have a couple. 

Sure, genealogically-speaking, they're called my "cousins," but really: They function more like a couple of little sisters. I've been their proud babysitter and party planner. I've attended countless chapel programs and soccer games. We've snuggled in twin beds, spent late nights giggling ourselves to sleep, shared in the joys of scary movies and Gilmore Girls. 

This past weekend, I got the chance to do my cousin's hair for her first "date" (a term she hates and has deemed inaccurate, but which I am using anyway). This was a brave and bold request since I once notoriously got a hairbrush stuck in her hair many years ago. (It was really, really awful, and I was mortified.) But this go around, everything turned out beautifully, and after spraying every hair in place, I took my other little fuzzie on a date to the FSU v. Miami game. We had, as you can tell, a marvelous time.

In her book Committed, author Elizabeth Gilbert spends almost an entire chapter discussing motherhood, a remarkable amount considering she is not, in the traditional sense, a mother. In fact,  in the chapter, she actually devotes most of her attention not to mothers, but to childless women, a segment of the population she terms the "Auntie Brigade."

"Childless women, " she writes, "have always been particularly essential in human society because they often take upon themselves the task of nurturing those who are not their official biological responsibilities -- and no other group does this to a large degree. Childless women have always run orphanages and schools and hospitals. They are midwives and nuns and providers of charity. They heal the sick and teach the arts and often they become indispensable on the battlefield of life."

I myself was raised by a few members of the "Auntie Brigade"; my aunt Neena, in particular, comes to mind. Neena bought my Easter dresses and my piano lessons, sponsored trips to Italy and provided a home away from home at the beach. She came to recitals and birthday parties, offered homework help and bought me my first microscope. She always gave (gives?) the best Christmas presents and hosted movie nights at her house. On our recent trip to Nags Head, I often found myself telling Jordan, "Neena would love this!" (She has always loved history and science and all things fascinating.) She taught me to love reading and learning and thinks everything I do is positively fantastic.

Without realizing it, I think I have, in some ways, become her. 

And I couldn't be happier about it. 

I'm not sure when Jordan and I will have children. I think, really, only the Father knows when that day will come.

Until then, though, I am wondering: Am I not, to some extent, a mother already?

I love and provide for the people around me, even people who are not my "official biological responsibility." I create and craft and care. I nurture and pray for and adore. 

In Committed, Gilbert continues to write:

"My job is not merely to spoil and indulge my niece and nephew . . . but also to be a roving auntie to the world -- an ambassador auntie -- who is on hand wherever help is needed, in anybody's family whatsoever. There are people I've been able to help, sometimes fully supporting them for years, because I am not obliged, as a mother would be obliged, to put all my energies and resources into the full-time rearing of a child. 

"There are a whole bunch of Little League uniforms and orthodontist bills and college educations that I will never have to pay for, thereby freeing up resources to spread more widely across the community. In this way, I, too, foster life. There are many, many ways to foster life. And believe me, every one of them is essential."

Saturday night, I french braided hair and bought cotton candy and gave dating advice and offered moral support. I fostered life. 

I was a sister and, in a sense, a mother and a member of the "Auntie Brigade." 

I am more than content with those honorable titles.

capitva + nags head.

{Captiva Island, Florida}

Twenty years ago, I think I could easily have been one of those obnoxious people who turned  vacation photographs into slides, delivering endless presentations to surrounding friends and neighbors, detailing every last minute of latest travel adventures while serving warm cookies and lemonade to all who cared to listen. 

I kind of love slideshows -- done well -- and I think I could have been a darn good narrator of my travels. Unfortunately, nobody really pays attention to stuff like that anymore, which is probably why I have this blog. 

This is a slideshow, and you are my semi-captive audience. 

---

Jordan and I had been planning this little fall getaway for weeks before I realized I had a business trip scheduled for the same weekend we were supposed to depart. Never one to be deterred from hard-earned vacation time, I decided we could just combine the two. Seriously, who complains about a business trip to Captiva Island? 

No one, that's who. 

