All Around the World

Hello, my name is Jennifer, and I'm a Google Analytics-holic.

About a month ago I installed this free tracking program on my blog and my website and am now addicted to checking it. Obsessively. Like way too often.

As my traffic has increased, so has my obsession. I've been working on building a readership by doing all those little things that the blogperts (my new word for blog experts -- do you think it will catch on?) recommend: posting frequently, reading other blogs and making worthwhile comments on them, and simply telling people about my blog. And whaddya know? It's working! That's why they're the blogperts. (I don't think it will catch on. It reminds me too much of the word pervert for some reason.)

I'm dizzy with excitement when I look at the map of visitors to this blog.
In addition to visitors from all over the U.S., folks from Argentina (Córdoba), Australia (Jordanville and Boondall), Canada (North Vancouver), China (Changchun and Foshan), Dominican Republic (Santo Domingo), and Morocco (Aït Hammou) have been here! It's like a little global village, people. But I'm going to have to have a serious emailing-to with my friends from England. Where are they? The U.K. needs some representation, Claire. [If I missed your country or got something incorrect, please don't be mad. Just say hello in the comments section.]

I also discovered that Betsy, a fellow cupcake-lover and no longer just some girl, has added me to her blogroll. I don't know how she found me, but I'm flattered.

Don't worry -- I don't know who my visitors are. I'm not going to start stalking or calling you. The only thing I can see is your city and country of origin. So please, if you're visiting for the first time or are a regular lurker, join the conversation, even if it's just to introduce yourself. I'm also open to suggestions for this blog, on everything from content to design. In fact, I'm hoping to better integrate my website and blog in a few months, complete with a snazzy new design. Get in now if you have an opinion.

But if you really prefer to read quietly, that's good, too. I'm just really glad you're here. Welcome, world!

My First Tofu (2nd 1st)

[Stephanie over at Cool People I Know (whom I found via Jen Lemen) has tagged her readers to jump in on her meme and provide a list of five firsts. This is my second first. Read the others here.]

The first time I ate tofu I thought it was cheese. Until I tasted it. You know that feeling when you watch someone drinking a glass of cola or iced tea or orange juice and you take a sip of your water or milk or V8 and you're shocked and confused by the discordant taste sensation? My first tofu was like that, only much worse. The pale little cubes on the cafeteria line looked like cheese. And I love cheese. But this was a piece of plain, mushy tofu.

After that I thought I hated tofu. Two nights ago I had a really bad tofu stir-fry that reminded me how much I thought I hated it. But I know that tofu is a lot like vegetables: People think they hate them because they've never had them cooked well. My dad claims to hate all cooked vegetables beyond corn and potatoes. But last Christmas when I sauteed green beans with olive oil and toasted almonds, he decided to try a few. "These don't taste like green beans," he said. I said that he was probably comparing them to the canned variety he'd had in the past. "No," he said. "These don't taste at all like green beans."

For me, good tofu doesn't taste at all like tofu, which, let's face it, has a serious consistency issue and no flavor when it's by itself. But silken tofu adds an interesting consistency and slightly nutty flavor to fruit smoothies. In hot and sour soup, the tofu takes on the lovely tangy flavors of the broth. And I love a good stir-fried tofu when it's crispy outside and silky inside, like the Coconut Curry Vegetables or Vegetarian Ma Po Tofu from P. F. Chang's China Bistro.

My question to you: Tofu or not tofu?

My First Short Story (1st 1st)

Stephanie over at Cool People I Know (whom I found via Jen Lemen) has tagged her readers to jump in on her meme and provide a list of five firsts. Read the others here.

Here's my first first: My First Short Story.

Drawn when I was just a few months shy of six years old, my first short story featured a man-eating dinosaur, weird weather, a wonky-shaped house, and two little boys. Here are the pictures, accompanied by the descriptions I told my mom, which I took from the journal she kept.

September 27, 1981
Jenny drew these pictures and put the book together by herself. The following is what she said the story is.

Page 1: Person is afraid of the dinosaur.

Page 2: Now the dinosaur is eating the person.

Page 3: This is the little boy's brother. He is digging in the sand. It is sunny and suddenly it starts to rain. He is sad because the dinosaur ate his brother.

Page 4: Mother and Father are sad at home because their child is gone.

Page 5: Boy in dinosaur's stomach. Little boy is sad. The other things in dinosaur are bones.

Page 6: Boy got out of dinosaur and is happy. Dinosaur is sad and lost his appetite.

I have no idea why I wrote about a dinosaur eating a little boy on the beach. My interest in dinosaurs never really developed, but I am quite fond of the seashore. I wonder if I was worried about the safety of my little brother, who would have been two years old at the time. I came a long way from my initial disappointment and indifference when he first wrecked my only-child status. Here's an excerpt from my mom's journal on the day he was born:

October 10, 1979
When Denny told Jenny that she had a baby brother, she cried and said, "I wanted a baby sister, not a brother." In about half an hour she changed her mind and said a baby brother is O.K.

