So, I don't want to get all in-depth and emotional with this post, as I have a tendency to do at times, but I just wanted to say that part of the reason why I love Thanksgiving is because people say "thanks," when they normally don't, or wouldn't, or don't have time to, or whatever the reason may be.
That being said, I just want to mention how thankful I am to have the friends I have.
They are numerous, and they are awesome.
I am so lucky, and so thankful for old friends, new friends, same-age friends, older friends, younger friends, boy friends, girl friends, musically-inclined friends, local friends, faraway friends, married friends, mom & dad friends, business-y friends, school friends, fun friends, crazy friends, sober friends, drunk friends, work friends, family friends... the list goes on and on and on.
And on.
I'm going to give myself some serious credit for picking the coolest people ever to hang around with.
So, be thankful for something this week. Or, be thankful for more than just one thing, be thankful every day. If you're not, well, then, you suck.
And, put a couple bucks in the Salvation Army bucket; then when the person ringing the bell says "Thank you, have a happy holiday," I promise you'll get that warm feeling in your chest that makes your step lighter, and your stresses a little fainter, if only for a moment.
Happy Turkey Day.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
I love you, Elvis.
Costello, that is.
I love you, Elvis Costello.
He might just be the coolest fucking person, ever, in the whole world.
Right now, he's on The Colbert Report and he's wearing a purple polka dotted tie. And, a purple shirt. And, a purple hat. Like, a fedora-type hat.
And, those glasses. Oh man.
Could he be more awesome?
I just noticed that Stephen Colbert is also wearing a polka dotted tie.
God, I love polka dots.
Now Stephen Colbert is singing. And Elvis Costello is playing the guitar.
If I wrote poetry, I think this all mumbling could be compiled into a really hip poem. I'd call it "Elvis Costello Wears A Purple Hat." Or, "Elvis Costello Wears Purple Polka Dotted Ties." Or something more clever.
I've been writing so much html code over the past couple days during which I have worked on very little besides the creation of my website, that I'm beginning to talk like code; I speak in short, choppy sentences.
I love you, Elvis Costello.
He might just be the coolest fucking person, ever, in the whole world.
Right now, he's on The Colbert Report and he's wearing a purple polka dotted tie. And, a purple shirt. And, a purple hat. Like, a fedora-type hat.
And, those glasses. Oh man.
Could he be more awesome?
I just noticed that Stephen Colbert is also wearing a polka dotted tie.
God, I love polka dots.
Now Stephen Colbert is singing. And Elvis Costello is playing the guitar.
If I wrote poetry, I think this all mumbling could be compiled into a really hip poem. I'd call it "Elvis Costello Wears A Purple Hat." Or, "Elvis Costello Wears Purple Polka Dotted Ties." Or something more clever.
I've been writing so much html code over the past couple days during which I have worked on very little besides the creation of my website, that I'm beginning to talk like code; I speak in short, choppy sentences.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Sister Theresa
I recently discovered, by taking a Myers Briggs test, that I am an ENFP. The many extraneous details of ENFP don't really matter in this particular situation, except for one. I learned that, as part of my personality, I look for connections in random occurrences, find commonalities and search for meaning in local, or even global, situations that seem connected in some way.
The staggering thing is, I do that. A lot. Even if I don't know what the connections mean, I still recognize them, ponder over them, and wonder about a day when their meaning will become clear to me. The story that I'm about to share is one of those situations.
.
.
.
My step-dad has twelve brothers and sisters; they were born in the 1930s/1940s and their parents were old-school Portuguese.
Their boys were encouraged to quit school, ceasing their educational careers, immediately after high school - or, maybe even sooner, I'm not sure - so that they could work, help out the family, pay for things. The girls were encouraged to get married so that they could leave the house, be dependent upon someone else for food on the table. It was all in the name of providing, of surviving.
They used to have a large family Christmas party every year, Uncle Joe would dress up as Santa, take pictures with the kids and hand out presents. They had to rent a hall there were so many people; brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. I could never remember everyone.
Everyone's name, if you were one of the thirteen children referring to a sibling, was Brother (Insert Brother's Name Here) or Sister (Insert Sister's Name Here) as if they were nuns and... well, and, whatever the male equivalent is for "nun," I have no idea.
So, four years ago Sister Theresa came to Thanksgiving at my house. She doesn't have a husband, she doesn't have children, so, she chooses one of the thirteen to be thankful with every November. That particular year, it was our family.
When she arrived, she handed me a gift: a Christmas cactus. I love Christmas cacti. It could not have been a more perfectly chosen present.
Over the years, I came to realize that the Christmas cactus was actually two individual plants potted together and because of this, they would bloom at separate times. Which, is kind of nice because then I always got two blooms, at two different times, and they were two different colors. Red and pink.
It's been four years since I've seen Sister Theresa, the last time was at that Thanksgiving dinner. This month, I received word that this year Sister Theresa is going to come to my Thanksgiving. I can't help but think it's odd - and, I do mean odd in a good way - that both times I have had Thanksgiving dinner at my house, Sister Theresa has joined us.
Perhaps even more strikingly odd is that, as Thanksgiving nears, the buds on the Christmas cactus that Sister Theresa gave me are all plump and ripe with color, about to blossom, for the first time, simultaneously. For the first time, ever, the flowers on both plants will bloom at the same time, during my second Thanksgiving with Sister Theresa.
Is it just my ENFP-ness, or isn't that kind of cool?
The staggering thing is, I do that. A lot. Even if I don't know what the connections mean, I still recognize them, ponder over them, and wonder about a day when their meaning will become clear to me. The story that I'm about to share is one of those situations.
.
.
.
My step-dad has twelve brothers and sisters; they were born in the 1930s/1940s and their parents were old-school Portuguese.
Their boys were encouraged to quit school, ceasing their educational careers, immediately after high school - or, maybe even sooner, I'm not sure - so that they could work, help out the family, pay for things. The girls were encouraged to get married so that they could leave the house, be dependent upon someone else for food on the table. It was all in the name of providing, of surviving.
They used to have a large family Christmas party every year, Uncle Joe would dress up as Santa, take pictures with the kids and hand out presents. They had to rent a hall there were so many people; brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. I could never remember everyone.
Everyone's name, if you were one of the thirteen children referring to a sibling, was Brother (Insert Brother's Name Here) or Sister (Insert Sister's Name Here) as if they were nuns and... well, and, whatever the male equivalent is for "nun," I have no idea.
So, four years ago Sister Theresa came to Thanksgiving at my house. She doesn't have a husband, she doesn't have children, so, she chooses one of the thirteen to be thankful with every November. That particular year, it was our family.
When she arrived, she handed me a gift: a Christmas cactus. I love Christmas cacti. It could not have been a more perfectly chosen present.
Over the years, I came to realize that the Christmas cactus was actually two individual plants potted together and because of this, they would bloom at separate times. Which, is kind of nice because then I always got two blooms, at two different times, and they were two different colors. Red and pink.
It's been four years since I've seen Sister Theresa, the last time was at that Thanksgiving dinner. This month, I received word that this year Sister Theresa is going to come to my Thanksgiving. I can't help but think it's odd - and, I do mean odd in a good way - that both times I have had Thanksgiving dinner at my house, Sister Theresa has joined us.
Perhaps even more strikingly odd is that, as Thanksgiving nears, the buds on the Christmas cactus that Sister Theresa gave me are all plump and ripe with color, about to blossom, for the first time, simultaneously. For the first time, ever, the flowers on both plants will bloom at the same time, during my second Thanksgiving with Sister Theresa.
Is it just my ENFP-ness, or isn't that kind of cool?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Eleven AM
After my playlist ended on iTunes this morning, it was quiet for a long time. I didn't restart the music, because I was kind of enjoying the sound of my house just... settling. Breathing.
The thermostat ticks like a clock. It's odd, I can't figure out why it does it, but it's a slow, almost imperceptible tick-tock, coming from the old thermostat with a timer I can't figure out. I guess that's what's doing all the ticking. The timer that can't tell time.
The bells at St. Lawrence church toll. It's eleven. There's something about right this moment that makes me feel empty. Maybe sad, too. The sky is gray, my nose is cold, the tick of the thermostat times my breath, and I'm sitting on my eggplant colored couch listening to the church bells ring out. It's the only sound that means anything right now. Except maybe the clickity clack of the keyboard.
Now there are sirens in the distance. Fire and police, I think. Isn't it weird how they sound different? Or, is that just me?
There's a chill in the air today. I think it's put a chill in me, too.
The thermostat ticks like a clock. It's odd, I can't figure out why it does it, but it's a slow, almost imperceptible tick-tock, coming from the old thermostat with a timer I can't figure out. I guess that's what's doing all the ticking. The timer that can't tell time.
The bells at St. Lawrence church toll. It's eleven. There's something about right this moment that makes me feel empty. Maybe sad, too. The sky is gray, my nose is cold, the tick of the thermostat times my breath, and I'm sitting on my eggplant colored couch listening to the church bells ring out. It's the only sound that means anything right now. Except maybe the clickity clack of the keyboard.
Now there are sirens in the distance. Fire and police, I think. Isn't it weird how they sound different? Or, is that just me?
There's a chill in the air today. I think it's put a chill in me, too.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Foxwoods: A Haiku
I went to see Bodies Revealed today. (Which, is an amazing exhibit, and I highly recommend it.)
It was a nice day for the drive to Foxwoods, and I was with my bestie, Meg, so we had a blast... we always do.
But.
I have never been to a casino before.
And, guess what I learned?
Casinos are totally effed.
A haiku about Foxwoods:
Fanny packs, booze, smoke.
Elderly scooter drivers.
There are one cent slot machines.
It was a nice day for the drive to Foxwoods, and I was with my bestie, Meg, so we had a blast... we always do.
But.
I have never been to a casino before.
And, guess what I learned?
Casinos are totally effed.
A haiku about Foxwoods:
Fanny packs, booze, smoke.
Elderly scooter drivers.
There are one cent slot machines.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
A Man, A Plan, A Canal, Panama
Sometimes I feel like a palindrome.
No matter if I'm going forward or backward, I always end up in the same place at the end.
I don't so much mean it in a bad way.
Well. That's debatable.
It could be bad, with a silver lining... or it could be all silver.
In other news: I want to have a cocktail party. Who's in?
No matter if I'm going forward or backward, I always end up in the same place at the end.
I don't so much mean it in a bad way.
Well. That's debatable.
It could be bad, with a silver lining... or it could be all silver.
In other news: I want to have a cocktail party. Who's in?
Thursday, October 15, 2009
(Winter, Spring, Summer) Fall Down
Maybe not everyone is like me... but, I'm seasonally influenced.
For example: Music.
Summer music favorites include that which is fun, upbeat, with lots of clapping, shouting, and keyboards with fun choruses and happy-go-lucky spunk.
Fall music is melancholy, but still pretty, with harmony, somewhat upbeat tempo, but with instruments that are acoustic versus electronic.
Winter music can be similar to fall, but likely with a more slit-your-wrists type of vibe, more acoustic, more woe-is-me, troubled and contemplative.
Spring music is often heavy on the girl vocals, with lots of string influence and the occasional Moog.
Anyway. That's just music. My food, booze, reading, color, and extracurricular preferences change for each season as well.
Currently:
Food: Soup and salad.
Booze: Whiskey or red wine.
Reading: Anything I can't put down.
Color: Eggplant and gray.
Extracurricular: Nesting, organizing; anything to promote comfort/coziness.
All of this is leading me to this point:
I am making myself melancholy.
Because it is autumn, I fall into a pattern. I listen to sad-ish music, I dress for a chill, I watch the leaves die (yes, they're pretty, but they're still disappearing), and I become hermit-like.
This is why I often think I should set movies. I can set a scene like whoa. Give me a picture, I'll give you a soundtrack.
Tonight's playlist: Belle and Sebastian, Ben Gibbard, Jeff Mangum, Neko Case, Pedro The Lion, Cat Power.
