pop-n-corn-n-flicks-n-friends.

Shortly before leaving Tulsa this last time, I made a kindred movie friend.

We both grew up in heavy movie households, and watching them made up a good portion of our separate but similar childhoods. Mine, however, was cluttered with a sibling whose love for film far surpassed mine. He had a part time job at a movie store with a middle aged scratchy voiced chain smoking lady named Nadine. His Friday and Saturday nights were spent retrieving movies from the back while she sat and took cash from an archaic register, and though he smelled like a chain smoker after leaving, his role got us movie discounts. My movie style made him crazy. He rarely, if ever, watched a film twice. He went through new movies like Nadine went threw cartons of cigarettes. I, however, adore watching the films that I love over and over and over until I know every single word and can laugh before the punch line is delivered to ensure I am able to say the punch line along with the actor. I remember picking out Troop Beverly Hills one Saturday and then watching his temper flare. Renting a movie about girl scouts trying to win the cookie selling competition in Beverly Hills wasn't strange for your average nine year old girl. His flared temper, however, had something to do with the fact that I had already rented it three times prior. My movie friend, the one I recently made, gets why I would do such a thing, and it was our first conversation about this trait that, I think, solidified in our heads the fact that we should be friends.

After arriving back in Tulsa this last time our first plans to hang out were a given: Rachel McAdams and the morning show movie at the dollar theater. I arrived at her lovely home around seven. I had been thinking about my goal of eating in and saving money, but that's about it. I just thought about it, and thought about it more, without actually changing any behavior. Being in her home was inspiration. "We don't eat out", she said. She's a newly wed and that's how they make it. They eat at home. She had just prepared a bean salad, which I have already replicated twice, and she was in the process of making popcorn for us to take along to the Theater. This was brilliant to me. She wasn't just popping microwave popcorn. She was heating the oil on the stove, putting the kernels in, moving the pan around, and literally MAKING POPCORN. This must have been where our childhoods differed. In my house, microwave popcorn was the only kind to be found, and theater popcorn was the only kind to be consumed at the theater. I felt like my world was opening up while sitting at her bar, watching her multi-task, listen, and move the pan, trying to engage without burning our treat.

The movie was a let down. We both agreed. But the company, as well as the food tricks I learned that evening, were worth all one-hundred and seventy-five pennies of my budget.

This past Friday evening, day two of my attempt to Immaculatize, a movie was in order. It had been a rough day for me, my roommate was up for seeing a flick as well, and I had a gift card which made it pseudo-free. We decided on something light hearted, and she brought up movie theater popcorn. I said we could totally get some for her, and referred back to the moment with the friend in the kitchen, pre-movie, popping her from scratch pseudo-free popcorn. This time I was in my kitchen pre-movie, but a multi-tasking friend was present still. Kyla worked on her project while she walked me through the process, and a few minutes after beginning, I had my bag of movie theater popcorn. It was an immaculate success. And this time, the movie, Twisted, wasn't a bust. We both agreed.

My first attempt at on-the-stove popcorn!

clean living.

A few days a week I can be found in a strangers backyard wearing safety glasses sitting on a five gallon bucket turned upside down. There is a purpose, other than getting arrested. The house is usually vacant, and I am there to clean the cement off of the bricks that have been torn from the house and need to be re-used for whatever remodel the new homeowner has in mind. Cleaning cement off of bricks involves a brick hammer as the tool and my thigh as the workstation. The task is hands on, which I enjoy, and monotonous, which I don't. My monotony secret weapon: podcasts.

One of my favorites is called Smart People Podcast. The idea revolves around interviewing smart people in various fields and asking them stuff that relates to their specified knowledge. Last week they interviewed a comedian, and I found myself laughing out loud at this guy's particular sense of humor and relatable self-deprecation. A good part of the podcast was about a term revolving around the word immaculate. He had been at a fairly low place a few months back in nearly every area of his life. Ten years prior he had spent a month abstaining from all of those things that all those health experts caution one to abstain from. It had worked wonders for him years ago, so he decided to, as he calls it, "immaculatize" once again. No alcohol, no pot no smoking, no coffee, no sugar, no fast food, no sodas, nothing fried, and nothing else any like any of those other things. Plus meditation at least twenty minutes a day as well as a lot of exercise (I can't remember the specified amount). The goal was to do it for thirty days. He did want to lose weight, but mostly he wanted to get out of the funk he was in and to a place where he could recognize himself, and LIVE as a person who is excited about life.

