So, you’re probably thinking: Wow! Erin hasn’t written anything in almost a week. She must be building up to some extra special, kick-awesome, blow-your-socks-off amazing post!

Okay, so maybe nobody was thinking that. But if you were thinking that, you were wrong. Sorry, but the real reasons I haven’t written in almost a week are far more pedestrian details like: 1) School, 2) Procrastination, and 3) Life. Such are the hazards of being a blogger by hobby, I guess. I have to squeeze blogging into the nooks and crannies of my life. I’m not a professional. Yet. As a side note, this is the last time I’m going to apologize for not writing for x number of days. I’m sure you know that if I had my druthers I would be publishing multiple posts every day, but the fact is that life is life and no matter how hard I try I will never be able to completely eliminate pesky things like face-to-face interaction with real human beings. (That was a joke, Mom.)

But anyway, on to the actual reason for this post. Ever since I have been writing here at Lylium.org, ideas for things to write about have begun to pop, unbidden, into my head every day. I’ll be sitting in math class, and suddenly I’ll realize, “Hey! I should write about my old deceased pets! Or spinach! Or malaria!” And, as these ideas come streaming out of my head like spray cheese from a can, it’s the least I can do to capture them on paper and hope that I will someday get around to writing about them.

A lot of these post ideas, I’ve noticed, center on sharing stories about things that mean a lot to me. I know that sounds sappy (and maybe it is), but I would really like to share a snapshot of my life with you folks. Whether you’re my best friend or whether you’re a stranger who just found my website for the first time, I would like to offer you a glimpse into the ideas, objects, and people that surround me and are important to me. So, towards that end, I am introducing a new feature on Lylium.org: “Things that I love.” (with an implied “… and that you should too.”) This semi-regular attraction will showcase and tell the story of something important in my life; be it a person, an article of clothing, or a principle. I know this is not a new idea (I’m stealing it from Sound of Music, at the very least, but I’m sure other bloggers have done it too), but I’m hoping this new feature will provide the impetus for some really interesting future posts. Having said all that, here is an inaugaural mini-post to give you an idea of what I am talking about:

Things that I love: Green polka-dot flip flops

The pictured flip flops are, admittedly, a slightly ironic choice for the first “thing that I love.” The fact is, they are pretty uncomfortable. They are slightly too big for my midget-sized feet, the plastic toe thingy chafes on my foot, and they are rapidly becoming flat as a pancake after two or three times of wearing them. To top it all off, the polka-dot design is already wearing off the shoe.

But the reason I bought them, and the reason I love them in spite of their faults, is quite simple: their aesthetic appeal is fantastic. (Also they were really cheap. ) These shoes, believe it or not, serve as a perfect representation of three or four of my personal favorite design elements:

1. Green. This is huge. My “favorite color” was never green, growing up. I always answered pink or blue or purple or yellow or something innocuous and girly like that if anyone asked me. But one day I woke up and realized that not only had I painted my room a shade of green, but I had green pillows on my bed, my wardrobe included a healthy amount of green, and literally every website I currently had published on the web featured green in some way shape or form. (Don’t believe me? Take a look: 1 2 3 4 5 6) I have since wholeheartedly embraced the color (especially on the yellow side of the spectrum, in tones of lime, sage, and celedon.) and its myriad possibilities. Maybe I really am Irish.
2. Tone-on-tone, monochromatic color scheme. I love the subtle impact of an almost monochromatic color scheme. Whereas many different, contrasting colors used together can busy a screen and create excitement (and can be used very effectively), tone-on-tone design is more comforting and relaxing; at least to my eye, it appears more orderly and controlled. One of my favorite examples of a tone-on-tone site design is the website for Mint, a stats program developed by Shaun Inman. (Surprise, surprise, the site is green. ) On his site, the refreshing green surround not only creates a warm, inviting effect, it pops the orange “pay here!” button, making it an extremely effective call to action. (I realize that I may not be up on all the correct color lingo; so to be clear, by tone-on-tone I mean patterns or layers of color that are based on one hue (like green, blue, or red), and then include other lighter and darker shades of the same color, also possibly including black or white.)
3. Delicate, crisp patterns in general. Coming back to the shoes, I especially love a tone-on-tone color scheme when it is implemented in a crisp pattern like the one gracing my green flip-flops.
4. Polka-Dots in particular. There is not much to say about this. Polka-dots are just one of my favorite things.

So when all of these lovely things confronted me in one, adorable, flip-flop package, I caved. Now, I’m not sure I would have bought them if I knew how quickly the design was going to wear off of them… but at least I got pictures. Oh, and I got a blog entry out of them too. Definitely not a wasted purchase.