For real. I don't know if anyone knows what the above list means, musically speaking, but if you do... yeah.
If you know... you know.
For example: Music.
Summer music favorites include that which is fun, upbeat, with lots of clapping, shouting, and keyboards with fun choruses and happy-go-lucky spunk.
Fall music is melancholy, but still pretty, with harmony, somewhat upbeat tempo, but with instruments that are acoustic versus electronic.
Winter music can be similar to fall, but likely with a more slit-your-wrists type of vibe, more acoustic, more woe-is-me, troubled and contemplative.
Spring music is often heavy on the girl vocals, with lots of string influence and the occasional Moog.
Anyway. That's just music. My food, booze, reading, color, and extracurricular preferences change for each season as well.
Currently:
Food: Soup and salad.
Booze: Whiskey or red wine.
Reading: Anything I can't put down.
Color: Eggplant and gray.
Extracurricular: Nesting, organizing; anything to promote comfort/coziness.
All of this is leading me to this point:
I am making myself melancholy.
Because it is autumn, I fall into a pattern. I listen to sad-ish music, I dress for a chill, I watch the leaves die (yes, they're pretty, but they're still disappearing), and I become hermit-like.
This is why I often think I should set movies. I can set a scene like whoa. Give me a picture, I'll give you a soundtrack.
Tonight's playlist: Belle and Sebastian, Ben Gibbard, Jeff Mangum, Neko Case, Pedro The Lion, Cat Power.
For real. I don't know if anyone knows what the above list means, musically speaking, but if you do... yeah.
If you know... you know.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Bring It In, Bring It On
A word of advice, brought to you by the lit-up sign I drove by on my way home today:
"Bring in the harvest with Jesus."
This is New Bedford. There is no harvesting going on here.
Unless you count the two pints of Blue Moon Harvest Ale that I had with dinner... at which I had a conversation with a friend about people who love Jesus and how we're not those people.
So, you know what? Maybe I did bring in the harvest with Jesus and I didn't even know it.
Well, would ya look at that.
"Bring in the harvest with Jesus."
This is New Bedford. There is no harvesting going on here.
Unless you count the two pints of Blue Moon Harvest Ale that I had with dinner... at which I had a conversation with a friend about people who love Jesus and how we're not those people.
So, you know what? Maybe I did bring in the harvest with Jesus and I didn't even know it.
Well, would ya look at that.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Oh, hey Optimism, where have you been?
So, today was pretty rough on me. I ran a gamut of emotions, most of which were in the "I'm totally effed" to "I'm only kind of effed" range. Mostly, I was pretty sure that - in one way or another - I was effed.
Mostly I'm stressed about thesis work because it's a lot of effort to put into a "job" that may or may not exist in a year, or might exist but with different qualifiers, or might exist but with different standards or requirements or prerequisites or whatever you want to call it. It's just... a lot. A lot to handle.
My chest is tight, it feels like someone is sitting on it. It's not a good place. I hate this place.
Anyway, I started thinking about my "path" and then I recalled a conversation I had on Saturday while I was at work. And, it made me feel okay again.
So, I work in a restaurant where a lot of people are regulars. (Think Cheers, but multiply the regulars by fifty or so.) And, being that I've been at the restaurant for six years, they're now my friends. We hang out, we share stories, we're friends on Facebook... we're friends.
One of those friends came in on Saturday and, like he usually does, talked to me about my various Facebook status updates. He loves my often clever, pun-ish updates, though he never comments, he just waits until we see one another in person, and then he's all "Oh, remember when you wrote this... that was a good one!" It's funny.
Anyway. So, his friend was with him, as usual, and after witnessing this conversation yet again - because I think we have it every week - he, in all seriousness, said "You should be a writer or something, you're good at it."
I should be a writer.
No one has ever told me that I should be the exact thing I was trying to be.
I think it's a good sign. I'm where I should be. I'm doing what I should be doing. I'm doing what I love, what I'm good at.
That feels good.
So, get away from me, tension and stress. You can't stop this. You can't keep me from what I want... even if the only way I can express myself is in an effing Facebook update.
Whatever.
Mostly I'm stressed about thesis work because it's a lot of effort to put into a "job" that may or may not exist in a year, or might exist but with different qualifiers, or might exist but with different standards or requirements or prerequisites or whatever you want to call it. It's just... a lot. A lot to handle.
My chest is tight, it feels like someone is sitting on it. It's not a good place. I hate this place.
Anyway, I started thinking about my "path" and then I recalled a conversation I had on Saturday while I was at work. And, it made me feel okay again.
So, I work in a restaurant where a lot of people are regulars. (Think Cheers, but multiply the regulars by fifty or so.) And, being that I've been at the restaurant for six years, they're now my friends. We hang out, we share stories, we're friends on Facebook... we're friends.
One of those friends came in on Saturday and, like he usually does, talked to me about my various Facebook status updates. He loves my often clever, pun-ish updates, though he never comments, he just waits until we see one another in person, and then he's all "Oh, remember when you wrote this... that was a good one!" It's funny.
Anyway. So, his friend was with him, as usual, and after witnessing this conversation yet again - because I think we have it every week - he, in all seriousness, said "You should be a writer or something, you're good at it."
I should be a writer.
No one has ever told me that I should be the exact thing I was trying to be.
I think it's a good sign. I'm where I should be. I'm doing what I should be doing. I'm doing what I love, what I'm good at.
That feels good.
So, get away from me, tension and stress. You can't stop this. You can't keep me from what I want... even if the only way I can express myself is in an effing Facebook update.
Whatever.
Thesis Shmesis: A Rant About Grad School
This post is for venting purposes. If I couldn't type this out right now, I would scream and screaming in the library is frowned upon. I want to scream, though. I really do. This post is the quiet, passive version of screaming. Though, I am typing forcefully to relieve some of my tension. It's kind of helping, but not really. I'd much rather scream.
Okay. So. Here it goes.
As part of our thesis proposal, I am required to investigate the field in which I hope to obtain employment. This, for me, means the field of Science Writing/Communication/Journalism.
The results are not totally disheartening, in that there are actually jobs - and seemingly quite a few of them, especially in Maryland which I haven't yet figured out. Anyway, the problem becomes this: The majority of the jobs want writers with science backgrounds, not writers with writing backgrounds and an interest in writing about science. They want hardcore freakin' scientists who used to stand around in lab coats but because they're so well versed in the way of the sciences, they've decided to impart some of their genius on the rest of the world in the form of written communication.
I am not good at science.
I am good at understanding science, but not because I am a scientist, it is because I am a problem solver. I like to find reasons and solutions for things.
I like to write about science because I like to take something confusing and break it down, I love to find a metaphorical way of showing/telling what the hell it means to me, you, and everyone we know.
Yes. I love it. This probably makes me a giant geek but I don't care. I like being a geek.
I love metaphor. I love metaphor and analogy and I love using words to make things happen, make things change, make ideas more accessible and make concepts more clear. I love explaining something difficult in a way that makes the person's face go "ohh" when they finally get it. See how cool this crazy science is? See why this completely ridiculous discovery is important and fascinating? I love turning on the light bulb.
But I am not a scientist.
So. Now what?
Eff. Eff. Eff.
Okay. So. Here it goes.
As part of our thesis proposal, I am required to investigate the field in which I hope to obtain employment. This, for me, means the field of Science Writing/Communication/Journalism.
The results are not totally disheartening, in that there are actually jobs - and seemingly quite a few of them, especially in Maryland which I haven't yet figured out. Anyway, the problem becomes this: The majority of the jobs want writers with science backgrounds, not writers with writing backgrounds and an interest in writing about science. They want hardcore freakin' scientists who used to stand around in lab coats but because they're so well versed in the way of the sciences, they've decided to impart some of their genius on the rest of the world in the form of written communication.
I am not good at science.
I am good at understanding science, but not because I am a scientist, it is because I am a problem solver. I like to find reasons and solutions for things.
I like to write about science because I like to take something confusing and break it down, I love to find a metaphorical way of showing/telling what the hell it means to me, you, and everyone we know.
Yes. I love it. This probably makes me a giant geek but I don't care. I like being a geek.
I love metaphor. I love metaphor and analogy and I love using words to make things happen, make things change, make ideas more accessible and make concepts more clear. I love explaining something difficult in a way that makes the person's face go "ohh" when they finally get it. See how cool this crazy science is? See why this completely ridiculous discovery is important and fascinating? I love turning on the light bulb.
But I am not a scientist.
So. Now what?
Eff. Eff. Eff.
Must Read, Mustache
This article is entirely about mustaches.
It's funny.
You should read it.
(This post is evidence of my total lack of motivation to do anything productive.)
It's funny.
You should read it.
(This post is evidence of my total lack of motivation to do anything productive.)
Friday, October 9, 2009
You Won't Regret This
Adventureland.
See it.
After you watch the movie, open your iTunes, search the store for "Adventureland Soundtrack," and then select "Buy This Album."
One movie, iTunes, and $9.99 can change your life.
You're welcome.
See it.
After you watch the movie, open your iTunes, search the store for "Adventureland Soundtrack," and then select "Buy This Album."
One movie, iTunes, and $9.99 can change your life.
You're welcome.
Autumn Hiatus
Well. I became one of those people who has a blog that they don't update. How terribly annoying.
Mostly it's because of school... I have so much work to do, it leaves very little spare time for my own personal ventures.
But, that's no excuse.
In addition to sucking up all of my time, school is pretty exciting. Mostly because it's my last year. I can hardly believe it. And, though I never thought I'd say this: thesis research is fun. It means someday relatively soon I'll be a Writer. (Yes, that capital W is there on purpose.)
In other news: I'm in love with fall. In. Love.
The leaves are changing, the air is crisp, and the sun is glowing. It makes me smile. Literally.
And, for some reason, I can't stop listening to the Velvet Underground.
"I'm Sticking With You"
Mostly it's because of school... I have so much work to do, it leaves very little spare time for my own personal ventures.
But, that's no excuse.
In addition to sucking up all of my time, school is pretty exciting. Mostly because it's my last year. I can hardly believe it. And, though I never thought I'd say this: thesis research is fun. It means someday relatively soon I'll be a Writer. (Yes, that capital W is there on purpose.)
In other news: I'm in love with fall. In. Love.
The leaves are changing, the air is crisp, and the sun is glowing. It makes me smile. Literally.
And, for some reason, I can't stop listening to the Velvet Underground.
"I'm Sticking With You"
Sunday, September 6, 2009
I Now Pronounce You "In A Relationship With..."
As I was perusing the Sunday Globe this morning, I found myself dwelling amidst the wedding and engagement announcements.
I read them because I'm nosy and it satisfies my preferably sarcastic world view when people publish mundane details, like what color their bouquet was when they got married on the beach in some random New Hampshire town. (Incidentally, it was "pink stock, cream-colored double roses, and bells of Ireland.")
This is the kind of information I'll share at a party.
"I mean, really," I'll say to a girlfriend while we sip mojitos, "who cares what color her bouquet was in July? I mean, hell, if I cared about your bouquet, I should've been at the damn wedding!"
I perused my way through the wedding announcements, and moved on to the engagement announcements, where I found an even more surprising piece of information.
I read, without any initial interest, that so-and-so and so-and-so, the son of these two, and the daughter of who's-her-face and what's-his-name are in love. He does this awesome thing, she does that awesome thing, they went to these schools and now they're telling the world they're getting married.
Typical bullshit, nothing out of the ordinary, and then this:
"The two reunited after 25 years on Facebook."
Are you fucking kidding me?
1. Who cares how the hell you met/reunited/rekindled/fell for one another? You don't read "The two got hammered on New Year's Eve and the relationship blossomed from there on," do you? No. You don't.
2. Getthefuckouttahere that Facebook is a relavant inclusion in your engagement announcement. Puh-leeze. Social networking sites are not that important. (Shit... are they?!)