He did it, and it worked.

After chipping bricks that day, and once I had washed the film of cement off of my person, I spent a good portion of the evening reading more about his immaculate journey, and again, laughing out loud, a lot. His perspective was refreshing. He didn't claim to know much about anything, and he typed openly about his struggles and pitfalls with lots of sarcasm and humor.

And so, I decided to immaculatize. But first I ate a really big cheese burger.

A new year's goal of mine was to eat out less and save more money. This was a big part of why I decided to sign myself up for this thirty-day immaculate journey. An immaculate diet is do-able via the restaurants of the world, but it certainly isn't convenient. Developing that discipline is a part of what makes something like this fun for me, but it's a lot harder when I am surrounded by all of the things I am avoiding. So cooking in helps.

Alcohol is an expensive luxury, especially if you're particular about the kind of alcohol you drink, and concerned about what it actually tastes like. I am. Abstaining from this for thirty or so day saves money.

And my other conviction is health. My tendencies are mostly healthy. I don't crave meat a lot. I like vegetables. But liking vegetables doesn't equal eating them. Most days pass by without a green on my plate, even though I have read an enormous amount of material documenting their health benefits in nearly EVERY area of life. I get into the rut of craving the same things. These things aren't necessarily deep fried, but they aren't necessarily healthy either. A scone for breakfast multiple times a week? Sure! The more I thought about immaculatizing, the more I liked the idea thirty days of necessary vegetables. The goal is balance, right? So the hope is that an extreme of not many at all to an extreme of a lot will hopefully lead their regular appearance in my every day life.

Experiments are fun. Themes and words like immaculatize are too. This is why I am sharing all of this cool stuff here. Hey, I've got a blog! I have a forum. Sharing stuff about life that people can relate to and/or be entertained/amused by is what I do. Sometimes. So if I bring up the word immaculata or its sister non-word word, immaculatize over the course of the next thirty days, you have been told.

And here's my own personal twist: pictures! Those diet experts that advise people to make a major life change tell their followers to write it down. Record what you eat. Scratch down every morsel that passes through your mouth. Ate a chip off of your friend's plate? Write it down. Pizza for breakfast? Write it down. I am not dieting, and also, I don't like having to write everything down, so I am not doing this. BUT I do love documenting things, especially visually, so I am photographing my immaculate journey with my i-telephone, and then I am going to share these pictures here on whimsically far from the surface, starting now.

Day one! Post cheeseburger I was attempting only fruits and veggies throughout the day. I got these two things from Quik Trip. It can be done.

A trip to the grocery store.

This is a baby tangerine. That's not its real name, but I don't remember what its real name is. These things are delicious. Seriously. Immaculatizing or not, get you some.

welcome mat.

I have been so very absent from here. Formulating a cohesive and meaningful thought and then turning in into something more, and even further, something worth writing which is also worth reading, simply felt like an unachievable task.

After arriving on familiar soil, my need for anonymity became greater. Mostly, I think, I didn't want rich and invasive eyes to have open ended exposure to my trial and error approach to life. I gave in to this craving; Facebook was de-activated and Twitter abandoned once again.

Less time perusing through the lives of people I barely knew, I reasoned, would give me more time to write! Nearly two months later, I have posted one blog post that spans all of thirteen sentences. My brilliant anonymous plan failed the writer within.

Did you notice, though, that it's a new year? And, also, by the way, my absence has given me ample time to reflect.

There are people out there that tell me I think too much, and furthermore, that I think from too many angles about too many aspects of too many things. I disagree. They don't, and that's cool. But it's this part of me that births the things I enjoy writing about, and the things I enjoy sharing with those that read here. It's the time I have had for reflection that has brought me back here, nearly one month since my last marked visit. And I have things to share.