Just in case anyone thought I made up the whole thing about my brother getting married, here is indisputable photographic proof (Click on it to see the full picture on Flickr):

… unless, of course, I just had them dress up like that so I could take this picture and trick y’all. So I guess you’re just going to have to trust me. IT HAPPENED. I SAW THEM KISS. (Oh, and by the way, I obviously survived the road trip: both ways!)

This weekend, as you might imagine, was a whirlwind. It felt like an entity unto itself–like it was somehow surgically removed from the day before it and the day after; because I forgot what schoolwork is due this week and what I was doing last week or anything like that. Time stopped for Brian and Melanie’s wedding.

It didn’t really hit me until I was standing up there on the stage watching our pastor perform the ceremony: My brother was actually getting married. Melanie was going to be his wife now. After so many years of being friends, and of being more than friends, now they would be husband and wife. And that was my brother. The one who held me like a sack of potatoes when I was a baby. The one who went through a phase of liking no colors other than blue and black. The one who once kept a dust collection. The one who makes me laugh all the time and shows me that he cares about me in a hundred different ways. There he was accepting the hand of a woman who had already become a part of our family in so many ways, and who would be his loyal partner for the rest of their lives. I was so happy I could have burst.

After the reception, and the chatting, and the taking of pictures, and the defacing of Brian’s car, and the bubbles, and Brian and Melanie driving off on their honeymoon, we all made our way home with silly, sappy grins still on our faces. Natalie rode the two hours home with me, and she made the trip delightful. We talked about life, the universe, and everything the whole way. As we drove into Eugene and headed to DQ for some dinner, the sun was just beginning to set, and the whole city was glowing. It was a perfect way to end that long, exciting, beautiful day. My brother was married. The guests were gone. The cake was eaten. I was home. It was time to collapse on the couch and fall asleep watching Food Network.

Congratulations, Brian and Melanie Julian. Your wedding was perfect. I love you both a whole bunch, and I am just thrilled that you’re together. Now please make me some nieces and/or nephews. I want to be an aunt.

In case you somehow haven’t heard about it (which means you definitely have not run in to any of my family recently, because then you would have seen the flashing neon signs above their heads saying “We’re having a WEDDING soon!”), my brother is getting married on Saturday. Brian is eight years older than me, my only sibling, and the best big brother a girl could ask for. I am just so thrilled that he has found such a wonderful woman with whom to share his life. This is an exciting weekend for all of us… but I’m sure especially for him.

It’s funny how the happiest events bring out the craziest behavior in the most involved parties, however. We have all, especially today, been running around like chickens who are desperately seeking to reunite themselves with their heads. Each of us has our loveable idiosyncracies that forcefully manifest themselves at times like these–Brian, for instance, manifested his jitters today by cleaning his car, inside and out, until it glistened with that special “ready to be destroyed by TP-ers” kind of shine. (Just for reference, I believe this is the first time Brian has washed his car since he got it. Four years ago.)

I haven’t seen much of Melanie today, but I heard she was having to deciding which errands were really important and which ones could slide under the pressure. (I’m sure she’s pretty stressed out. But then again, Melanie is usually very good at keeping her cool. So who knows. ) Mom has been in a similar situation: chugging through task after task in preparation for the church setup and rehearsal dinner tomorrow, and having to re-evaluate what tasks really needed to be done.

Me? Well, I just seem to have developed a death wish. Because that is really the only way to explain why I agreed to drive the two hours up to the church with Sarah, another of Melanie’s bridesmaids, tomorrow morning. Not only will this be my first substantial “road trip” driving by myself in my own car (don’t tell that to Sarah before we leave tomorrow), but I have to leave my house at… SIX FORTY-FIVE AM. This may not seem early to you; I am aware that many sane people are alert and functioning at that hour in the morning. I just happen to not be one of them. But I’m usually capable, with colossal effort, of pulling myself together for morning activities when it is absolutely necessary. So hopefully you won’t see a post from my parents in a couple of days saying, “Well, we’re so sorry folks, but this blog is CLOSED because Erin died this weekend. She just crashed right into that oncoming car–must have been too early in the morning for her. (You know how she is about early morning things.) You’ll be glad to know that we stifled our tears and Brian had a lovely wedding, however.”

But then again, maybe it wouldn’t go down that way. The point is, everything is a bit crazy over here at Chateau Julian. Tomorrow I will be helping set up the church and taking pictures and thinking about hair and makeup stuff and talking to people I haven’t seen in a million years and trying to stay perky and worrying about falling on my face while I walk down the aisle in my way-too-high heels. It should be an interesting (and exciting, and special) couple of days. I’ll see you afterwards.