3. The sentence is a grammatical trainwreck. It sounds like they've been on Facebook for 25 years.
Um, editor? You could have chopped off the "on Facebook" and I would have cruised right past this lovely announcement without even a blip on my sarcastic, overly sensitive, grammatically correct, somewhat bitter, radar screen.
But, instead, you've inspired this post. So, thanks.
I read them because I'm nosy and it satisfies my preferably sarcastic world view when people publish mundane details, like what color their bouquet was when they got married on the beach in some random New Hampshire town. (Incidentally, it was "pink stock, cream-colored double roses, and bells of Ireland.")
This is the kind of information I'll share at a party.
"I mean, really," I'll say to a girlfriend while we sip mojitos, "who cares what color her bouquet was in July? I mean, hell, if I cared about your bouquet, I should've been at the damn wedding!"
I perused my way through the wedding announcements, and moved on to the engagement announcements, where I found an even more surprising piece of information.
I read, without any initial interest, that so-and-so and so-and-so, the son of these two, and the daughter of who's-her-face and what's-his-name are in love. He does this awesome thing, she does that awesome thing, they went to these schools and now they're telling the world they're getting married.
Typical bullshit, nothing out of the ordinary, and then this:
"The two reunited after 25 years on Facebook."
Are you fucking kidding me?
1. Who cares how the hell you met/reunited/rekindled/fell for one another? You don't read "The two got hammered on New Year's Eve and the relationship blossomed from there on," do you? No. You don't.
2. Getthefuckouttahere that Facebook is a relavant inclusion in your engagement announcement. Puh-leeze. Social networking sites are not that important. (Shit... are they?!)
3. The sentence is a grammatical trainwreck. It sounds like they've been on Facebook for 25 years.
Um, editor? You could have chopped off the "on Facebook" and I would have cruised right past this lovely announcement without even a blip on my sarcastic, overly sensitive, grammatically correct, somewhat bitter, radar screen.
But, instead, you've inspired this post. So, thanks.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Read All About It
Today I became:
A) a Sunday subscriber to the Boston Globe.
B) an adult.
C) the latest thing to make my mother proud.
D) all of the above.
The answer, of course, is D.
My mother will be happy, because she gets happy with those sorts of things, and I feel very officially adult-like that on Sunday mornings I'll open my front door to a heavy Globe, wrapped up in a plastic bag like a little written-word-informational burrito. (A written-word-informational burrito? What the hell?)
Oh, for those who are interested, the College Subscription is ridiculously cheap. I think it's $1.50/week and they debit your card every four weeks.
Also, the newspaper is a dying art and in an attempt to support it, and my future as a writer and perhaps journalist, I decided to buy in. I would have gotten seven day service, but I don't have time to read them all...
I also did it because I can't bear to keep reading my news online... it's just not the same.
A) a Sunday subscriber to the Boston Globe.
B) an adult.
C) the latest thing to make my mother proud.
D) all of the above.
The answer, of course, is D.
My mother will be happy, because she gets happy with those sorts of things, and I feel very officially adult-like that on Sunday mornings I'll open my front door to a heavy Globe, wrapped up in a plastic bag like a little written-word-informational burrito. (A written-word-informational burrito? What the hell?)
Oh, for those who are interested, the College Subscription is ridiculously cheap. I think it's $1.50/week and they debit your card every four weeks.
Also, the newspaper is a dying art and in an attempt to support it, and my future as a writer and perhaps journalist, I decided to buy in. I would have gotten seven day service, but I don't have time to read them all...
I also did it because I can't bear to keep reading my news online... it's just not the same.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Movie Night
I hate going to bed with sad thoughts... it means I'll dream sad dreams.
Why am I having sad thoughts, you wonder? (Well, maybe you don't wonder, but for the sake of my not having anything to say otherwise, just humor me.)
This is why:
Tonight I decided to lay low after returning home from yet another double at the restaurant.
I let the dog out and changed into pajamas, I settled in on the couch, leisurely checked out my email, then popped in my latest Netflix and painted my nails with the super-fast-drying crap that my mom thinks will kill me because of the fumes. (Note: Still living.)
Fast forward to the end of the movie. (No, not literally, just for the sake of this post.)
Everyone told me The Wrestler was so good.
Well, on the contrary, I found it extremely depressing.
In fact, I cried.
Good night.
Why am I having sad thoughts, you wonder? (Well, maybe you don't wonder, but for the sake of my not having anything to say otherwise, just humor me.)
This is why:
Tonight I decided to lay low after returning home from yet another double at the restaurant.
I let the dog out and changed into pajamas, I settled in on the couch, leisurely checked out my email, then popped in my latest Netflix and painted my nails with the super-fast-drying crap that my mom thinks will kill me because of the fumes. (Note: Still living.)
Fast forward to the end of the movie. (No, not literally, just for the sake of this post.)
Everyone told me The Wrestler was so good.
Well, on the contrary, I found it extremely depressing.
In fact, I cried.
Good night.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Forward & Back
In March I moved, and now I live in the house I grew up in.
Sort of.
Well. No. I definitely live there. But, I only sort of lived there as a kid.
It was the house my best friend lived in her whole life.
Isn't it weird how things come full-circle?
Twenty-five years of friendship and now I wake up every day in her piano room.
Monday, August 17, 2009
In Tune
Another lovely day.
One part work, two parts frozen strawberry lemonade, and three parts besties.
My confidence, and thus fun-ness, has increased dramatically with this new 'do. Who said blonds more fun? Pshaw. Red stripes do.
Also.
There's a mayjah change on the horizon... I think. I just can't chat about it quite yet.
When it happens (if it happens) I'll sing it from the rooftop.
In other words... you'll know.
Get ready.
Also.
New fave band of the day is Discovery. They are sick.
Vampire Weekend + Ra Ra Riot = Discovery & Discovery = the first thing to bump the Dirty Projectors out of heavy rotation.
Listen, enjoy and dance... you will want to dance.
And you should.
Dance, that is.
One part work, two parts frozen strawberry lemonade, and three parts besties.
My confidence, and thus fun-ness, has increased dramatically with this new 'do. Who said blonds more fun? Pshaw. Red stripes do.
Also.
There's a mayjah change on the horizon... I think. I just can't chat about it quite yet.
When it happens (if it happens) I'll sing it from the rooftop.
In other words... you'll know.
Get ready.
Also.
New fave band of the day is Discovery. They are sick.
Vampire Weekend + Ra Ra Riot = Discovery & Discovery = the first thing to bump the Dirty Projectors out of heavy rotation.
Listen, enjoy and dance... you will want to dance.
And you should.
Dance, that is.
Friday, August 14, 2009
It's A Jungle Out Here
Let's play a game.
The game's called: ...The Hell?!?
Ready?
Go.
On my porch steps. Serious. What the eff?
I've deduced that it's some sort of bug shell with an actual living bug, but I can't tell if the living bug was once living in the shell, or if it's sucking leftover brains out of the shell or something. And, also, I think it's a cicada.
Thoughts?
In other news: I made a drastic change in my personal appearance yesterday.
Bright red hair! I love love love it.
Also.
I'm obsessed with the Dirty Projectors album Bitte Orca.
So. Effing. Good.
Go buy it. Or at least listen to the track Stillness is the Move. You will fall in love.
Okay, that's all. Hodge podge post, hollah!
The game's called: ...The Hell?!?
Ready?
Go.
On my porch steps. Serious. What the eff?
I've deduced that it's some sort of bug shell with an actual living bug, but I can't tell if the living bug was once living in the shell, or if it's sucking leftover brains out of the shell or something. And, also, I think it's a cicada.
Thoughts?
In other news: I made a drastic change in my personal appearance yesterday.
Bright red hair! I love love love it.Also.
I'm obsessed with the Dirty Projectors album Bitte Orca.
So. Effing. Good.
Go buy it. Or at least listen to the track Stillness is the Move. You will fall in love.
Okay, that's all. Hodge podge post, hollah!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Latest and Greatest
It's one year for every letter of the alphabet. It's the number of miles in a marathon (thanks, Wikipedia) It's as old as this old-aged news-maker. It's as long as it took for this to happen.
It's as long as I've been me. It's as long as I've thought the way I think and acted the way I act.
It takes a lot to break patterns and habits that are twenty-six years old.
But, lately, my habits are changing.
It's for sure not a bad thing (I don't think). And, some of the things are totally insignificant, but still a bit odd that they have been happening on a regular basis.
So. Here's the breakdown:
1. I've been listening to music non-stop. I really don't watch television or movies anymore. I am connected to my iPod/laptop/stereo at all times.
2. I've been sleeping ridiculously well and have crazy, REM-induced dreams every night that I remember vividly upon waking.
3. I've been walking everywhere. To work, to breakfast, to the bank, to my appointments. (Yes, I have a car.)
4. I've been saving money. Not a lot of money... but more than is typical.
5. I've not been freaked out to sleep in the house alone. I even shut off all the lights at night when I go to bed. (Yes, I said I was 26, not six, but this is a big deal for me...)
6. I've been increasingly productive and creative.
7. I've been taking a lot of photos. Mostly on my walks, or randomly when something beautiful catches my eye.
For once I'm making positive changes instead of detrimental ones... and I think they're for real.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Robin, Ash, and Cherry
I have amazing friends.
They impress me regularly with their humor, wit, patience, intelligence, creativity, strength, and general awesome-ness.
I'm such a lucky girl.
Case in point:
Yesterday, my extremely talented bestie Robin delivered to my door the table she designed and built for me.
It's beautiful.
Every time I walk into the kitchen and see her creation... I smile.
I'm so proud of Robin, so thankful for my beautiful new piece of furniture, and so eager to see what more she does... because I have no doubt that whatever it is, it will be amazing.
They impress me regularly with their humor, wit, patience, intelligence, creativity, strength, and general awesome-ness.
I'm such a lucky girl.
Case in point:
Yesterday, my extremely talented bestie Robin delivered to my door the table she designed and built for me.
It's beautiful.
Every time I walk into the kitchen and see her creation... I smile.
I'm so proud of Robin, so thankful for my beautiful new piece of furniture, and so eager to see what more she does... because I have no doubt that whatever it is, it will be amazing.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Back to School Shopping
Back to school shopping used to be my fave when I was a kid.
I'm reliving my childhood via online shopping. I even ordered myself a new backpack.
I know. I'm 26 and I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my new backpack for the upcoming school year. Whatever.
I also bought five new tees from the best website ever.
Go.
Shop.
Threadless.
I'm reliving my childhood via online shopping. I even ordered myself a new backpack.
I know. I'm 26 and I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my new backpack for the upcoming school year. Whatever.
I also bought five new tees from the best website ever.
Go.
Shop.
Threadless.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Not My Intuition
I bought some music on iTunes this morning, and each time I selected a song, the "Genius" application built into my iTunes would suggest other songs I might like based on my purchases.
Purchases included: Crocodiles (awesome band & acquaintances, check 'em out), Bat for Lashes, St. Vincent, The Decemberists, and Vivian Girls.
Anyway, then I went to my music folder to poke around, and again, in the sidebar of my iTunes was the "Genius," suggesting that because I bought this, I should love that.
I thought, "Back off Genius, your choices aren't that awesome."
Then, I went to Netflix to check to see what cinematic adventure I could be expecting on my doorstep in a couple days, since I mailed back Milk yesterday.
Incidentally, it was The Wrestler.
Well, while I was perusing Netflix, I received a pop-up with the following recommendation:
Based on your interest in Junebug and The Squid and the Whale, here are some other critically acclaimed dysfunctional-family dramas you might like.
You know what, Netflix? I don't happen to love "dysfunctional-family dramas," and please stop trying to read my mind.
I'm getting really tired of intuitive technology telling me what I want.
What I want is to make my own decisions. Hmph.