Here on this page, my main point revolves around the not knowing. It's rooted in doubt, this thing we're always cautioned to avoid. Believe! There's more life there, they say. I look at my life, the steps I have taken, and how they have stretched and challenged me. The times I have felt the most dead have been the times enveloped in a need to know.

Mostly, I don't. I have relinquished, at least for now, the pressure to figure out. Life has gotten brighter as of late. Peace and doubt can co-exist. The turkey chili I made for dinner was for sure delicious. I will fall asleep to the echo of the blues being played by newly acquired ultra living-compatible roommate. It's good to be back, in a multitude of ways.

destiny.

When I was in college not figuring out what I wanted to do, they said I had to have an internship to graduate. I was finishing up a major in a line of study that I was pretty confident I wouldn't pursue. The idea of pretending through a summer my mock future that wasn't ever going to be my real future seemed to have something to do with the core of what's wrong with our higher education system. I found some guy that had a graphic design studio in his attic who said I could follow him around and maybe get his coffee, and also agreed to sign the necessary documents. His name was Mick and he'd been doing it for a long time, and when he asked me what I really wanted to do, I said something along the lines of, "I don't know. I just want to help people."

Here I have been, spending my time waiting tables, pointing to shelves, ringing up purchases, refilling glasses; Via customer service and much to my own dismay, I have spent the past few years, uh, helping people.

placement.

The previous mid-morning Sunday I managed to find a relaxing version of church in my car on my way to sell people Tulsa memorabilia. NPR was in the midst of a five part special exploring the tension between faith and science, which was followed by a segment on Sufiism, the 'mystical' aspect of the Islamic faith. The voice of Coleman Barks, the most prevalent translator to the Western Word of Rumi's poetry, began to stream through my speakers, and I was captivated. His voice was layered and deep, his words thoughtful yet effortless, and wise. His laugh was childlike, amidst all the weightiness that existed throughout the rest of his speak, and he brought Rumi alive to me in a way that I hadn't been able to do with just myself and a book.

It was my task, this past Spring, to choose a poem from his writings to be read at the wedding of a dear friend. I pilfered through pages of multiple collections; The time spent on my own accord in the midst of Rumi's work was insignificant and unmemorable. The same words, read to me, explored and explained verbally with interest added from the writer's story? I haven't been able to get that version of Rumi out of my head.

Searching is a theme throughout his writing, kind of like life. I understand that searching isn't a novelty, or out of the ordinary, but it feels as if I'm being slapped in the face by it more often than not. I was on my way to one of a few jobs I am piddling at nowadays, leaving my parents house on my way to a City I've left more than once to work in a place where I am the new girl and the old girl in a season that feels akin to the few months right after a person graduates from college and everyone they come in contact with asks them what they're going to do next. I didn't have an answer then and I don't have one now, and so when Coleman began to read about the fish, flapping about and looking endlessly for the water even though the fish was in the midst of the water, and the water was inside the fish, my ears heard nothing but his words. The sound of my tires on and the clump of the uneven highway and the cars merging near me and the shake of the make-do plastic holding my stereo sort of in place went silent, and I began to get what there is to get about Rumi.

Last night I enveloped myself in the company of others, and enjoyed myself enough to the point that driving home wouldn't have been wise, so I slept in the guest room of the dear friend who married in the Spring with the ceremony where Rumi was read. I slept on the memory foam mattress topped with a down comforter in the guest room where the walls are painted orange, and I felt at home because of the orange walls, and because that's the way friends that are true inevitably make me feel. I left her house before eight, locked the door behind me, and retrieved my bicycle out of her truck.

The rising sun greeted me and kept me company on my way into down town. All aspects of my morning...My jankety old bicycle struggling up hills, my cold exposed dry winter hands gripping the handle bars, the excessively beautiful sun rise enveloping me like the water around the fish, and inside of the fish...Every damn bit of my morning made me feel anything but displaced, and for the duration of my ride, searching ceased.

