Here’s the five day forecast:
Unseasonably cold and rainy, highs in the mid-50s, lows in the upper 20s. Colder up in the Grand Tetons and in Yellowstone (where we will be spending all our time). Thunderstorms likely every day.

Here’s the forecast for the five days immediately following our departure:
Normal weather patterns resume. Bright, clear, abundant sunshine, highs near 75 degrees.

What is it the kids are saying these days? Oh yes: FML.

My only saving grace — after a frantic last-minute dig in the back of the closet through the box of winter clothes, in desperate search of the hats and gloves and zip-in fleece lining for our jackets, all of which we will inevitably need to wear on my August birthday — is this: the hotel we are staying at serves fireside s’mores.

Apart from that, though? Simply proof, once again, that red states just do not agree with me.

My tax return is HUGE. Unfortunately, my tax refund is not. Apparently the quantity of pages in your tax return paperwork is in no way correlated to the quantity of bills in your tax return refund.

In fact, this year, it looks like it’ll be Christmas at the IRS in at least a dozen states, courtesy of yours truly. And you didn’t know how they were going to fund the health care bill!

Fortunately, Zappos delivered a little bit of happiness today, too. Ah, much better.

As I was tidying up the other day, I was horrified to discover that the cello Rob rented me for Christmas has actually, literally been collecting dust.

I learned to play the cello as a kid. Not Suzuki or anything serious — just orchestra class in school, and a few private lessons as I got older. I was something like fourth or fifth chair in the high school orchestra. Out of eight. I wanted to be better, of course, but it was never my top priority. I had a lot of other things going on.

I just liked playing the cello. I liked the deep, mellow tone. I liked putting rosin on my bow. I liked being part of an orchestra, playing beautiful, classical, important-seeming pieces I had never heard before.

Since I met Rob, I have spoken with great fondness about the cello, which I haven’t been able to play since high school, since I never actually owned an instrument. So, finally (and undoubtedly with designs on adding a little rock cello to the band), he rented one for me for Christmas.

It was one of the most thoughtful gifts I have ever gotten. And now, one of the most guilt-inducing.

I’ve had a whole arsenal of excuses: It’s my busy season for work. It’s too loud to play in the house without disrupting the entire building. I don’t have rosin. I need music. I need lessons.

The real problem: I tried playing it. And. I. Suck.

Sure, some of it came flying back to me. I was pleasantly surprised at my muscle memory, how easy it was to finger the right notes with my left hand. But something about the bowing is just horrendous. The sqwuaking! The moaning! It sounds like an elderly cow trying to pass a kidney stone right here in my living room.

Molly DOES NOT LIKE IT.

I don’t remember it ever sounding this bad. I don’t remember it ever being this hard.

So, most days, the cello just stares at me, reminding me that, like so many things in my life, I am willing to try for about fifteen minutes, and when I discover that I’m not the best at it, I flat out give up. Then, I plummet into an existential crisis about how horrible I am at everything. And then, even worse, once I have given up and sent the cello back, I sit around marveling that I ever gave it up in the first place, and wishing that I had tried harder  to be better or at least to have enjoyed it while I still had the opportunity.

This could literally be the great metaphor of my life. It occurs to me just how absurd that is. If I only had a month to live, would I spend it trying to re-learn the cello? And if I did, would I be so mad at myself for not being very good?

Before I cut off monthly rental payments, this cello deserves another chance. I deserve another chance. I am going to try again to play the cello, if for nothing more than the adventure of working on something that does not come very easily to me, and for the opportunity to try to laugh at how horrible I am at it.

And then, I’m going to assess whether or not trying to play the cello really brings me happiness, or if it’s just something I’m doing because I feel like I should be doing it, and, worse, if doing it not very well is just making me feel bad about myself.

And if, in the end, I give it up, I’m not going to be mad at myself for that, either. I’m going to be proud of myself for recognizing that there are many adventures in life, but you can’t have them all at once. And how lucky am I to be able to choose more than one? Or choose at all?

Or something like that. There’s a fine line between being a quitter and being good to yourself.

In the meantime, the least I can do is take some photos of the damn thing for posterity. Photography is another one of those hobbies of mine that I don’t put enough effort into, for fear of failure and for the sheer disappointment of not being good at it right off the bat.

Are other people that much more patient with new or difficult things than I am? Or do they just not have to work as hard to get great results? That is not meant as a rhetorical question. Sincerely, dear universe, I ask of you: Am I trying too hard, or not hard enough?

Inevitably, there were going to be kebabs.

After a few failed attempts last summer, I am proud to say this year’s grilling debut was a huge, if surprising, success. (More photos here.)

Remind me again why I endure Chicago winters? I swear, I’d be the healthiest, happiest person if the weather was beautiful all the time.