Anyway, as I read further in my Netflix recommendation list, I realized what I found more interesting were the categories by which they were judging my movie tastes.
I would totally judge someone based on their movie-watching Netflix categories. I don't mind if you do the same.
Here's me, in a Netflix nutshell:
Independent Movies
Critically-Acclaimed Dysfunctional-Family Drama
Emotional-Fight-The-System Movies Based on Real Life
Suspenseful Underdog Movies
Purchases included: Crocodiles (awesome band & acquaintances, check 'em out), Bat for Lashes, St. Vincent, The Decemberists, and Vivian Girls.
Anyway, then I went to my music folder to poke around, and again, in the sidebar of my iTunes was the "Genius," suggesting that because I bought this, I should love that.
I thought, "Back off Genius, your choices aren't that awesome."
Then, I went to Netflix to check to see what cinematic adventure I could be expecting on my doorstep in a couple days, since I mailed back Milk yesterday.
Incidentally, it was The Wrestler.
Well, while I was perusing Netflix, I received a pop-up with the following recommendation:
Based on your interest in Junebug and The Squid and the Whale, here are some other critically acclaimed dysfunctional-family dramas you might like.
You know what, Netflix? I don't happen to love "dysfunctional-family dramas," and please stop trying to read my mind.
I'm getting really tired of intuitive technology telling me what I want.
What I want is to make my own decisions. Hmph.
Anyway, as I read further in my Netflix recommendation list, I realized what I found more interesting were the categories by which they were judging my movie tastes.
I would totally judge someone based on their movie-watching Netflix categories. I don't mind if you do the same.
Here's me, in a Netflix nutshell:
Independent Movies
Critically-Acclaimed Dysfunctional-Family Drama
Emotional-Fight-The-System Movies Based on Real Life
Suspenseful Underdog Movies
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Beginning of The End of Facebook
So... facebook.
I've been on facebook for almost one year. I joined up last September-ish when a friend told me it was the better way of keeping in touch. She was right. I do keep up with a lot of people I wouldn't necessarily talk to if they weren't on facebook; people who I do want to keep in touch with, people that I do want to hear from, and people that I don't necessarily think to pick up the phone and call.
Instead of calling, we keep in touch peripherally by engaging in trades of - admittedly - egocentric status updates that inform any "friends" of what we find relavant to report on.
And, I will say, I have hidden some people - who will remain nameless - because, honestly, I just don't give a shit what you are doing and when, but I had to accept your request for friendship because that's just the kind of girl I am. (You know, the kind who is easily pressured and extremely non-confrontational.)
I'm also the kind of girl that leaves people in what I like to refer to as "facebook purgatory." It's that transitional place where a person who has requested my friendship waits for me to "approve" or "ignore" their friendship. They request, and then... They just... wait.
My mother, not yet on facebook, finds it's concept truly horrifying. "Why would I want everyone knowing what I'm doing all the time?" she asks. "I don't know, Ma." I tell her.
She calls to tell me she received another email invitation from "facemail" and she is getting really irritated. "Don't these people have lives?" she asks, "Who cares what I'm doing?" "I don't know, Ma." I say passively.
And, really, I don't know.
As far as I see it, facebook is for people who have difficulty staying in touch, not people in relationships, which require communication, who are just too lazy to follow through.
I've been on facebook for almost one year. I joined up last September-ish when a friend told me it was the better way of keeping in touch. She was right. I do keep up with a lot of people I wouldn't necessarily talk to if they weren't on facebook; people who I do want to keep in touch with, people that I do want to hear from, and people that I don't necessarily think to pick up the phone and call.
Instead of calling, we keep in touch peripherally by engaging in trades of - admittedly - egocentric status updates that inform any "friends" of what we find relavant to report on.
And, I will say, I have hidden some people - who will remain nameless - because, honestly, I just don't give a shit what you are doing and when, but I had to accept your request for friendship because that's just the kind of girl I am. (You know, the kind who is easily pressured and extremely non-confrontational.)
I'm also the kind of girl that leaves people in what I like to refer to as "facebook purgatory." It's that transitional place where a person who has requested my friendship waits for me to "approve" or "ignore" their friendship. They request, and then... They just... wait.
My mother, not yet on facebook, finds it's concept truly horrifying. "Why would I want everyone knowing what I'm doing all the time?" she asks. "I don't know, Ma." I tell her.
She calls to tell me she received another email invitation from "facemail" and she is getting really irritated. "Don't these people have lives?" she asks, "Who cares what I'm doing?" "I don't know, Ma." I say passively.
And, really, I don't know.
As far as I see it, facebook is for people who have difficulty staying in touch, not people in relationships, which require communication, who are just too lazy to follow through.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Completely Fabricated World
Remember when The Real World was... well, real? I mean, real is relative, in the world of reality television (oh, the irony), but you know what I mean.
I just watched (wasted) about fifteen minutes worth of the Real World Cancun. It is anything but actual, tangible, relative information. Not to say that MTV ever really broadcast actual, tangible, relative information (Singled Out, anyone?), but, really, this crap is ridiculous.
Ri. Dic. U. Lous.
Episode synopsis: Boy with plugs and tattoos (read: Token Bad Boy) gets drunk all day at the roommates' "job" (which is basically playing chaperone to masses of spring breakers) while he is not working, then brings the "whore from the booty-shakin' contest" home for some good ol' fashioned midday hookin' up, then sends her home, goes to sleep, and then doesn't get up for work when his way more responsible (read: Boring) roommate (you know, the MTV-thought-he'd-be-good-material-'cause-he's-gay one) wakes him up. When he is confronted by a boss about his not showing up, he says "cut the drama."
Cut the drama?
Oh. The real-ness of this is staggering.
Not long afterward, the boss calls a meeting to discuss the importance of showing up for your shift (Is this meeting material? Isn't this the entire premise of having a job?) and calling if you can't make it to work and the tattooed shift-skipper says in his one-on-one interview: "Way to call me out, dude!"
Yeah. I'm pretty sure that's what he was doing. He was definitely calling you out.
Then later, "I love you, Cancun, but I hate this job!" Well, Cancun loves ya too, buddy. Cancun and booty-shakin'-whores. They both love you.
Ugh. I can't.
Besides. Nobody lives in fucking Cancun. This is just gratuituos and nonsensical.
And, finally, a letter.
Dear MTV,
Are you that desperate? This should be called "The Train Wreck."
Your characters learn completely unrelatable life lessons like how to hold down a ridiculously easy job, how not to make out with their hot, sexy roommates while their significant others are hundreds of miles away, pining away while they film a booze-drenched reality show in Cancun. Calling them every night and saying "Baby, I love you" six hundred times might be enough. We'll see.
Thanks for my dose of self-worth tonight, MTV.
Love,
Katie
I just watched (wasted) about fifteen minutes worth of the Real World Cancun. It is anything but actual, tangible, relative information. Not to say that MTV ever really broadcast actual, tangible, relative information (Singled Out, anyone?), but, really, this crap is ridiculous.
Ri. Dic. U. Lous.
Episode synopsis: Boy with plugs and tattoos (read: Token Bad Boy) gets drunk all day at the roommates' "job" (which is basically playing chaperone to masses of spring breakers) while he is not working, then brings the "whore from the booty-shakin' contest" home for some good ol' fashioned midday hookin' up, then sends her home, goes to sleep, and then doesn't get up for work when his way more responsible (read: Boring) roommate (you know, the MTV-thought-he'd-be-good-material-'cause-he's-gay one) wakes him up. When he is confronted by a boss about his not showing up, he says "cut the drama."
Cut the drama?
Oh. The real-ness of this is staggering.
Not long afterward, the boss calls a meeting to discuss the importance of showing up for your shift (Is this meeting material? Isn't this the entire premise of having a job?) and calling if you can't make it to work and the tattooed shift-skipper says in his one-on-one interview: "Way to call me out, dude!"
Yeah. I'm pretty sure that's what he was doing. He was definitely calling you out.
Then later, "I love you, Cancun, but I hate this job!" Well, Cancun loves ya too, buddy. Cancun and booty-shakin'-whores. They both love you.
Ugh. I can't.
Besides. Nobody lives in fucking Cancun. This is just gratuituos and nonsensical.
And, finally, a letter.
Dear MTV,
Are you that desperate? This should be called "The Train Wreck."
Your characters learn completely unrelatable life lessons like how to hold down a ridiculously easy job, how not to make out with their hot, sexy roommates while their significant others are hundreds of miles away, pining away while they film a booze-drenched reality show in Cancun. Calling them every night and saying "Baby, I love you" six hundred times might be enough. We'll see.
Thanks for my dose of self-worth tonight, MTV.
Love,
Katie
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Stoops in Philadelphia
This happened. We thought it was funny.
No drugs for you, it's all locked up.
No drugs for you, it's all locked up.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
The Day Mother Nature Cooperated With NBAM
We at the New Bedford Art Museum held our summer fundraiser, The Garden Party on the Harbor, this past Friday.
All day Friday, it rained. Until about three o'clock when things started to clear, it rained. But, it did clear. Eventually the sun shone, the birds sang. There wasn't even a hint of humidity that would have proven that the world had been water logged for a day. The weather was... perfect.
Thanks, Universe.
The event was fun, successful, and well-attended.
But most of all... it was pretty.
See for yourself.
All day Friday, it rained. Until about three o'clock when things started to clear, it rained. But, it did clear. Eventually the sun shone, the birds sang. There wasn't even a hint of humidity that would have proven that the world had been water logged for a day. The weather was... perfect.
Thanks, Universe.
The event was fun, successful, and well-attended.
But most of all... it was pretty.
See for yourself.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
In Memory
Last July, on this day, my best friend of fifteen years lost her mom to Lupus.
That's a hard sentence for me to write.
It's been a full year and it's still hard for me to comprehend that she's really gone.
When I go visit the house I sometimes catch myself expecting to see her there.
I expect, without realizing it, that when I pull up to the curb, I'll see her hand part the blinds to check who's arrived; that when I go inside, she'll get up to hug me, laugh her laugh - the one that sounds just like her daughter's - and tell me how happy it makes her that her daughter and I are still friends after all these years.
Certain things don't go away; certain memories, certain moments. They stay with you, like the person is with you.
I remember her. I remember her blue hairbrush that she'd tuck under her hair while it dried, her laugh, the way she used to absentmindedly write out words with her fingertips on the arm of the couch when she talked, the way she put on lipstick, the way she answered the phone, how much she loved her children, her husband, her grandchildren, and - literally - everyone who ever had the pleasure of crossing her path.
She had the most love to give, the biggest heart, the most welcoming, personable, and caring approach to life - and she lived it, every second, without Lupus. She may have had Lupus, but Lupus did not have her. Ever.
She'll never be forgotten, her memory will thrive amidst the family, friends and acquaintances that she left behind; that memory will keep her with us.
And though there are many thinking of her today, I can't stop thinking of them. The family. That close-knit, loving, adoring family, with hearts as big as hers; hearts that ache today, as they remember.
That's a hard sentence for me to write.
It's been a full year and it's still hard for me to comprehend that she's really gone.
When I go visit the house I sometimes catch myself expecting to see her there.
I expect, without realizing it, that when I pull up to the curb, I'll see her hand part the blinds to check who's arrived; that when I go inside, she'll get up to hug me, laugh her laugh - the one that sounds just like her daughter's - and tell me how happy it makes her that her daughter and I are still friends after all these years.
Certain things don't go away; certain memories, certain moments. They stay with you, like the person is with you.
I remember her. I remember her blue hairbrush that she'd tuck under her hair while it dried, her laugh, the way she used to absentmindedly write out words with her fingertips on the arm of the couch when she talked, the way she put on lipstick, the way she answered the phone, how much she loved her children, her husband, her grandchildren, and - literally - everyone who ever had the pleasure of crossing her path.
She had the most love to give, the biggest heart, the most welcoming, personable, and caring approach to life - and she lived it, every second, without Lupus. She may have had Lupus, but Lupus did not have her. Ever.