More firsts to come.

What are some of yours?

Cat Stats

Let's tally up the last week and a half, shall we?

5: number of packets of cat food involved in the Menu Foods recall that the kits ate last month

1.5: number of hours it took to get a vet appointment for the kits last Tuesday

24: number of hours Gatwick "The Steel Bladder" Catwick held off peeing because he didn't like the idea of using an empty litter box

10: number of minutes it took the kits to pee after I put some shredded glossy newspaper inserts in their litterless litter boxes

36: total number of hours it took to get those two urine samples

12: approximate number of times I marveled at how obsessed I'd become with cat pee

7: number of trips to the vet in last 10 days

5: number of times each kit needs to receive subcutaneous fluids via IV

2: number of times I jabbed Cheska in a supervised attempt to administer said fluids

5: number of minutes it took to agree that I'd rather drive to the vet's office every other day rather than play Nurse McGuiggan at home

3: number of bite and scratch wounds my hands have suffered at the teeth and claws of scared little kits who only wanted to get away from the poking and prodding

1: number of additional vet trips required by end of the week

16 and 14: total number of days that I have to force feed tuna-flavored liquid antibiotics to Gatwick and Cheska, respectively (their response: "Tuna? You're not foolin' me, lady!")

Welcome to my reality, people.

Free-form

[Note: Jen Lemen's lovely musings inspired this post. ]

When life feels difficult, I try to look at the bigger picture. Sometimes the things that are right up in your face are out of focus and distorted. Your thoughts feel blurry and the situation feels muddled. But if you can just look beyond that, you can gain clarity and see the beauty surrounding you.

When I feel restrained by the decisions, commitments, and relationships of my life, I remember the concept of freedom within structure. Consider the traditional sonnet: it has serious parameters. Fourteen lines. Defined rhyme scheme. There are certain rules you have to follow when writing a sonnet. But apart from those rules, you can write what you like. Choosing the structure frees you up to focus on the content, not the form.

After spending a year abroad following some of my dreams, I came home to the tedium of everyday domestic life. I fell into a serious depression. "How do people stand it?" I wondered. I had a job that I didn't really like, a commute that was sucking the life out of me, and not much else to make it all feel worthwhile. The everdayness of life suffocated me. The routine was mind-numbingly mundane. I longed to live a life full of joy and wonder, but couldn't get beyond the limitations of daily life.

After a year of being home, I got engaged to the man who kept me sane when I was homesick overseas and during that difficult first year back. He says that if it weren't for him, I would have gone back to live in England. He's probably right. I'd begun to establish a life there. I liked England and had a good group of friends. Back home, all of my friends from college were strewn about the U.S. But I decided to stay here and get married. I said that this was the right decision for me because I had already done everything I wanted to do by myself.

I knew that marriage would require some sacrifices. I realized that I couldn't follow my whims without taking my partner into consideration. And I was okay with that. Having him by my side was more important to me than having the freedom to do whatever I wanted whenever and however I wanted. Besides, he's an easygoing guy and I wasn't really worried about him cramping my style.

But sometimes the everydayness of life still gets to me. Not like it did eight years ago, but it's not as easy to live a life full of joy and wonder as I'd like. And marriage, even to an easygoing guy, can be hard work. James and I don't see eye-to-eye on things like where to live (city vs. suburbs) and what kind of house we want (historic vs. brand-spankin'-new). Activities that energize me drain him, and vice versa. In other words, there are serious parameters within our relationship.

Occasionally the limitations get to me and I wonder what life would have been like if I'd moved back to Europe. Or maybe to New York City to live in a loft and work for a magazine or publishing house. What if I was free to pursue my travel and artistic dreams on my own?

When I feel boxed in, I remember the freedom that being married to James has given me. Because he has a good job with good benefits, and because he is full of encouragement and generosity, I can pursue my dream of being a freelance writer with very little worry. Being married allowed me to quit a job where I felt like a square peg in round hole and become my own boss.

Yes, I could have pursued this dream on my own. But it would have been so much harder and would have included so many more parameters. Europe and NYC sound romantic and exciting until homesickness and starving-artist, vermin-infested apartments set in. And besides, James has never tried to stifle my artistic impulses or travel bug. Just last month he asked if I wanted to visit friends in England or take a little artistic retreat for myself. I was the one who hemmed and hawed about it. He's also the one who talked me into going to the American Society of Journalists and Authors’ conference in NYC next month. And when I said I was considering going to the Blogher conference in Chicago in July, he said, "Sounds cool."

So I rejoice in the freedom within this form. My hope is that you find your very own free-form.