Unless it got too hot. In which case, I’d be eating ice cream four times a day and sitting in front of the air conditioner griping about how the humidity makes my hair all frizzy and my thighs rub together. It’s always something with me, isn’t it?

Of course, today was one of the first mornings of spring that it was actually warm, light, and sunny out. I’m sure that had something to do with it, even if I hadn’t opened the curtains yet.

Certainly, this delightful awakening was also made possible in part by the hour or so I spent at Rob’s parents’ house last night, wherein we met to discuss the impending purchase of our apartment (more on that later).

I’m not just sucking up to the in-laws, here. I really mean it: those people make me feel good about myself. I could show up filthy, drunk, swearing and twenty pounds heavier, and it wouldn’t be ten minutes before they would be all, ”Well don’t you look pretty!” and, “Wow, you are looking so skinny these days!” and, “Remember when you did that one thing that you can’t even remember doing and it was the most brilliant thing we had ever heard?” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera ad nauseam, except it doesn’t make me nauseated BECAUSE I LOVE IT.

Everyone in this life needs a fabulous friend and a family-in-law like mine. I am convinced that the wasteland of my typical psycho-emotional condition is entirely attributable to a deficiency of having these people in my physical presence on a daily basis.

Imagine what my ego could be! Every morning would be like this wonderful morning.

There is also tiny part of me that really believes, but is still reluctant to admit, that my newfound, in-fact-quite-bearable lightness of being may well be the product of a religious experience.

Bear with me, now. If you woke up to the dog retching, retching, retching and then puking all over the place, dragged yourself out of bed and cleaned it up, got back into bed and managed to fall asleep for five blissful minutes before waking up to feel the best you’ve felt in months, well, you would think you had found God, too.

Last night I had the good fortune of being invited to a Passover seder in the home of a family friend. Although I have the unfortunate condition of being a decided atheist, I very much enjoy being included in and learning about other people’s religious celebrations. Especially when these events take place in a happy, positive environment, such as, say, over dinner. (Feed them and they will come; the Jews know how to do this right. It bears consideration here that perhaps I may not have lapsed in my Catholicism had, say, some of the sacraments been conducted while I was being fed.)

During the seder, the Jewish people outline a litany of wonderful things God has done for them, culminating in their salvation. Although of course they are grateful for the whole shebang, they make special mention of each individual element along the way. After naming each item, they say in Hebrew, “Dayenu,” which (loosely) means (something like), “It would have been enough.”

It would have been enough.

What a concept. To be able to see the big picture, and even hope for it, but to be fully content and grateful for what you do have, right there in front of you.

We have all heard this before, of course. But something about dayenu stuck with me, and I woke up today thinking about what my life would feel like if I accepted and appreciated that this is all there ever would be.

I always say I realize that I have a great life — better than I could have imagined, asked for, or planned. But the overachiever in me is constantly pushing for more, telling me that it’s not enough to be doing the best I can if there’s still more out there to accomplish.

This, of course, is important. We have to try in life. But some of us push too hard, too often, and lose sight of the big picture, which is actually the small picture — the short-sighted vision of what is right there in front of us. Which is the thing that actually exists, as opposed to the thing that we are trying to bring into existence. It is the only real thing.

So, for today at least, I am trying to reconcile my drive to do more, be more, and want more from this life with a real and heartfelt appreciation for what I do have right this very minute, despite all the hassles and headaches and missing pieces and glaring errors that point in no uncertain terms to my own personal shortcomings.

I am trying to learn how to care about getting things done, and getting them done well, while also being content with things as they are right now, and equally happy if nothing works out the way I want it to.

What is right in front of me is all there really ever will be.

And that is enough. Dayenu.

Traditional spring break destinations be damned! Who needs sun and sex in Fort Lauderdale when you’ve got freezing New England rain and a sleeping bag? With tens of fans turning out for your shows? This was a cappella, baby! Our rendition of Billy Joel’s “For The Longest Time” never sounded so good.

We departed at sundown, immediately after midterm exams, and drove through the night, the sun rising on us somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania with hundreds more miles to go. Somewhere in between, as I listened to the mix tape he made for me, Rob reached over and took my hand for the very first time.

Then we made out a little in the back seat.

Like oh so many great romances that stand the test of time, ours got started super classy.

These first few warmer days in March will always remind me of what it first felt like to really fall in love, and to be loved in return. It made me a different person. I remember those days as the happiest time of my life, and yet, nine years later, every new day together is still better than the last.

Happy anniversary to the one who finds my particular flavor of crazy not just tolerable but actually (sometimes) (maybe?) endearing. You still make me feel like being a better person, even though I’m too lazy to actually do anything about it.

And yes, even though we’re married now, you still “get credit for all the dating years.” All nine of them!