So I did my thing in Captiva for a couple of days while Jordan slept at our awesome hotel room. Then we got up at 5:00 in the morning (which I've learned some people call "o'dark thirty." To which I say: Really? Are we too lazy to say the actual time?) and made the 16-hour trip to Nags Head, a small town on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. 

I've been dying to visit the Outer Banks ever since my internship at Coastal Living, and the off-season was the perfect (read: most inexpensive) time for us to go. 

We found accommodations through VRBO, which I'm going to warn you, was no easy task. Here's the thing about the Outer Banks: People must travel there in large quantities. Every accommodation was for 8 to 10 people, unless you want to shell out a bit more cash for a bed and breakfast or a hotel room. Jordan and I weren't interested in either, so we finally Googled our way to Sea Spray Cottages. If you're planning a trip to the Outer Banks, I'd highly recommend them. You have to bring your own sheets and towels, but it was really inexpensive, and it gave us a nice home to come back to at the end of our travels each day.

We really didn't have much of an agenda this trip. (Those of you who know me are scoffing right now, but I assure you: It's true.) We had one primary goal: Relax.

So we did. 

We rented movies and slept late and went to bed relatively early. I read three books and sat curled up on the couch for long periods of time. 

As it turns out, these are excellent plans to have in Nags Head during November. A lot of businesses are closed. Even finding a restaurant open after 6:00 proved to be a challenge.

But the weather was gorgeous. 

And there happens to be an abundance of national parks in the Outer Banks area, providing plenty of entertainment for two nerds like us (more on this to come).

Jordan and I try to make a couple of trips a year. One trip is always a little more strenuous, a little more planned. It often involves itineraries and air travel and a bit more funding. The other trip, though, requires mostly just time off. A little money, sure, and gas enough to get us where we need to be, but otherwise, the trip is a relaxing endeavor. 

I love both kinds of trips. I need both kinds of trips. 

I need to grow and stretch and watch people in airports and get stamps in a passport and see what life is like on the other side. 

But I also need to drive a little. I need to rest and relax and breathe deep in the salt air.

This trip was just what I needed, at just the right time. 

I'm already planning a return visit.

For my fellow travelers:

To stay :: South Seas Island Resort, Captiva and Sea Spray Cottages, Nags Head

To eat :: Cabbage Key (Captiva), Ducks Donuts, Mulligan's Bar & Grill, Poor Richard's Sandwich Shop

To visit :: Jockey's Ridge State Park, Wright Brothers National Memorial, Cape Hatteras Seashore, Fort Raleigh National Historic Site, Island Bookstore

happy fall.

Happy fall from our family to yours. 

Isn't this time of year marvelous? 

(And don't we have the cutest dog on the planet?)

31 days || eighteen: a lesson in celebration.

I spent this past Saturday night in the company of teenagers, dancing the night away, refilling food trays, taking pictures, and generally merry-making on behalf of my little fuzzy, who turned 18 last week.

Here’s the thing: I cannot dance. So when my cousin mentioned her desire to have a raucous rainbow dance party (like, oh, someone else I know), I got a little nervous for her.

Because sometimes the celebration we want to have isn’t the celebration we can have.

You can’t have a raucous dance party if all of your friends are rhythmically-challenged. (Hence my own 25th birthday party quickly becoming a classy dinner party instead.)

But my cousin was adamant, and because my family is in the business of making things happen, we got to work.

And you know what?

Turns out, sometimes the celebration you want to have is exactly the celebration you can have.

It just might take a little work, a lot of determination, and an imagination big enough to conquer a small budget.

(Good music and a DJ willing to make a fool of himself are helpful as well. Good thing my husband fit the bill.)

I set out on Saturday night to teach my cousin a lesson in celebration, in what it means to celebrate every moment, every year we’re given.

She wound up teaching me instead.

The lesson? Don’t be afraid to celebrate the way you want to. Most people -- the ones that love you -- will happily come along for the ride.

cabin dwelling.