The following post is a public service announcement to keep family members or friends who may read this blog in the loop about my life. It is also to help prevent awkward conversations in the future. I don’t mind if those of you who don’t know me in real life read this, but you may not find it that interesting.

Elijah and I are no longer together as a couple. (If you didn’t know we were together in the first place, this post may be of little concern to you, but for the record we had been together for almost three years.) This news may come as a surprise to some of you; others of you, like me, may have seen the stormclouds brewing for quite some time. The gist is this: Elijah and I have had various issues that have grown increasingly more contentious over the past year. It became clear to me that I really could not be implying the commitment I was implying, which was that I was interested in marrying Elijah. Our “more than friends” relationship was communicating something to ourselves and others that did not really exist anymore, and we were forgetting how to be friends, to boot.

I won’t pretend that this has not been a tearful process for me. Anything that uproots your assumptions of the last three years is rather shaking. But I also would like to emphasize what a positive move I feel this is for both of us, and how much I still truly care about Elijah and his family. They are all still important people in my life, and I hope and pray that Elijah and I will continue to be friends. We still have many of the same mutual friends, we still take many of the same classes–we may even still end up going to the same college.

Also please understand that neither of us was at all blameless in this process, and nobody “dumped” anybody. I could have been so much more patient with him and kind to him in so many ways, and I do regret now that I wasn’t. But I would not say that I regret ever having entered our relationship. That would be to minimize the impact it had on my life and on my development as a person–and also how much I cared about him. And because of that, because I don’t regret it, I won’t be removing the pictures or posts relating to him or us. They were a real part of my life, and I’m not going to deny them or pretend they didn’t happen. That would be disrespectful to Elijah–and just plain denial.

I’m not going to go into any more particulars in my blog, but If you know me in person, I would be more than happy to answer any questions you have or to talk it over with you. And I don’t even mind if you want to tell other people about us; if you know someone who you think should know or would like to know this information, please feel free to tell them. (You could even point them to this post.) My main desire is that people refrain from gossiping behind my back about this. Come to me for your information before you start concocting tales of what may or may not have happened. Thank you.

But the really important thing for me, and for all of us, to remember is this: God has a plan for each of our lives, and He’s not going to let our mistakes get in the way of it. When our life take a U-turn from where we thought it was headed, it’s helpful to remember that He’s in charge–not me, or anyone else; and however it happens is the way it was supposed to happen. I think that’s something we can all take a little bit of comfort in.

My family is awesome. We have a lot of good things going for us. But one of those things, I’m afraid, is not outdoorsiness–by any stretch of the imagination. Dad, in particular, has made it clear that he would not suffer if he never had to leave a paved area again in his life. I think Mom, on the other hand, has repressed outdoorsy tendencies, but because of Dad’s resounding lack of enthusiasm and our generally busy schedule, we have done approximately zero outdoorsy things together as a family.

Fortunately (I guess), I have many friends who seek to correct this situation by dragging me along on “adventures” that I swear up and down I will HATE–that is, until I give in and go along and discover that they are FUN. These adventures have included but are not limited to: camping, hiking, visiting creeks and waterfalls, and sleeping out on a trampoline one summer night. Most of these occasions have stories associated with them that are worthy of their own posts: but I have one story in particular I want to tell.

Last night, Natalie called me up. “Erin! How would you like to go with me on the EASTER SUNRISE hike tomorrow morning?” People (crazy people) in my church have been making the hike up Spencer’s Butte on Easter morning for untold numbers of years. Every year one or other of my friends was going along, and every once in a while one of them would try to convince me to come. I successfully avoided going until four years ago, when enough of my friends were going that I finally gave in to peer pressure and grudgingly agreed to be ready to go at some unholy hour of the morning. By the time we left, I was actually pretty excited about the hike, mostly because I’d never done anything like it before. Oh, the adventure! This lasted until we actually started hiking. When we started off from the parking lot at the bottom of Spencer’s Butte, the sky was dark gray. After we reached the top and stood around for a little while, it was light gray. The sunrise must have happened somewhere in there, but we certainly didn’t see it. In the meantime, I was utterly exhausted from the hike up (this is my Julian blood showing itself) and standing around freezing my tail off, shaking from the cold and wind and wishing I had never come on this darned fool adventure in the first place.