She'll never be forgotten, her memory will thrive amidst the family, friends and acquaintances that she left behind; that memory will keep her with us.
And though there are many thinking of her today, I can't stop thinking of them. The family. That close-knit, loving, adoring family, with hearts as big as hers; hearts that ache today, as they remember.
Friday, July 24, 2009
A Mother's Love
My mother called me this morning for two reasons:
1. She thinks the weird looking scrape on my leg is MRSA.
2. She instructed me that I need to wear bug spray more often; there's been a local discovery of equine encephalitis.
I am now heading into the walk-in because, knowing my mother, if I don't, she's going to call me every fifteen minutes until I have a diagnosis to report.
I really hope I don't have MRSA. I googled it, and it's effing disgusting.
1. She thinks the weird looking scrape on my leg is MRSA.
2. She instructed me that I need to wear bug spray more often; there's been a local discovery of equine encephalitis.
I am now heading into the walk-in because, knowing my mother, if I don't, she's going to call me every fifteen minutes until I have a diagnosis to report.
I really hope I don't have MRSA. I googled it, and it's effing disgusting.
Death Becomes Her
So, tonight while I was driving home amidst sheets - yes, sheets - of pouring rain, I had an epiphany.
It came to me, suddenly, while I sat at the slowest-changing light in all of Downtown - which, for those who care to know, is at the intersection of Route 6 & Pleasant Street.
I must pause now for a rant about this particular traffic light.
It takes forever. It's no wonder I always become contemplative at that intersection - it takes so damn long to turn green. And why must I always catch the red light, anyway? It doesn't stay green for as long as it stays red, clearly, or else I'd get the green one more often... right? Right.
Anyway.
So, I was at the light, watching the pouring rain fall in waves. The rain hit the shiny, well-lit pavement in time with the hazard lights that I could see flashing on the other side of the intersection. The lights were coming from a yellow cab, which was pulled over to the side of the road, it's lights flashing.
Moments passed and I was still waiting for the light to change to green. While I waited, I watched the rain, and the taxi, and then my mind started to wander.
Now, when I say "wander," what I really mean is that I started coming up with one of my imaginative, inventive interpretations of real life..
Case in point, this is what I imagined while I waited at the red light: That cab driver is totally being mauled and killed by a serial killer passenger, who will moments from now click off the hazards and drive away with the body of the taxi driver lumped to the floor in the front, then promptly pick up some thankful, sopping wet girl who has lost her umbrella and is walking to the next bar to meet her friends. He will pick her up, and then he will kill her, too.
All this because I saw some hazards on a taxi. I know. I'm fucked up.
But... the point is: my imagination is hardcore, and often I am capable of thinking of the worst possible things in a very short amount of time, with very little inspiration.
So...
I should write horror!
I can't believe it never occurred to me before.
It came to me, suddenly, while I sat at the slowest-changing light in all of Downtown - which, for those who care to know, is at the intersection of Route 6 & Pleasant Street.
I must pause now for a rant about this particular traffic light.
It takes forever. It's no wonder I always become contemplative at that intersection - it takes so damn long to turn green. And why must I always catch the red light, anyway? It doesn't stay green for as long as it stays red, clearly, or else I'd get the green one more often... right? Right.
Anyway.
So, I was at the light, watching the pouring rain fall in waves. The rain hit the shiny, well-lit pavement in time with the hazard lights that I could see flashing on the other side of the intersection. The lights were coming from a yellow cab, which was pulled over to the side of the road, it's lights flashing.
Moments passed and I was still waiting for the light to change to green. While I waited, I watched the rain, and the taxi, and then my mind started to wander.
Now, when I say "wander," what I really mean is that I started coming up with one of my imaginative, inventive interpretations of real life..
Case in point, this is what I imagined while I waited at the red light: That cab driver is totally being mauled and killed by a serial killer passenger, who will moments from now click off the hazards and drive away with the body of the taxi driver lumped to the floor in the front, then promptly pick up some thankful, sopping wet girl who has lost her umbrella and is walking to the next bar to meet her friends. He will pick her up, and then he will kill her, too.
All this because I saw some hazards on a taxi. I know. I'm fucked up.
But... the point is: my imagination is hardcore, and often I am capable of thinking of the worst possible things in a very short amount of time, with very little inspiration.
So...
I should write horror!
I can't believe it never occurred to me before.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Speaking of Family Vacations...
So tonight while I sat on the couch skimming The New Yorker...
Aw crap. Let's be honest, by "skimming The New Yorker" I mean it sat next to me on the couch while I chatted on facebook.
God, I'm even a bad liar in the blogosphere. Lame.
Anyway. While facebooking and cuddling with The New Yorker, perhaps hoping to retain some of it's genuis by means of osmosis, I overhead a familiar tune that caught my ear, which then peaked my interest enough so that I managed to tear myself away from the world of social networking and glance at the television for the length of a thirty second commercial spot.
The commercial was for an Atlantis family vacation.
The jingle was The Moldy Peaches.
You may be more familiar with this song because of Juno. It's the song that Juno & Bleaker (Bleeker?) sing to one another in the closing scene.
So, really, I like the song, but my issue is this: In the original song, Kimya Dawson sings the lyric "Squinched up your face and did a dance, shook a little turd out of the bottom of your pants" and in the Atlantis commercial, it's something like "We swim with dolphins and maybe go golfin'."
Ahem. Pathetique.
After viewing I was inspired and I decided to transcribe some correspondence.
Dear Atlantis Family Vacations,
Make up your own theme songs. Don't you pay people for that shit? If you're having difficulty filling writing positions, I know a few.
Love,
Katie
And, because they were not operating alone:
Dear Moldy Peaches,
Fucking sellouts.
Love,
Katie
Aw crap. Let's be honest, by "skimming The New Yorker" I mean it sat next to me on the couch while I chatted on facebook.
God, I'm even a bad liar in the blogosphere. Lame.
Anyway. While facebooking and cuddling with The New Yorker, perhaps hoping to retain some of it's genuis by means of osmosis, I overhead a familiar tune that caught my ear, which then peaked my interest enough so that I managed to tear myself away from the world of social networking and glance at the television for the length of a thirty second commercial spot.
The commercial was for an Atlantis family vacation.
The jingle was The Moldy Peaches.
You may be more familiar with this song because of Juno. It's the song that Juno & Bleaker (Bleeker?) sing to one another in the closing scene.
So, really, I like the song, but my issue is this: In the original song, Kimya Dawson sings the lyric "Squinched up your face and did a dance, shook a little turd out of the bottom of your pants" and in the Atlantis commercial, it's something like "We swim with dolphins and maybe go golfin'."
Ahem. Pathetique.
After viewing I was inspired and I decided to transcribe some correspondence.
Dear Atlantis Family Vacations,
Make up your own theme songs. Don't you pay people for that shit? If you're having difficulty filling writing positions, I know a few.
Love,
Katie
And, because they were not operating alone:
Dear Moldy Peaches,
Fucking sellouts.
Love,
Katie
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Family Vacations are All the Rage
Not really.
I mean, the house is big enough, I'm managing to steal WIFI from some nearby provider, the kids have gone back to their actual home with their parents, which means the incessant cartoons, Oreo-eating, and dog-(mis)handling has drawn to a to a close... but now it's raining.
Rain. On my mini-vacation to the beach.
The beach. A magical, risky place where those who are pale-skinned, freckled, wide-hipped and sunburn-prone, such as myself, only spend one or two days every year.
Today was going to be my day.
I came prepared.
Board shorts. Tank tops. Sundress. Sunblock. A beach towel. Books. Magazines. A bathing suit, for Christ's sake.
And now this.
The plan has turned on me. Turned. In a big way.
We are T minus one hour away from our tour of the Cape Cod Potato Chip Factory.
I will revel in the golden chip's production, not the golden rays of sunshine; the cool metal of the factory lines, not the cool waves of ocean water.
Rainy family vacation.
Oh, joy of joys.
I mean, the house is big enough, I'm managing to steal WIFI from some nearby provider, the kids have gone back to their actual home with their parents, which means the incessant cartoons, Oreo-eating, and dog-(mis)handling has drawn to a to a close... but now it's raining.
Rain. On my mini-vacation to the beach.
The beach. A magical, risky place where those who are pale-skinned, freckled, wide-hipped and sunburn-prone, such as myself, only spend one or two days every year.
Today was going to be my day.
I came prepared.
Board shorts. Tank tops. Sundress. Sunblock. A beach towel. Books. Magazines. A bathing suit, for Christ's sake.
And now this.
The plan has turned on me. Turned. In a big way.
We are T minus one hour away from our tour of the Cape Cod Potato Chip Factory.
I will revel in the golden chip's production, not the golden rays of sunshine; the cool metal of the factory lines, not the cool waves of ocean water.
Rainy family vacation.
Oh, joy of joys.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Let's Go Play on the Mood Swings
So, if we were to pretend, right, that somewhere, in a room some place, there exists a blueprint that's as big as me.
It's probably shoved in a really big metal drawer or something, kind of crumpled, but useful, nonetheless.
So, anyway, picture a huge, nearly six foot tall blueprint just sitting in a drawer, in a room. And, of course, this blueprint is basically a map.
A map, as it turns out, to me. A map of my "buttons," if you will.
Now, imagine that every little thing about me is mapped out on this Me Blueprint.
So, it clearly indicates things such as how many seconds I will wait behind someone at a red light before I honk; how long I can stand someone tapping their nails on a counter top; what you have to say in order to make me laugh so hard that I cry, etc.
This Me Blueprint is the deconstruction of everything that makes me tick.
Okay, now that you've imagined this document, imagine that someone has it in their possession. That they know it, have studied it, and can use it for good or evil.
That's what it's like with him.
He's got the freaking answer key right in front of him. He knows what to say, how to say it, and could probably bet money on what my reaction will be. I swing - good mood, bad mood, I like you, I hate you - back & forth; he's pushing me on the swing set.
I hate it.
So, I will now attempt to regain control of the situation.
I'm going to do some remodeling, change up the blueprints a bit, and watch him fumble through the old version, the one that's been shoved in a drawer for all these years, while a different contractor can get a look at the new specs.
(I might be stretching this metaphor a bit... but I'm kind of into it nonetheless.)
It's probably shoved in a really big metal drawer or something, kind of crumpled, but useful, nonetheless.
So, anyway, picture a huge, nearly six foot tall blueprint just sitting in a drawer, in a room. And, of course, this blueprint is basically a map.
A map, as it turns out, to me. A map of my "buttons," if you will.
Now, imagine that every little thing about me is mapped out on this Me Blueprint.
So, it clearly indicates things such as how many seconds I will wait behind someone at a red light before I honk; how long I can stand someone tapping their nails on a counter top; what you have to say in order to make me laugh so hard that I cry, etc.
This Me Blueprint is the deconstruction of everything that makes me tick.
Okay, now that you've imagined this document, imagine that someone has it in their possession. That they know it, have studied it, and can use it for good or evil.
That's what it's like with him.
He's got the freaking answer key right in front of him. He knows what to say, how to say it, and could probably bet money on what my reaction will be. I swing - good mood, bad mood, I like you, I hate you - back & forth; he's pushing me on the swing set.
I hate it.
So, I will now attempt to regain control of the situation.
I'm going to do some remodeling, change up the blueprints a bit, and watch him fumble through the old version, the one that's been shoved in a drawer for all these years, while a different contractor can get a look at the new specs.
(I might be stretching this metaphor a bit... but I'm kind of into it nonetheless.)
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Seen & Heard (or) How I Spent My Sunday
So, I worked a double at the restaurant today. Being a Sunday, it was fairly slow, but of course, we try to keep laughing, keep busy, and keep entertained.
The first laughter-to-tears moment of the day happened after M & I stopped for coffee & a bagel before heading in to work, which is part of our regular routine.