{images for Falcon Enamelware via Kinfolk Mag}

As I struggle to remember that there is purpose in the passing of seasons (even this one, full of 100 degree temperatures and late afternoon thunderstorms), I find myself dreaming of fall. But not fall in Florida, which doesn't typically hit until mid-November, late October if we're lucky. Fall in a farmhouse in the mountains, surrounded by autumn leaves and babbling brooks, mornings spent padding around in cozy slippers and plaid blankets, moving slowly in a tiny town where the produce man knows my order by heart and where my cell phone simply does not get service. 

For some reason, these pictures take me there, to that imagined cabin in the woods, to the life I dream about when my eyes are closed.

I have so many dreams floating around in my head for the future I want with Jordan, for the married life I want us to create one day. I'll admit: Some days I picture us living by the sea, hosting backyard parties and commuting inland for work, grateful for our island reprieve when each day comes to a close. Lately, though, my imagination has been wandering farther north, to a small vegetable garden, cold temperatures, quiet evenings, and wood-burning stoves. A place where the seasons arrive suddenly, overtaking your senses while cuddled beneath blankets with the TV turned off, a good book in hand. 

italy.

Do you have those places that sit just on the edge of your memory? Places you can envision as clearly as if they were floating in the space right in front of your nose?

Six years ago, I spent three weeks in Italy as part of an accelerated academic program through my university. The trip was expensive, and the days went by at break-neck speed, but it was worth it.

I got a stamp in my passport, but really, I think I also somehow got a stamp in my soul.

Even today, I can still taste the fresh pasta on my tongue, the cold gelato trickling down my throat.

I remember the sweltering heat, ducking into small shops just to feel cold air on my face.

If I listen closely, I can hear the sounds of voices blended together, singing praises to God in a language I couldn’t quite recognize but still tried desperately to imitate.

I remember crawling about the catacombs, riding buses with tiny, precious nuns, stopping to take pictures of window boxes overflowing with flowers.

The quaint bars and shops, the outdoor markets, the time spent soaking in a culture so different from my own.

Sometimes my memory plays tricks on me, and I forget how far away six years ago really is, how over 2,000 days have passed since I climbed aboard an airplane in southern Alabama and made my way across an ocean to another life. I was young and high off my freshman year of college. I was giddy with excitement, thrilled to the tips of my toes to finally make one of my dreams come true.

A lot has happened in those six years, and even though my day-to-day life in a tiny town in Florida doesn’t much resemble the days I spent roaming the streets of Florence, I know I’m living my dream come true. And one day, maybe not so very far from now, Jordan and I will collect our change, pool our funds, cash in our savings, and traipse back to the towns we fell in love with way back when.

I will learn Italian, eat gelato, sit in hushed sanctuaries, and breathe it all in.

the face.

 Hello, world. Here I am in all my glory.

If you've read this blog for any period of time, you probably understand that I've had a bit of trouble with my face.

Normal people struggle with acne while they're in the middle of their awkward teenage years. Then they grow up, go to college, get jobs, and their face looks like Kate Hudson's or that of a newborn baby.

I have never been normal.

This probably explains why acne hit me at the age of 19 and never let go.

Until now.

I've been holding off on sharing my new face regimen because, honestly? I thought it was a fluke. I've tried a lot of acne remedies over the years, and I figured this was one of those solutions that would clear my face up, but only temporarily. I didn't want to share something that didn't wind up working long term.

Now I'm seriously afraid to jinx myself, but it's been months, and my face feels and looks healthier than ever.

I refuse to bestow before and after pictures -- this is not a Proactiv commercial, and I am not a glutton for punishment -- but I am instead gifting you with my secret.

Because if this works for me, it could very well work for you.

And there is no sense keeping it to myself.

At night: 
- "Wash" my face with 3 parts Castor Oil and one part Extra Virgin Olive Oil. I realize this sounds disgusting. Because, really, should you be adding oil to an oily face? Um, yes. I put about a quarter-sized amount of this concoction in my hands and rub it all over my face for a good 20 seconds or so, then place a warm washcloth on my face and leave it there until the washcloth reaches room temperature. It's like a cheap spa treatment.