So you understand my reluctance, as I stood there last night hemming and hawing and making up excuses for why I couldn’t go today. But Natalie, in her persuasive, wily, little Natalie ways quickly convinced me that I wanted to go… in fact, she almost made it sound like my idea. And that is how I found myself sludging my way out of bed at 5:00 am this morning. And once again, I found myself excited about the adventure–this time I was bringing my camera! Unphased by the hiking, I was just looking forward to the picture-taking opportunities at the top. And with this peppy attitude, I began our hike convinced that it would be a piece of cake. That is, until we actually started walking up an incline. THAT was just too much. As I huffed, puffed, and wheezed my way to the top, I was haunted by memories of my friend Thad telling us how he had recently hiked Spencer’s Butte… REPEATEDLY. ALL DAY. I don’t remember how many times he actually made the circuit, but it was way more than one, which is the number of laps that I was currently having a hard time completing.

I had to stop to catch my breath several times during our uphill trek, and by the time I reached the top I was feeling a little bit queasy. I figured this was a natural consequence of the fact that my body had just exerted itself one thousand times more than it had, total, in the past MONTH. But as I stood there, watching the sunrise and fumbling for my camera to capture the beauty, I realized the queasiness wasn’t going away. In fact, it had turned into naseousness. Actually, I was feeling downright sick. “Natalie,” I croaked, (I was shaking pretty badly now) “I think I have to throw up.” “What?” “I think I have to throw up!” “Are you sure?” “Yes! I have to throw up!” She quickly shepherded me over to a secluded corner of the mountain top. And before I could even think about it, or bend down, or anything, my proverbial Easter cookies were all over the snow. Gross.

The worst part is, I thought nobody except Natalie (poor Natalie) witnessed this horrendous scene, but as I turned away from the sickening puddle in the snow, I looked up and saw a scruffy, bearded man sitting on the rocks above us: obviously another hiker who was not in our party. As I looked up at him, he stared back at me with the eyes of someone who has just witnessed a train wreck and really, really wanted to look away, but just couldn’t. Dear bearded man who had to watch me toss my proverbial Easter cookies: I’m sorry. Really really sorry. Trust me.

On the upside, however, this year was not another gray, overcast, disappointing morning. We were treated with a gorgeous sunrise, and light that allowed me to take some great pictures at the top. And, honestly, that made it all worthwhile for me. So, Nata, you might have a shot at convincing me to come next year. Click here to see the set of photos I took this morning. Here are a few of the best:

Happy Easter, everyone. Thank you, God, for the gift of your Son, and for the beautiful sunrise you showed us this morning. Also for making me throw up. Because now I have a really cool story to tell.

On Thursday, I went to get a haircut. I hinted last week that I might do this; actually, I already had the appointment set up at that time. My brother’s wedding is this coming weekend, and I was frankly sick of the “long and unruly” style that I was working before. I think partly I took the before pictures to assure myself that my hair really does look OK sometimes, because I had no idea what it would look like after I came home from the hairdresser.

I am secretly distrustful of hairdressers that are not related to me. Aunt Annette, my Dad’s sister, was a professional hairdresser, and cut my hair for the first sixteen years of my life. But when she moved to California a year or two ago, I was faced with a decision: find a new person to cut my hair, or just don’t get it cut. I opted with the latter for quite a while, tiding myself over with trims whenever Aunt Annette would visit, and otherwise not doing much with it.

But the time had come for a change, and since I knew Aunt Annette wouldn’t be coming up till a few days before the wedding, I began the task of finding a hairdresser who could attempt to fill her shoes. A friend gave us a referral, I made an appointment, and long story short, I think she did a great job. She was friendly, professional, and really seemed to know her stuff.

So here’s what it looks like:

Basically: Shorter length + lots of layers + natural curl unleashed = WHOLE NEW FEELING. (Equals good.)

Thank you, friendly hair-cutting lady. You have restored my faith in hairdressers who are not my Aunt. But no one will ever be quite as good.

If you care (aka if you are Aunt Annette) here are some more pictures of my cut.

Firstly: Choose an appropriate subject upon which to base your drawing.

Fig. 1: duck, suitable for drawing

Next: Begin to draw your subject. Make sure to completely obliterate the character of your subect, and if possible introduce as many dischordant colors and unattractive visual elements into your piece as possible. If you are lucky, this will be your art teacher’s response:

Fig. 2: art teacher takes matters into own hands

Do not be concerned if your teacher begins literally tearing your work into shreds. This merely means that you have accomplished your goal and are well on your way to art. But you’re not quite there yet. Your teacher will probably want to play with the composition of your newly liberated shreds of art…

Fig. 3: picking up the pieces

… At which time she may or may not decide that the piece needs more… ah… coaxing.