As we approached my car, I gestured to the passenger side rear window and exclaimed, "I'm so glad that the torrential rain on Friday night washed all the seagull poop off my car!"
Not three seconds later, a seagull missed M by mere inches and dirtied the very same window that had been recently rained clean.
How does this happen?
The second hysterical moment came when the first table of the day handed their dirty chowder cup to their server for her to clear, and told her that they put their topical steroid in there because they were done with it, but that there was more in the tube and so she should "feel free to use it for any bites or itches" if she needed it. Are these people serious?
Then, since I had the camera out to document the topical steroid incident, I couldn't resist another picture when, while M was cutting fruit, I happened upon this:
Love Sundays. Love watermelon.
The first laughter-to-tears moment of the day happened after M & I stopped for coffee & a bagel before heading in to work, which is part of our regular routine.
As we approached my car, I gestured to the passenger side rear window and exclaimed, "I'm so glad that the torrential rain on Friday night washed all the seagull poop off my car!"
Not three seconds later, a seagull missed M by mere inches and dirtied the very same window that had been recently rained clean.
How does this happen?
The second hysterical moment came when the first table of the day handed their dirty chowder cup to their server for her to clear, and told her that they put their topical steroid in there because they were done with it, but that there was more in the tube and so she should "feel free to use it for any bites or itches" if she needed it. Are these people serious?
Then, since I had the camera out to document the topical steroid incident, I couldn't resist another picture when, while M was cutting fruit, I happened upon this:
Love Sundays. Love watermelon.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Good Morning, Joey, Johnny, Dee Dee, Marky & Tommy
Lately, I have been favoring my Ramones anthology disc two for breakfast. I push it in before my morning shower and the boys serenade me until I leave for work.
Many years ago, back when my little sister sported braces, I had dark-rimmed glasses, wore cardigans every day, and had super-short hai... oh, wait. Damn. Anyway - my sister was definitely in braces.
Ahem.
So, way back then, my dad, my sister, R and I went to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Ohio. We drove, those of us able to drive took turns at the wheel, and then we stayed in a hotel in Canton for a night or two when we got there.
It was awesome.
Anyway, besides that the featured exhibition was all about the Beatles, and pretty cool in and of itself, the Ramones had just been inducted. So, there was a plethora of Ramones paraphernalia everywhere you looked.
So with my pennies saved from my part time job, I bought the Hey Ho Let's Go two disc anthology. It was probably the most I had spent on one piece of music at that point in my life.
Anyway, now I only have disc two; disc one probably lingers somewhere in either R's or my sister's CD collection.
I suggest you try spending your early morning hours with The KKK Took My Baby Away, Psychotherapy, We Want the Airwaves, and - how apropos - It's Not My Place In the Nine to Five World.
It's motivating. And fun.
Many years ago, back when my little sister sported braces, I had dark-rimmed glasses, wore cardigans every day, and had super-short hai... oh, wait. Damn. Anyway - my sister was definitely in braces.
Ahem.
So, way back then, my dad, my sister, R and I went to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Ohio. We drove, those of us able to drive took turns at the wheel, and then we stayed in a hotel in Canton for a night or two when we got there.
It was awesome.
Anyway, besides that the featured exhibition was all about the Beatles, and pretty cool in and of itself, the Ramones had just been inducted. So, there was a plethora of Ramones paraphernalia everywhere you looked.
So with my pennies saved from my part time job, I bought the Hey Ho Let's Go two disc anthology. It was probably the most I had spent on one piece of music at that point in my life.
Anyway, now I only have disc two; disc one probably lingers somewhere in either R's or my sister's CD collection.
I suggest you try spending your early morning hours with The KKK Took My Baby Away, Psychotherapy, We Want the Airwaves, and - how apropos - It's Not My Place In the Nine to Five World.
It's motivating. And fun.
Tag, You're It
So, among my weird anxieties there exists one about being chased which translates into my refusal to participate in any games which require chasing - such as tag, dodgeball or manhunt.
But, I mean, really, in my defense, who the eff wants to play a game called manhunt anyway? A game is supposed to be fun, it is not supposed to imply hunting other humans. Geesh.
But, then again, what's dating but hunting your preferred gender? Hm. I'm channeling a moment in Wedding Crashers here, I think. In fact, I'm sure I am. The quail scene... anyone? Anyway, I digress.
Okay, so the point is: I do not like being chased.
Oh, also, I hate go karts and things of that nature, as well. Just, basically, whatever you do - don't chase me. Don't chase me on foot, don't chase me with a ball, don't chase me in a little tiny car. Thanks.
So, anyway, my realization for today is that, in fact, I do enjoy some chasing every now and again. However, I like the proverbial chase, not the literal one.
If you say you aren't chasing me, I'll want you to. If you are chasing me, I'll wish you weren't.
Ah, this is so me: the ever fickle, ever searching-for-greener-pastures, ever unsure, ever uphill-battling.
Settle? Nope. Contentment? Nuh-huh. How about a difficult journey? Now you're on to something! How about a difficult journey that will make you question everything, run you through a gamut of emotions, and never actually resolve at a conclusion? Oooooh. Yes! Pick me! Pick me!
But, I mean, really, in my defense, who the eff wants to play a game called manhunt anyway? A game is supposed to be fun, it is not supposed to imply hunting other humans. Geesh.
But, then again, what's dating but hunting your preferred gender? Hm. I'm channeling a moment in Wedding Crashers here, I think. In fact, I'm sure I am. The quail scene... anyone? Anyway, I digress.
Okay, so the point is: I do not like being chased.
Oh, also, I hate go karts and things of that nature, as well. Just, basically, whatever you do - don't chase me. Don't chase me on foot, don't chase me with a ball, don't chase me in a little tiny car. Thanks.
So, anyway, my realization for today is that, in fact, I do enjoy some chasing every now and again. However, I like the proverbial chase, not the literal one.
If you say you aren't chasing me, I'll want you to. If you are chasing me, I'll wish you weren't.
Ah, this is so me: the ever fickle, ever searching-for-greener-pastures, ever unsure, ever uphill-battling.
Settle? Nope. Contentment? Nuh-huh. How about a difficult journey? Now you're on to something! How about a difficult journey that will make you question everything, run you through a gamut of emotions, and never actually resolve at a conclusion? Oooooh. Yes! Pick me! Pick me!
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Decisions, (In)Decisions
Maybe I'm not so good at compromise.
Ahem. The preceding admission is the understatement of the century. I know I can be a brat.
I want an oompa loompa and I want it now!
And now, I think I know what I want, and I think I'm ready for it. But, if it's the right thing... why is it so damn difficult? What's with the resistance? Ugh.
I just want it my way.
And though I won't necessary do it quietly, I'll probably stick around patiently until the situation is resolved.
But why does it have to take so much effort?
Geesh.
I'm going to go read up on hostile takeovers.
Ahem. The preceding admission is the understatement of the century. I know I can be a brat.
I want an oompa loompa and I want it now!
And now, I think I know what I want, and I think I'm ready for it. But, if it's the right thing... why is it so damn difficult? What's with the resistance? Ugh.
I just want it my way.
And though I won't necessary do it quietly, I'll probably stick around patiently until the situation is resolved.
But why does it have to take so much effort?
Geesh.
I'm going to go read up on hostile takeovers.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Things aren't always perfect. In fact, they might never be perfect. But, there's one way to counter that: overwhelming, inordinate optimism.
I often find myself in the position of token optimist; when my friends have pessimistic tendencies, I'm typically the person they come to. Funny, though, I can't always do that for myself. However, as of late, I am sensing a shift in my self-administration. I'm becoming more hopeful for my own sake. How exciting, right?
It's a beautiful day, and it's my day off. I'm having lunch with my friend and while I wait I'm blogging from the side porch. The breeze is blowing and the dog's sleeping next to me... it doesn't get much better than this. Thanks, Universe.
I often find myself in the position of token optimist; when my friends have pessimistic tendencies, I'm typically the person they come to. Funny, though, I can't always do that for myself. However, as of late, I am sensing a shift in my self-administration. I'm becoming more hopeful for my own sake. How exciting, right?
It's a beautiful day, and it's my day off. I'm having lunch with my friend and while I wait I'm blogging from the side porch. The breeze is blowing and the dog's sleeping next to me... it doesn't get much better than this. Thanks, Universe.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Sunday Funday
It was a beautiful, well spent day off, in three parts:
First: Brunch for two. Two Bloody Marys, two Eggs Benedict, and two steaming cups of coffee.
Second: Cocktails at Joe's.
Third: Mussels at the Black Bass, followed by a delicious butterscotch creme brulee. One table outside, one bowl of mussels, two martinis and a couple hours of conversation; it was an awesome afternoon.
I have to work in the early morning so I called it a night early. But, being awake & alert at the office tomorrow seems worth it.
In other news, R & I have been talking a lot and I'm wondering: What happens when the future changes because of the long-since past? Was it always like this?
Even though I came home early, my active memory will keep me up all night.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Fountain of (My) Youth
Here's another favorite spot of mine in Downtown. For a few years, it was what my roommates and I considered "The Front Yard."It's where people toss pennies in and make wishes; it's where I've kissed boys; it's where I've broken up with boys; it's where I've lounged and read and dog-walked. And it's so damn pretty at night.
I love my city.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
In Flight
This tragic, dismantled, littered and overgrown void in Downtown is one of my favorite spots... the bird silhouettes specifically. It's just a small glimpse at a beautiful surprise in the midst of an ugly situation... a metaphor I'm often inclined to adhere to.There has to be something surprising and miraculous in every downtrodden situation, right?
Anyway, in honor of their metaphorical flight, I'll talk about my own: I decided to not see the Boy anymore. I flew away. Fast, like always.
Sometimes being single feels tragic. Sometimes it feels just right.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Dating (or) The Chapter I Missed
So, today I slept until one in the afternoon. One. Crazy. Though that's all well and good, now it's three in the morning and I'm still wide awake. Hence, my brain starts overworking, over wondering, and over interpreting.
Here's my latest issue: I've never dated, in the adult sense of the word. I've never gone on dates with one person while we both "date" other people in order to decide who the best and most worthy person is to date exclusively. Is this normal?
R & I met when I was seventeen. We dated (entirely exclusively) until I was twenty-one. I have no idea why or how, it's just what we did. The other boyfriends I had after him were boyfriends by default... we didn't date. We were "exclusive" because we spent so much time in each others presence that there was no other way to be... we had no alone time, no privacy, and too many mutual friends to be dating other people at the same time.
So, now I'm wondering: How does this dating thing work? How do I go on dates with more than just one boy and not feel guilty? How do I handle that the boys will go on other dates and expect me not to feel jealous?
Wait... are we all just running a tab in our mind of who we like more than whom? I mean, I hate reality dating shows, but really, are they that far away from the real reality?
Are they really that exaggerated, or are we all hosting our own personal reality dating show in our head until we decidedly select the person who's lasted round after round until they have proved their worthiness and we decide they win?
I'm so not an adult. I don't care what my age says... I'm not cut out for this. I just want to watch movies and cuddle with my boyfriend. No games. No bullshit. No challenges. No competition.
Good luck, right? Yeah.
Here's my latest issue: I've never dated, in the adult sense of the word. I've never gone on dates with one person while we both "date" other people in order to decide who the best and most worthy person is to date exclusively. Is this normal?
R & I met when I was seventeen. We dated (entirely exclusively) until I was twenty-one. I have no idea why or how, it's just what we did. The other boyfriends I had after him were boyfriends by default... we didn't date. We were "exclusive" because we spent so much time in each others presence that there was no other way to be... we had no alone time, no privacy, and too many mutual friends to be dating other people at the same time.
So, now I'm wondering: How does this dating thing work? How do I go on dates with more than just one boy and not feel guilty? How do I handle that the boys will go on other dates and expect me not to feel jealous?