Connor showed me a you tube video of a man in San Diego that balances rocks on top of each other on a spot overlooking the water. He takes small rocks and sits larger rocks on top of them, and then keeps going and before you know it you think you're either looking at an optical illusion or that some crazy man has taken the time to glue random size rocks on top of each other in a crooked sort of leaning tower direction. Apparently, "you just have to look for the soft spots" to get these mismatched selection of rocks to rest atop the rest.

There's a girl at the shop where I work that sews stuffed animals together from post-consumer felt, and they're pretty freaking cool. They're called cuddle monsters and they are bright and cuddly and pretty monster like, and these monsters have a following. People buy them, and also, look forward to when new versions arrive. This past Wednesday she had a cuddle monster Christmas party with chocolate ginger bread cookies and a Christmas DJ spinning holiday tunes on a turn table.

Sometimes when I think of all the things that people could do, my head starts to resemble the traffic in Times Square, or maybe the chaos of driving in India.

Right now, all I know is that I am happy to be sitting on this stool in front of this window sipping this coffee typing this sentence. And really, with all of the stuff in the world that there is to know or do or believe in or not believe in or not do or places to go or not go, what's going on for me in this particular moment in this particular spot is really all I can say anything about for sure.

colorful.

Yesterday was a big day for me. Not only did I go to the BANK, one of those mundane cluttered sort of life tasks I usually find very difficult to follow through with, but I also thought of a more convenient way, post bank, to get to my beloved Eastern Market.

The color coated metro map makes maneuvering through the district without a vehicle quite a breeze, except, of course, on the days when rally attendees clog up all forms of public transportation on a mission to restore sanity, but that's the topic of a different post. This Saturday there weren't any zealous-overly-excited-at-the-thought-of-seeing-Jon-Stewart-in-person Rally-ers in sight, and I merely needed to make it to the orange and blue line to get to the most colorful part of the city.

In my mind's eye, this District isn't a particularly eclectic place. When I think of DC, blue is the color that comes to mind, but not bright clear October sky blue. It's more dull and grayish, like the suits I ride the bus with on my way to work some mornings. But when I think of Saturdays at Eastern Market, every color of the rainbow appears in my sight. There are vendors selling jewelry, some hand made and some old costume that still smells musty like my grandmother's jewelry box. One of my favorite booths consists of vintage tablecloths, aprons, and kitchen towels from an era I've only read about and seen portrayed in movies. There are hats, photographs, clothing, in season produce and paintings; In the summer there was lemonade that's now been replaced by hot apple cider. And amongst all of this product being peddled, there's a more laid back version of DC that doesn't have to be anywhere but where they are.

I live near the red line. It's monotone, and doesn't really share it's space with another shade. It's not such a bad thing to transfer lines. It's quite easy, in fact. But not having to has been added to my list of life's simple pleasures. When I realized the bus that takes me to the bank continues on to McPherson Square, home of the orange and blue, and that I could just hop back on post boring bank visit and get to the line I needed to be, I swear I think the sky literally got brighter, and the clouds a little more billowy.

I arrived around eleven and began with my favorite cup of coffee at Peregrine espresso. Just as I was looking for a place to sit with my americano and scone during the busiest hour of the busiest day at likely the busiest coffee shop in the city, the family at the corner table were arranging their trash and dishes to leave. Did I highlight CORNER TABLE enough in the last sentence? Not having to transfer lines and a spot at the corner table on my favorite day of the week at my favorite coffee place in my favorite part of the District? Too much goodness.

I sat down and began to enjoy everything about my morning, including the two little boys sipping their beverages with their dad at the stools across from my spot. One was likely four, the other a year or so younger. The older brother was drinking a San Pellegrino Lemonata from its yellow and blue aluminum can, and the younger a Naked juice in one of those tall plastic bottles shaded by it's mango orange contents. Littler brother wanted to try bigger brother's beverage. Bigger brother clearly didn't want to share. "It's really spicy," he said. "See, it says here on the can that it's a lemon spicy drink. I really don't think you'll like it."

"But I really want to try it," was the youngest response. The dad just smiled at them, and so did I, grateful for the spicy lemon orange mango color this conversation between toddler brothers added to the spectrum of my day.