- "Tone" with a lemon slice. Um, this burns, especially if you have breakouts. But it works. Just rub the lemon slice (I think I cut my lemon into eighths) all over your face. There will be pieces of lemon on your face, and you will probably be embarrassed because you look a little bit like a loser. BUT YOU WON'T TOMORROW WHEN YOU WAKE UP AND YOUR FACE IS CLEAR.

- "Moisturize" with sesame oil. You could also use avocado oil, but my grocery store had sesame oil, so that's what I use. FYI, the stuff reeks. But you're not going to care because it works. Nickel-sized amount, rubbed all over.

- I do have a prescription that I use in the evenings before I go to bed.

In the morning: 
- I take shower, but don't wash my face. Instead, I just tone and moisturize as I did the night before. I follow with a separate topical prescription.

Every other night (Monday, Wednesday, Friday): 
- After washing my face with the oils, I put a little bit of sea salt into my palm and mix it with a little olive oil. Rub them together and gently (because it does scratch a bit!) massage on face. This exfoliates the skin. Then I follow with the rest of the regimen.

Remember, I've tried a lot of solutions over the years. Some worked okay, others not at all. This one rocks my socks off.

Also, the nerd in me kind of loves making the different concoctions. It's like a science experiment!

So, there you have it. Questions? Comments? Your own face regimens? Sound off below.

(Oh, and for more information about the oil cleansing method, try here and here.)

good morning, monday.

{spring in tallahassee}

I'm semi-sad to report that I don't have anything for you this Monday. 

Just this picture, taken last weekend on one of our springtime walks. 

This weekend, I focused on cleaning up our house 

washing & drying seven loads of laundry

ironing

painting

taking a spontaneous trip to the beach

prepping for book club

playing outside

eating pancakes 

worshipping

and generally enjoying my husband and my life. 

So, no scheduled post this morning. Whoops! 

I'll be back tomorrow maybe with something a little more exciting. 

Happy Monday!

happy friday.

this is how i feel now that it's friday

and the stomach bug of 2011 has been defeated.

i have a lot of thoughts, but little brain power. 

so let's take a peak into the archives at some of my past dating misadventures

(in honor of the upcoming holiday) 

here    |     here     |     here

meet back here next week? 

 sounds good.

new orleans: where we stayed + what we ate.

 {our cotton anniversary, new orleans}

Jordan and I got married in November, but we've yet to actually celebrate our anniversary in that month. We're both pretty low maintenance and willing to celebrate anything at any time, so when Jordan had the opportunity to attend the national championship game in Glendale, who was I to stand in his way? We'd already waited until January; what was one more week?

So finally, last week, we celebrated our second wedding anniversary by traipsing through New Orleans.

Before I go into where we went and, more importantly, what we ate, I must confess: New Orleans is not my favorite. I know, I know. The jazz! The food! The party-all-the-time atmosphere! What's not to love?

Well, for one, the mimes.

That's right. I was 8 years old the first time I visited New Orleans, and all I can remember about the trip was this persistent street performer who would not. leave. me. alone.

I was an imaginative, quiet child, and it was terrifying.

My fear of mimes (and clowns. and statues. and bizarre street people painted silver to look like statues) remains, but luckily, New Orleans isn't quite so scary the second time around.

And since I use blogs for all kinds of information gathering, I thought I'd provide you with this, my little guide to New Orleans, in case, like me, you're planning a trip for Jazz Fest 2011. (Robert Plant? Mumford and Sons? The Avett Brothers? Um, yes, please.)

{The Rathbone}

Where we stayed: The Rathbone Inn. When you're driving into town at night, the place is not appealing. (Read: Not too far from very scary things.) I'm a pretty brave traveler, but I wasn't impressed. We wound up sticking it out, and in the daylight, the place isn't that bad. I'll just say this: You get what you pay for, and we didn't pay much.