Wait... are we all just running a tab in our mind of who we like more than whom? I mean, I hate reality dating shows, but really, are they that far away from the real reality?
Are they really that exaggerated, or are we all hosting our own personal reality dating show in our head until we decidedly select the person who's lasted round after round until they have proved their worthiness and we decide they win?
I'm so not an adult. I don't care what my age says... I'm not cut out for this. I just want to watch movies and cuddle with my boyfriend. No games. No bullshit. No challenges. No competition.
Good luck, right? Yeah.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Spoken Word
This weekend is Summerfest in Downtown. People from all over the place flood the streets for folk music, food, craft beer, art, authors, museums, galleries... you name it - you can find it this weekend.
The restaurant I've worked in now for - gasp - six years, is right in the midst of the craziness.
By the end of today I will have worked nearly thirty hours in three days. Funny things start happening at the end of these long shifts...
Me: Clearing plates from customer's table. How was everything tonight?
Customer: Oh... soooo good. Delicious.
Me: Excellent. Would you like anything else tonight?
Customer: Rubbing belly due to fullness. A stretcher!
Me: Only if we can share.
.
.
.
Me: How are you, folks today?
Customer: Very well, thanks.
Me: Great. Would you like something to drink?
Customer: Are your eyes real?
Me: Gesturing to my face. Yes. Yes, it's all real. Something to drink?
.
.
.
Me: Can I help you sir?
Guy Waiting at the Bar: Can I have a glass of wine to go?
Me: Um. No. I'm sorry...
.
.
.
Me: Would you like something to drink?
Customer: Gestures to her nine-year-old. She'll have a virgin martini.
Me: A virgin martini?
Customer: Yes. Something with no alcohol in it.
Me: A virgin daiquiri? A virgin colada?
Customer: A martini. Without any alcohol, though. She can't have one with alcohol.
Me: Exasperated, to the little girl. Do you like strawberries or pineapples better?
.
.
.
Oh yeah. And, happy Fourth of July.
The restaurant I've worked in now for - gasp - six years, is right in the midst of the craziness.
By the end of today I will have worked nearly thirty hours in three days. Funny things start happening at the end of these long shifts...
Me: Clearing plates from customer's table. How was everything tonight?
Customer: Oh... soooo good. Delicious.
Me: Excellent. Would you like anything else tonight?
Customer: Rubbing belly due to fullness. A stretcher!
Me: Only if we can share.
.
.
.
Me: How are you, folks today?
Customer: Very well, thanks.
Me: Great. Would you like something to drink?
Customer: Are your eyes real?
Me: Gesturing to my face. Yes. Yes, it's all real. Something to drink?
.
.
.
Me: Can I help you sir?
Guy Waiting at the Bar: Can I have a glass of wine to go?
Me: Um. No. I'm sorry...
.
.
.
Me: Would you like something to drink?
Customer: Gestures to her nine-year-old. She'll have a virgin martini.
Me: A virgin martini?
Customer: Yes. Something with no alcohol in it.
Me: A virgin daiquiri? A virgin colada?
Customer: A martini. Without any alcohol, though. She can't have one with alcohol.
Me: Exasperated, to the little girl. Do you like strawberries or pineapples better?
.
.
.
Oh yeah. And, happy Fourth of July.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Addiction
I can't stop listening to the Dark Was The Night compilation.
We've technically been involved since February... approximately four or so days after it became available on iTunes. After buying it, I played it incessantly. That is, until I didn't anymore. The problem was that other things got in the way, like Ida Maria, The Walkmen, and the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
But then, something happened...
I rode the train home from Stamford, CT a couple weeks ago. It's about a three hour ride, and I was tired, slightly hungover from a weekend's worth of wedding festivities, and a tad reminiscient for the good times that were had. I chose to play the DWTN comp and I listened to it in it's entirety for the first time in a long time. I watched the scenery speed by, I watched the nameless, muted faces board and exit the train; I watched the conductor pace the aisles and the girl next to me sleep. I watched and I listened and all over again I fell in love with the music on this album.
I can't explain what it does to me... it makes me think, it makes me listen, it makes me happy and it makes me sad. Each song just so gracefully marries into the next; each voice carries so lovely a tune that I nearly believe nothing more remarkable could happen, and then it does, and it's not just any voice, but that of a cello.
It's a lengthy musical committment to listen to it all in one sitting, but I swear I would ride the train to Stamford again just to be able to fit it all in to one moment, one uninterrupted chapter, one deep inhalilation... it's that good. It's that impressive. It's that crave-able.
Check it out.
We've technically been involved since February... approximately four or so days after it became available on iTunes. After buying it, I played it incessantly. That is, until I didn't anymore. The problem was that other things got in the way, like Ida Maria, The Walkmen, and the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
But then, something happened...
I rode the train home from Stamford, CT a couple weeks ago. It's about a three hour ride, and I was tired, slightly hungover from a weekend's worth of wedding festivities, and a tad reminiscient for the good times that were had. I chose to play the DWTN comp and I listened to it in it's entirety for the first time in a long time. I watched the scenery speed by, I watched the nameless, muted faces board and exit the train; I watched the conductor pace the aisles and the girl next to me sleep. I watched and I listened and all over again I fell in love with the music on this album.
I can't explain what it does to me... it makes me think, it makes me listen, it makes me happy and it makes me sad. Each song just so gracefully marries into the next; each voice carries so lovely a tune that I nearly believe nothing more remarkable could happen, and then it does, and it's not just any voice, but that of a cello.
It's a lengthy musical committment to listen to it all in one sitting, but I swear I would ride the train to Stamford again just to be able to fit it all in to one moment, one uninterrupted chapter, one deep inhalilation... it's that good. It's that impressive. It's that crave-able.
Check it out.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Ten Things
In no particular order, for no particular reason, here you are:
1. I'm tired of hearing people complain about the rain. It's New England weather; it does whatever it wants. Get over it. Yes, I want summer, too, but nothing can be done.
2. I'm becoming mentally antsy... it's time to start writing again, and not just in blog format.
3. The mantra Let It Go must become more of a presence in my life. It applies to everything, and I need to practice it more readily.
4. I have a flat tire; my car is sitting outside my house. I haven't dealt with it yet, and I should have done so by now. Welcome to My Anxiety.
5. July Fourth is in two days. Two. Where has the time gone?
6. I promised myself I would do something incredible in August... but what? Any ideas?
7. Sometimes being a bad liar doesn't pay off. I share my opinion a bit too readily, and I need to realize that omitting an opinion is sometimes kinder than sharing one.
8. I need a roommate. Seriously. For real. Soon.
9. Fresh eggs are 100% better than store-bought eggs & I found a local source, so now I don't have to wait for visits from or to my parent's house. Yay.
10. Dating is fun. (Smile.)
1. I'm tired of hearing people complain about the rain. It's New England weather; it does whatever it wants. Get over it. Yes, I want summer, too, but nothing can be done.
2. I'm becoming mentally antsy... it's time to start writing again, and not just in blog format.
3. The mantra Let It Go must become more of a presence in my life. It applies to everything, and I need to practice it more readily.
4. I have a flat tire; my car is sitting outside my house. I haven't dealt with it yet, and I should have done so by now. Welcome to My Anxiety.
5. July Fourth is in two days. Two. Where has the time gone?
6. I promised myself I would do something incredible in August... but what? Any ideas?
7. Sometimes being a bad liar doesn't pay off. I share my opinion a bit too readily, and I need to realize that omitting an opinion is sometimes kinder than sharing one.
8. I need a roommate. Seriously. For real. Soon.
9. Fresh eggs are 100% better than store-bought eggs & I found a local source, so now I don't have to wait for visits from or to my parent's house. Yay.
10. Dating is fun. (Smile.)
Monday, June 29, 2009
Good Day, Sunshine
I sat on the back porch tonight, the chill of the nearing sunset rustling up some goosebumps on my bare arms, and I breathed in deeply the smell of freshly cut grass and the mint that has proliferated so that it, too, got bruised and became fragrant after the lawnmower blades had their way with them.
I watched the dog wander around the newly trimmed yard, listened to the birds in the trees chattering and arguing, and wondered how long that large maple had been there for. I hid my eyes behind sunglasses, and wished the daylight could last longer, because it makes me so happy to see the sun.
Good things have been happening lately; I feel like something has been lifted from my shoulders, a weight, a memory, a burden, an impending something-or-other. Is it... happiness? It couldn't be.
Or could it?
I watched the dog wander around the newly trimmed yard, listened to the birds in the trees chattering and arguing, and wondered how long that large maple had been there for. I hid my eyes behind sunglasses, and wished the daylight could last longer, because it makes me so happy to see the sun.
Good things have been happening lately; I feel like something has been lifted from my shoulders, a weight, a memory, a burden, an impending something-or-other. Is it... happiness? It couldn't be.
Or could it?
When Good Things Happen to Cynical People
So, when good things happen to me, I immediately go to the opposing extreme: how is it going to fall apart?
Why is this? Why can't I just enjoy it?
It would really make things a lot easier if when I was with the person that makes me happy, I could just live in the moment, not think about the past or the future or the "if" factor, and just enjoy the present and their presence.
I'm trying... I'm trying.
Cynicism be damned, I'm just going to go for it.
It's just harder than it looks.
Why is this? Why can't I just enjoy it?
It would really make things a lot easier if when I was with the person that makes me happy, I could just live in the moment, not think about the past or the future or the "if" factor, and just enjoy the present and their presence.
I'm trying... I'm trying.
Cynicism be damned, I'm just going to go for it.
It's just harder than it looks.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I Do... Maybe
This past weekend, my brother tied the knot. To be completely honest, I was dreading the wedding (ha), but my cynical expectations were dashed with near-immediacy and I actually had an awesome time. I am now willing to amend my previous rant regarding the stupidity of marriage; I would like, instead, to say that it is not marriage that is stupid, it is those who marry for the wrong reasons that are stupid. So, an apology to my wonderful, happily married friends, and congratulations... may I someday be as lucky as you.
Moving on.
Highlights from the weekend include the following:
I met a very nice boy who likes stick figures and abhors odd numbers. This may sound completely arbitrary to most, but to me it sounds lovely. I'm a happy girl.
There was an impromptu sing-along featuring Leaving on A Jet Plane which was led in no small part by a rather boisterous German man, while six or seven of us sat around the designated Cigar Smoking Table by the pool. A surreal moment indeed.
I fell down. Tumbled. Took a knee. Bit it. However you want to put it - yes. I fell down in front of the majority of my immediate family at a very nice Italian restaurant. It was due in part to a decent amount of wine and one extremely tall pair of wedges, which brings me to my next revelation, which is that this is exactly the reason that I hate wearing high heels. Keep me in flip flops, flats, or, at best, barefoot. Please. That way I remain stable. Now, I have a skinned and bruised knee.
In other news:
I'm reading, at my mother's suggestion, Malcom Gladwell's Outliers and have come to wonder that perhaps every occurrence of success or tradgedy is in fact brought about a preceding number of coincidences that, unless happening in that very same way in that very same order, would never produce the exact same result as they do. It's a hopeful and troubling thought. One that I'm beginning to think might be true.
I'm beginning to see the coincidences more clearly now... or is it just that I'm looking too closely?
B has decided to move out. She's moving in with the boyfriend. I'm not yet freaking out - I'm trying to see the coincidence factor in this (perhaps a door will open I didn't know existed previously... perhaps).
Expect freak out to commence sometime soon, however.
Moving on.
Highlights from the weekend include the following:
I met a very nice boy who likes stick figures and abhors odd numbers. This may sound completely arbitrary to most, but to me it sounds lovely. I'm a happy girl.
There was an impromptu sing-along featuring Leaving on A Jet Plane which was led in no small part by a rather boisterous German man, while six or seven of us sat around the designated Cigar Smoking Table by the pool. A surreal moment indeed.