This photo was taken the day after we got back from that spring break tour. We are such babies! Look how fresh and unlined our faces are! And check out my crunchy hair, super sexy going-out top, and chipmunk cheeks. It’s such a wonder that Rob was the only guy who was after me.

Not a fluke. It has been three days. Two pounds. Vanished.

I may have found my calling as a dieting guru. A book called The Frosting Diet would fly off the shelves, don’t you think?

Proof once again that life is not fair. But boy oh boy, do I love it when it works out in my favor.

It hasn’t been going well. Or going at all, that is.

Back in September, when work was slow and I was feeling all project-y, I decided more or less on a whim to paint the bathroom cabinets. The cabinets were fine, really — I just didn’t like the color of the stain on the oak. But apparently, my brain operates according to this adage: If it ain’t broke, break it.

The paint job didn’t turn out so hot. So I ended up taking down all the cabinet doors and drawer fronts and stripping and sanding them. This was a messy project, and because I was reluctant to use the stripping solvent anywhere near our newly installed hardwood floors, and because by now it was November and too cold to move the project outside, I ended up taking everything to my dad’s garage, where there is a floor nobody cares about, an installed furnace (not just a space heater — an actual furnace), an arsenal of tools and supplies, an utterly absurd collection of posters (seriously, that link is worth clicking!), and, most importantly, my dear old Dad himself, who I knew would take over the project in his usual, busybody, project-loving way.

As expected, Dad took to scraping and sanding and staining my cabinets with far more TLC than I would ever have been able to muster. I was there to take photos, which, you know, is just oh so helpful.

A conversation:

Dad: “Hey, do you want an iced coffee?”
Amanda: “Uhm, wha!?!?”
Dad: “An iced coffee.”
Amanda: “Are you seriously offering me an iced coffee? In your garage? Who are you?”
Dad: “Mom bought these Starbucks things at Costco. They’re in the fridge.”
Amanda: “You mean a frappuccino? Since when do you like frappuccinos?”
Dad: “Well, do you want one or not?”
Amanda: “Actually, yes. I’ll get them.”
Dad: “I’ll take mine in a glass with ice. With whiskey.”
Amanda: “OK, this is making a lot more sense now.”

Unfortunately, the project gods were not smiling on us that day. I had brought over the same sanding sealer and stain that I used to refinish my desk. Which, may I remind you, turned out fine. But the cabinets just didn’t want any part of it, and the sanding sealer, which is supposed to help the stain absorb evenly, ended up repelling the stain altogether, so that it didn’t soak in to the wood. At all.

We even double-checked the label to make sure we had used the sanding sealer as instructed. We double-checked it real good.

And yet. The stain rubbed right off.

So, I got frustrated and went home, leaving my Dad to have another go-round with the cabinets and the paint stripper. At least one of us was still in good spirits.

Then it was Christmas, and we had invited 50 people to cram into our tiny condo for our annual party. Which meant, inevitably, people would be trying to use our bathroom, where there were still no cabinet drawer fronts.

I suggested that this was a thoughtful gesture on our part as hosts: our guests could relieve themselves in peace, without grappling with the moral dilemma of respecting our privacy versus poking around in our medicine cabinets. It would all be right out there, for everyone to see.

Rob disagreed with this philosophy, so we ended up closing the door and posting a sign that said “OUT OF ORDER: Please use the other bathroom. Thanks!”

(But, people still used it. And they inevitably got an unobstructed eyeful of our collection of tampons and toilet paper and expired condoms and, wait, is that really a MacBook Pro? In fact, rumor has it that one couple went into the Forbidden Bathroom to make out, which is by far the most exciting thing to ever happen in that room, despite what the presence of outdated prophylactics and that computer might suggest. So don’t think I don’t know who you are!)

Suddenly, it’s February. The cabinets, still unwilling to absorb the stain because of that damn stain sealer, are essentially garbage. I’ve looked in to ordering new, unfinished cabinet doors, which would only cost about $200, but I don’t know that my dad or I have it in us to stain them, let alone deal with the frustration when inevitably the cabinets are not the right size and we have to start all over. Again.

I’ve got a guy who will order new cabinet fronts for us, stain them, and even create a new toe kick panel (which was also ruined, and I’m using the passive voice there for a reason!), for $700. That’s highway robbery, given that I know for a fact the doors themselves cost under $200.

But there’s that other adage: You get what you pay for. Which really is a better adage to live by than “If it ain’t broke, break it.”

I have learned the hard way that I do not have a Midas touch. On the contrary, everything I touch turns to crap. At least, as far as household projects are concerned. Have I mentioned the stain on my desk is rubbing off? Just rubbing right off.

(I assure you that, in person, it doesn’t look nice and/or rustic, as it does in this photo. That’s just the f/1.4 talking.)

I need to accept that I am really good at spending money, and not so hot at saving money by doing it myself (see also: Waffle FAIL). Bring on the self-loathing.