What we ate: Food is my favorite. When it comes to our anniversary trips, Jordan does the planning, but the food? Oh, the food I help pick. Here's a listing:

{at Lambert's}

- Saturday lunch, Lambert's, Foley, Alabama. Okay, Jordan talked more about the "home of the throwed rolls" than the actual trip to New Orleans. He's been dying to take me forever, and he was so excited. We got there, and... Let's just say you go to Lambert's to laugh at the throwing of bread. Not to eat good food. (Although, this is Foley, Alabama, so people watching is at a premium.) I love my husband, but poor Lambert's left a lot to be desired. Maybe if you're with little kids, it's more fun? 

- Saturday dinner, Lola's, 3312 Esplanade Ave. This was my favorite eating experience of our entire stay. It's off the beaten path of the French Quarter, but we stayed on Esplanade Avenue, just a few blocks from this tiny restaurant, so location didn't matter to us (and even if it's a drive, I'd still tell you: Go). They don't have a website (the best places don't), but their atmosphere and their food is amazing. It has a really European feel to it, and there's often a line out the door. I had some kind of shrimp something (how helpful, I know), but it's not a seafood place, so if you're not a seafood fan, still give it a shot. (Frommer's describes it as Spanish/International. Whatever it is, it's good.)

- Sunday lunch, The Gumbo Shop, 630 St. Peter St. The Gumbo Shop was a recommendation from someone we met at church, and since locals seem to know where the good food is, we happily took his recommendation. I had the jambalaya, which was delicious, and the service was excellent. This is definitely a tourist favorite, probably due to its location in the heart of the French Quarter.

- Sunday dinner, Cafe Nonna Mia, 3125 Esplanade Ave. Jordan was craving a pizza (isn't he always?), so we found this spot right across from Lola's. The pizza reminded me of Italy, light and fresh. I wouldn't necessarily call this New Orleans-esque, but if you're looking for good pizza, I'd say this hit the spot. The gelato was good too.

{at Cafe Du Monde}

- Monday breakfast, Cafe Du Monde, 1039 Decatur St. Okay, okay. You already know to go here, but I promise, this isn't just a tourist trap. The beignets are delicious (I can't speak for the coffee, but the orange juice was good), and the people watching is top-notch. Plus, street performers often put on a show outside, and who doesn't like a free show?

- Monday lunch, Parkway Bakery and Tavern, 538 Hagan Ave. Another "off-the-beaten-path" locale (my dad would be proud), this place supposedly serves the best po'boy in town. I'm certainly not some po'boy connoisseur, so I'll just have to take their word for it. I ordered the roast beef, and Jordan had the barbecue. We'd give both As, and the atmosphere was really fun too. (And they were really busy for a Monday, which is always a good sign.)

- Monday dinner, Mandina's Restaurant, 3800 Canal St. I don't mind waiting for my food, especially if it's good, and our guidebook assured us this would be good. But we waited for about an hour -- standing room only! -- and I thought the food was only okay. Maybe this was a bad night, or maybe I was disappointed in our cute old man waiter who essentially told me that whether I ordered fried catfish or fried shrimp, it would all taste the same (I ordered the catfish), but I just wasn't all that impressed. It was seriously packed, though, so maybe it was just what I ordered. Jordan liked his red beans and rice, and I certainly wouldn't say this place was terrible! I'd recommend it, though maybe go more in the middle of the week (and before 7).

{Camellia Grill}

- Tuesday lunch, Camellia Grill, 626 S. Carrollton Ave. This was my other favorite dining experience of the trip. You really have to go! The Camellia Grill is essentially an old-fashioned diner, but the food is phenomenal, and the service is excellent. You're seated around the cooks and servers, so it's just a fun atmosphere. I love me a good patty melt, and this one... Mmmmm. Perfection. Jordan's burger was -- in his words -- amazing. One of the best burgers he's ever had. Like I said, go. You won't be disappointed. (Side note: Apparently after Katrina, the Camellia Grill didn't reopen right away, and patrons left dozens upon dozens of post-it notes all over the restaurant doors, begging them to come back. It's easy to understand why, and I think New Orleans is very happy to have them back.)

