Wednesday, July 14, 2010

San Diego

This is by far more pictures taken in one week than have been taken in the past 4 years of our relationship--so I hope you enjoy seeing, well, a lot of us. On the first night we ate at this quaint little restaurant called Prep Kitchen in La Jolla, which is what the fuzzy sign is attempting to say above...
Continuing our culinary tour we had brunch at the Hash House in downtown San Diego the next day. The line was about 1 1/2 hours long but sooooo worth it! Demonstrating my beautiful watermelon kiwi lemonade below:

Sunday we went to the Spreckel's organ concert at Balboa park. Here we are documenting the largest outdoor organ in the world. They even let us borrow big beach umbrellas for the concert. Only in San Diego...

We also did some cooking and made good use of the grill, outdoor jacuzzi, and gorgeous, beachfront, wrap-around porch. Here is our nod to California for Sunday dinner. Obviously there were avocados.

Boyd showing his extraordinary beach cruiser skills. All free with our rental! So Lily Allen...

Children's pool in La Jolla.

I actually had a dream that involved steps almost identical to these with Boyd on them about a month before our vacation. Creepy!

Somehow only Boyd was captured in a swimsuit appropriate to post here...!

Boyd showing off our sweet digs.

We won't brag too much about the just as sweet deal we got with it.

Clearly, the food itinerary must have been set by me. Oh man, this place was up there with finale in Boston. And if you havn't been there we pity you.

Boyd's first peek at Disneyland to round out the California experience. This is at California adventure.

Obligatory picture by the "L"

Proof that we actually went to the real thing too. And ate dole whips. Who's jealous now?

So even though we celebrated in full before I got my board scores, it turned out it was well deserved in the end. Since no one from med school reads our blog, I can proudly announce to my family (and the few friends that read our blog who I know won't spread it to the wrong people) that I scored a 245! Plenty high enough to be really competitive for any residency I could possibly dream up. Plastic surgery anyone? Just kidding.
Thanks everyone so much for all of your support and help during my studying. I couldn't have done it without you!

Monday, July 12, 2010

Mini Memoir: The Girl in the Mirror

When I was little I would watch my mother get ready for the day. I often perched on the cold marble of the bathroom sink and, although I swear I was better seen than heard, I’m sure my mom would describe me in perfect chatterbox form. I was really such a chatty Kathy growing up—everything from know-it-all status to a delinquent fondness for talking back--for which I was rewarded with many mouthfuls of Dial soap. To this day I can’t use Dial for that reason. But even if my mom may not remember these mornings in quite such an optimistic light, I really liked them. The steam would billow through the shower and create those condensation droplets on the marble and the mirror. Sometimes I would drag my finger through it and write her messages. I like to think they were clever little Haikus or limericks but I think the standard “I love you Mom” might have been the best I ever conjured up.

She always showered in the dark for some reason I’ll never quite understand—still does in fact—and then when she stepped out of the shower she used this Crabtree and Evelyn body powder called Summertime. It was in a granny shaker—really it was—all floral looking with loopy cursive. When I was a teenager I crinkled my nose at such a fluffy and functionless powder all wrapped up in old person’s wrapping. Now I think it’s beautiful. Isn’t that the way it always goes? Now I cherish things like the vintage rocking chair that I acquired a few years ago and that Boyd has been working on sanding for my birthday which was, wait, in February? That’s okay, I still love him. And part of me kind of loves the fact that it still isn’t finished. I can’t really say why. Now I’m debating whether we should really be re-staining it at all.

After the body powder came the round woven basket of makeup. Whenever she’d put on her blush I would get some too—that was probably my favorite part. She had that blush for I think about a decade. But seriously, do you ever run out of blush? I know I haven’t yet. Well the end of that blush was when I went in her bathroom around the age of 16 to try on all of her makeup before she came home from work. I think prom was about 2 weeks away and my cover girl just wasn’t cutting it. Her Clinique “Breathless Berry” was guaranteed to make me more beautiful than my cover girl cheekers, “pink.” Seriously? Don’t they pay someone to come up with names for make-up? Clearly not enough. Anyways, I fumbled with the breathless berry, and it came crashing down onto the whiter than white tile my mom swore was practical. And, of course, being more than 10 years old, the blush cake shattered into about a hundred pieces. Which I put back into the little snap case and quietly stowed away. I didn’t even have the guts to admit I had broken it when she came asking the next day.

Just the other day I noticed that whenever I look in a mirror I put my tongue just up to the insides of my lips to make them look fuller (I guess us Dahl girls weren’t exactly blessed with the Angelina Jolie lip pout) and I realized just how much I look like my mom. She actually does this little lip-plumping exercise too, although she'll probably deny it. People always said we were twin growing up, but I never saw it because, well, I have blond hair and she has dark brown hair. We obviously couldn't have looked alike. But we do, it’s undeniable. Now that I have just the finest of lines around the corners of my eyes and my baby fat is all but gone off my face I see it. I see the skin so white it’s almost translucent and the occasional tiny capillary running through it. I see the dark sun spots that so easily mark how old we are. I see the hazel eyes I used to think were an ugly pea green, all speckled and frog-like, now deep and earthy and prettily freckled. I see the lashes so long it looks like I’m wearing fake ones every time I put on mascara and know that mom blessed me with those beauties. And now when I get ready for the day, and fog up the mirror, and powder up, and put on a blush that’s actually my color, I see that I am beautiful, just like my mother is beautiful. And I thank my lucky stars that it was never on the outside that counted anyways.