Fig. 4: and a bit more deconstruction

After three or four minutes of dutifully watching your teacher work on “your” piece, voila! We have art!

Fig. 5: Art.

… As you may be able to guess, yesterday was just one of those days in art class. Every once in a while a day will roll around in which I have the hardest time creating anything interesting. I mean, first of all, I chose a duck figurine to draw. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was just making a really bad drawing. And although my teacher’s methods may seem drastic, I actually think she is an awesome teacher and her “deconstruction” of my drawing was really helpful.

I may not be able to claim the art as “mine” now, but that’s not really the point of our class anyway. The point is I learned a lot from watching her tear up my piece with reckless abandon–and the fact is, it came out way better and more interesting than it was before. So there you go. A real art lesson.

I just came home from German class, and as I turned the corner onto our street, I approached a blue station wagon waiting to turn. As soon as I saw it, I recognized it as the car belonging to one of our friends–who coincidentally lives on our street! One quick glance at the driver’s face, and I was sure it was him.

Naturally, I waved enthusiastically as I passed him. Only… it wasn’t a him. It was a her. And it was someone I’d never seen before in my life. This poor woman just had time to give me that bewildered “Where have I seen you before?” look before I had driven past, laughing at the deft skill with which I continually find ways to humiliate myself.

So, that should give that woman something to feel guilty about for a few minutes.

On Saturday I finished reading The Turn of the Screw, by Henry James. My only knowledge going into reading this book was a) it was due for Writing Class tomorrow, b) it was some sort of ghost story, and c) it was obviously an excellent book for us to read for writing class, because it was a scant 87 pages. (At least in my copy.)

So as I spent my Friday and Saturday afternoons finding various corners of the house in which to curl up with this book, I slowly started getting into the story. Oooh! The people are going to hear a ghost story. Oooh! It’s a really special ghost story. Oooh! This governess apparently had the hots for her young charge. OOOH! Ghosties! (You can see the subtle appreciation that I devoted to this fine piece of literature.)

Honestly, though, I liked the way James depicted every action of the children and the governess as if they were calculated moves in a secret game of chess. And, of course, the ghosties fascinated me: Why were they back? What had they really done to the children while they were alive? What were they trying to do now? Why were they so darn creepy? I came up with all sorts of possibilities, however unlikely (I think The Sixth Sense may have affected a few of these): perhaps there really were no ghosts. Perhaps the governess was actually the ghost. Perhaps the children were the ghosts. Perhaps they were ALL ghosts, living in happy denial in ghost world. But however unsatisfying the ultimate answer might be, I at least expected there to be an answer.

Wrong.

As I watched the final pages of the book grow closer, I realized, “Hey, he’s gonna really have to pick up the pace to wrap things up here!” Then, “Whoa, we’re really getting close,” then, “The answer must be simpler then I thought!” then, THE END. “Wait… but… were they real or not? Darn you, Henry James!”

I realize that I’m not being fair, and that as Dad would like to point out to me, James’ intention was to leave you with an ambiguous ending, and that I should be enjoying the mystery. Well, you know what, James, I want an answer.

So now I’m asking you: have you read Turn of the Screw? What do you think was really going on? Why? And if you haven’t read it… well, if you haven’t read it, in hindsight this entry must have been excruciatingly boring for you. Sorry about that. I had to get it out of my system.

A couple of days ago at work, one of my co-workers bought some latex balloons for another employee as a joke. After the joke was finished, the balloons were not needed anymore, so someone brought them up to the front register and told me to give them away to any little kids who might look like they needed a balloon.

It’s always fun when, for some reason, we have some freebie to give away. There’s nothing like being able to brighten someone’s day a little bit with a gesture like “here! Take one; it’s free!” So when a mom and her adorable young daughter walked up to the counter, I cheerfully suggested that perhaps the little girl would like one of my balloons. As expected, the little girl’s face lit up at the mere idea, and I could see her imagining the joy of possessing one of the beautiful, round, shiny, colorful balloons behind the counter.

This revery came to a swift end as her mother fixed me with a look that would have been appropriate if I had just suggested her daughter go join a gang that encouraged its members to jump off of bridges. (I am probably exaggerating.) But she did politely refuse the balloon on the grounds that “When those latex balloons pop kids can CHOKE ON THEM AND DIE HORRIBLE DEATHS.” (I might be exaggerating again.) I didn’t really know what to say to this, so I just looked on apologetically as the little girl and her mother walked out the door. “Have a nice day!” I called after them. “A nice, balloon-less day,” I might have added.

I must have been a very lucky child. All those times I played with balloons–I never knew how close to DEATH I was!