- Tuesday dinner, Marigny Brasserie, 640 Frenchmen St. We really, really wanted to go to Cafe Degas for dinner, but alas... closed on Tuesdays! Weird, and a bummer. But a blogging buddy had recommended Marigny Brasserie, so there we went, and it was good! It wasn't crowded at all, even though we waited until a little bit later in the evening, when crowds down near the French Quarter are worse. The barbecue shrimp and grits was delicious (I promise... I don't just eat seafood!), and Jordan said the ravioli was excellent. It was a quiet, nice dinner, thought not as fancy as the website makes it look, so don't let that deter you. The food was good, and it was a nice way to round out the trip.

- Missed opportunities: Magnolia Grill, Cafe Degas, and The Bluebird Cafe.

{Stay tuned for new orleans: what we saw + what we bought}

confession: fake glasses.

{me in all of my bespeckled glory}

I wore fake glasses my senior year of high school.

I was telling this to someone the other day, someone who didn’t know me back then, and the reaction I was given made me realize: My old self is disappearing.

Gosh, is this what happens?

That at 25, the old you, the you from high school and middle school and elementary school, starts to slowly wind its way out of your life, like water through a drain? That only a handful of people even really know the you that used to be?

I thought I was so awesome my senior year of high school. Not awesome in the head cheerleader kind of a way, but awesome in the look-how-fun-and-different-I-am-without-being-completely-strange-like-a-Goth kind of way.

My brother, by far the more “punk” of the Butterworth siblings (I think even my usage of the term punk here denotes my utter squaredom), makes fun of the old me, the me who wore dog tags and Converse tennis shoes and a military-style bag that I covered with lyrics from the Mary Tyler Moore show theme song. (I am in tears just typing this.) The me who listened to Relient K and thought that classified as some kind of rebellion.

In a fit of silliness, a friend and I decided to buy fake glasses at the mall one day. I wanted to look older, yes (apparently I thought glasses would erase the fact that I weighed about 90 pounds and had the build of a 12 year old boy), but more importantly, I wanted to look like a journalist. You know, Walter Kronkite. Tom Brokaw. Barbara Walters. The greats.

(I just Googled all of those names and none of them wore glasses, so I’m not sure where I got this idea, but you get the point. Also, I don’t think Katie Couric ever wore glasses until she scored the nightly news gig — a far more serious venture than the shenanigans going on over at Today. So I don’t think my high school logic was entirely flawed.)

Two girls on a mission, my friend and I refused to buy our fake lenses at Claire’s — even goofy teenage girls have their standards — and instead found some at one of those carts you used to see in the mall. It’s still not clear to me why a cart specializing in faux frames and lenses even existed, but it did, and we were its lone, proud supporters.

It took us no time at all to whip our new specs out of their packaging and don them for a viewing of Tuck Everlasting at the local “artsy” theatre. (Looking back, why on earth was Tuck Everlasting even at that theatre? It stars Rory Gilmore for crying out loud.) By the end of the film, our heads ached from the frames, which I’m assuming were probably too tight. My friend had the good sense to never wear hers again.

Not me.

Nope, there I am in my high school yearbook, with a pair of glasses on my face that I advertised as necessary.

And I thought I was so cool.

I stopped wearing my fake glasses long enough to need real ones, and now I forget to wear my prescription lenses more than I actually wear them. How’s that for irony?

This is the me that I don’t want to forget.

I know I was dumb and goofy and did stupid teenage things, and I’m grateful I’m about to turn 25 and have just the right amount of goof combined with maturity (I hope). I’m grateful that those years are behind me, that I don’t live in the past, and that most people don’t even know all the truly nerdy things I did.

But there’s a part of me that thinks that girl was pretty cool, and that the world is missing out by not knowing her in all of her fake glasses glory.

So I’m letting her out of the box for today. I figure she deserves a little air every now and then.

(And now, please, do share: What is the weirdest thing you did in high school?)