I fell down. Tumbled. Took a knee. Bit it. However you want to put it - yes. I fell down in front of the majority of my immediate family at a very nice Italian restaurant. It was due in part to a decent amount of wine and one extremely tall pair of wedges, which brings me to my next revelation, which is that this is exactly the reason that I hate wearing high heels. Keep me in flip flops, flats, or, at best, barefoot. Please. That way I remain stable. Now, I have a skinned and bruised knee.
In other news:
I'm reading, at my mother's suggestion, Malcom Gladwell's Outliers and have come to wonder that perhaps every occurrence of success or tradgedy is in fact brought about a preceding number of coincidences that, unless happening in that very same way in that very same order, would never produce the exact same result as they do. It's a hopeful and troubling thought. One that I'm beginning to think might be true.
I'm beginning to see the coincidences more clearly now... or is it just that I'm looking too closely?
B has decided to move out. She's moving in with the boyfriend. I'm not yet freaking out - I'm trying to see the coincidence factor in this (perhaps a door will open I didn't know existed previously... perhaps).
Expect freak out to commence sometime soon, however.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Weeble Wobble
Do you remember that "Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down"? That's how I have felt since Monday.
For the entirety of this week, I've felt like I'm teetering on something. I'm neither happy nor sad; I'm neither hungry nor satiated; I'm neither bored nor busy.
I'm wobbly, but I'm not falling... yet.
Instead, I walk around weak-kneed I feel sensitive, I'm relatively dispassionate, I'm often angry, tired, stressed, complacent... you name it.
Today, on my way to work, I was at a red light and a girl drove by in a gold Chrysler; she was crying. Her face was contorted in a sob, her eyes hidden by sunglasses even though it was rainy out and she didn't need them. I couldn't help but wonder why she was crying, where she was going, and if she was going to be okay.
I wondered, then, if this is what people have been thinking about me lately as I walk around, emotionally wobbly but resistant.
Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down, and I won't either.
For the entirety of this week, I've felt like I'm teetering on something. I'm neither happy nor sad; I'm neither hungry nor satiated; I'm neither bored nor busy.
I'm wobbly, but I'm not falling... yet.
Instead, I walk around weak-kneed I feel sensitive, I'm relatively dispassionate, I'm often angry, tired, stressed, complacent... you name it.
Today, on my way to work, I was at a red light and a girl drove by in a gold Chrysler; she was crying. Her face was contorted in a sob, her eyes hidden by sunglasses even though it was rainy out and she didn't need them. I couldn't help but wonder why she was crying, where she was going, and if she was going to be okay.
I wondered, then, if this is what people have been thinking about me lately as I walk around, emotionally wobbly but resistant.
Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down, and I won't either.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Police and Thieves
On Monday my house was broken into, and I'm not sure anything will be the same ever again.
Unfortunately for you, I don't have the energy to retell the story yet again, so I'm giving you the very abridged version:
It was 12:30pm, B left for lunch, came home one hour later. They cut holes in the screen of my kitchen window, which they reached by standing on a bird bath in my neighbor's yard. They stole 2 laptops, three laptop charge cables, one iPod USB cable, one digital camera & the entirity of my grandmother's and great grandmother's jewelry. They put it all in a small suitcase of mine and left by the back door.
More than the physical losses that we endured, I have now lost complete control over my anxiety and paranoia regarding my living alone in the house. Yes, I have a roommate, but she doesn't sleep at home. Yes, I have a landlord living upstairs, who happens to be a close family friend, but he doesn't sleep at home. Both of them spend 6 nights a week at their boyfriend/girlfriend's house. It's wretched. Not only do I feel alone and vulnerable, but decidedly single as well.
And, this weather is gross.
Unfortunately for you, I don't have the energy to retell the story yet again, so I'm giving you the very abridged version:
It was 12:30pm, B left for lunch, came home one hour later. They cut holes in the screen of my kitchen window, which they reached by standing on a bird bath in my neighbor's yard. They stole 2 laptops, three laptop charge cables, one iPod USB cable, one digital camera & the entirity of my grandmother's and great grandmother's jewelry. They put it all in a small suitcase of mine and left by the back door.
More than the physical losses that we endured, I have now lost complete control over my anxiety and paranoia regarding my living alone in the house. Yes, I have a roommate, but she doesn't sleep at home. Yes, I have a landlord living upstairs, who happens to be a close family friend, but he doesn't sleep at home. Both of them spend 6 nights a week at their boyfriend/girlfriend's house. It's wretched. Not only do I feel alone and vulnerable, but decidedly single as well.
And, this weather is gross.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
She (Social Net)Works Hard For the Money...
I'm being commissioned by my current employer to facebook. I either love my job or have just signed a deal with the devil.
Tonight I'm going to make dinner for R & me. On the menu:
Big Honkin' Salad (an old favorite, it is exactly what it sounds like)
Veggie Chik Patties
Vanilla Ice Cream
It's nice out, the Katie Factor's at a ten.
Tonight I'm going to make dinner for R & me. On the menu:
Big Honkin' Salad (an old favorite, it is exactly what it sounds like)
Veggie Chik Patties
Vanilla Ice Cream
It's nice out, the Katie Factor's at a ten.
Today's Top Ten
I like lists. If you've been keeping up, I'm sure you've noticed that to be a pattern by now.
I'm not a fan of To Do variety, however. They stress me out.
I like completely arbitrary lists. Like the one I'm about to present to you. Enjoy. Or don't.
Today's Top Ten Things to Be Aware Of:
1. Sometimes, for no real reason, I think I belong in the UK.
2. Even though rain is depressing, the plants in my yard are growing at a relentless pace because of it. It is insane.
3. Tipping is not hard, people. You need not take sub total, tax, or the difference between the two, or the rounded up addition of the tenths of each - or whatever it is you do that complicates a really simple situation. Here's how to ensure you give your server an average tip: Figure out ten percent of the total amount due. Double it.
4. Are we facebook friends? Then you should probably be able to talk to me in real life. If you can't subscribe to this rather simple concept, I am prepared to un-facebook-friend you. So there.
5. Just because Kate of "John & Kate Plus 8" is on television does not make her hairstyle a concept worth envying any more than having eight children is enviable. Just don't do it.
6. Does anyone actually text those ridiculous "text 234567 now with the name of the person you love to see if they love you back" commercials?
7. My horoscope is totally always right. Until it isn't.
8. Every time I turn around, someone is getting married. When I turn back, someone else is pregnant.
9. Newsweek has a new format. I hate it.
10. I embrace sarcasm. Perhaps too frequently, too readily, too easily and without considering if anyone else has a clue.
I'm exhausted. Nearly 13 hours in that old bank building, and another 5 or so tomorrow.
'Night.
I'm not a fan of To Do variety, however. They stress me out.
I like completely arbitrary lists. Like the one I'm about to present to you. Enjoy. Or don't.
Today's Top Ten Things to Be Aware Of:
1. Sometimes, for no real reason, I think I belong in the UK.
2. Even though rain is depressing, the plants in my yard are growing at a relentless pace because of it. It is insane.
3. Tipping is not hard, people. You need not take sub total, tax, or the difference between the two, or the rounded up addition of the tenths of each - or whatever it is you do that complicates a really simple situation. Here's how to ensure you give your server an average tip: Figure out ten percent of the total amount due. Double it.
4. Are we facebook friends? Then you should probably be able to talk to me in real life. If you can't subscribe to this rather simple concept, I am prepared to un-facebook-friend you. So there.
5. Just because Kate of "John & Kate Plus 8" is on television does not make her hairstyle a concept worth envying any more than having eight children is enviable. Just don't do it.
6. Does anyone actually text those ridiculous "text 234567 now with the name of the person you love to see if they love you back" commercials?
7. My horoscope is totally always right. Until it isn't.
8. Every time I turn around, someone is getting married. When I turn back, someone else is pregnant.
9. Newsweek has a new format. I hate it.
10. I embrace sarcasm. Perhaps too frequently, too readily, too easily and without considering if anyone else has a clue.
I'm exhausted. Nearly 13 hours in that old bank building, and another 5 or so tomorrow.
'Night.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Music & Lyrics and Everything In Between or The Soundtrack to My Memory
Memory. It's a funny thing.
I remember faces more often than names. I remember lyrics more often than song titles. I remember smell more often than color or sound.
I remember music above all else.
There are some songs, some lyrics, some sounds and some moments that will never escape me. The way they hold the guitar, the bass, the violin; the way they pluck, strum and drag the bow across the strings. The way they make sounds and song melt into one emotional thump of my heart. The way I get goosebumps and my eyes crinkle within a moment of near sad, but yet I'm so happy. The way my mouth follows each word like they're worn and familiar stones on a path I've traveled a hundred times before.
Each song, a moment in time:
Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts by Bob Dylan is a church basement; linoleum floors, uncomfortable chair.
Popular by Nada Surf is a hot summer day in T's top floor; an uncomfortable futon and a coffee table.
Only In Dreams by Weezer, Walk on the Ocean by Toad the Wet Sprocket and Good Feeling by The Violent Femmes are residual effects of a weeklong, years-long lesson of love and loss; sand, sun, tequila, and Manic Panic hair dye.
1945 by Neutral Milk Hotel is the second half of my senior year; the first Saturn I owned, tan interior, black-gold exterior, tape deck.
Pardon Me by Incubus is N's computer room; another futon, two windows, one desk chair.
Anything from The Get Up Kids or The Promise Ring is my 18th year on earth, the gym at URI and the Met Cafe.
Grace Kelly With Wings by Piebald is Reflections circa 1999/2000; cuffed dark denim, messenger bags, short black hair and pixie bangs, vegetarianism.
The Shape of Punk to Come by The Refused is my freshman year in college; driving at Christmas, the chill closing in, the night dark, and me trying to keep my eyes open for the road ahead.
The entirity of American Football is the weekend my parents went away and R & I tried to cook omlettes.
I could go on... but I'll spare you any further walk down Memory Lane. I know it's more fun for me than it is you.
Briefly, however, I will sum today up in music; a song that when I hear it next, and probably for a while, will always remind me of tonight:
Circle Dance by Stevie Nicks.
Why do I walk around in circles, walk around in circles, walk around in circles.... oh, here we go again.
I remember faces more often than names. I remember lyrics more often than song titles. I remember smell more often than color or sound.
I remember music above all else.
There are some songs, some lyrics, some sounds and some moments that will never escape me. The way they hold the guitar, the bass, the violin; the way they pluck, strum and drag the bow across the strings. The way they make sounds and song melt into one emotional thump of my heart. The way I get goosebumps and my eyes crinkle within a moment of near sad, but yet I'm so happy. The way my mouth follows each word like they're worn and familiar stones on a path I've traveled a hundred times before.
Each song, a moment in time:
Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts by Bob Dylan is a church basement; linoleum floors, uncomfortable chair.
Popular by Nada Surf is a hot summer day in T's top floor; an uncomfortable futon and a coffee table.
Only In Dreams by Weezer, Walk on the Ocean by Toad the Wet Sprocket and Good Feeling by The Violent Femmes are residual effects of a weeklong, years-long lesson of love and loss; sand, sun, tequila, and Manic Panic hair dye.
1945 by Neutral Milk Hotel is the second half of my senior year; the first Saturn I owned, tan interior, black-gold exterior, tape deck.
Pardon Me by Incubus is N's computer room; another futon, two windows, one desk chair.
Anything from The Get Up Kids or The Promise Ring is my 18th year on earth, the gym at URI and the Met Cafe.
Grace Kelly With Wings by Piebald is Reflections circa 1999/2000; cuffed dark denim, messenger bags, short black hair and pixie bangs, vegetarianism.
The Shape of Punk to Come by The Refused is my freshman year in college; driving at Christmas, the chill closing in, the night dark, and me trying to keep my eyes open for the road ahead.
The entirity of American Football is the weekend my parents went away and R & I tried to cook omlettes.
I could go on... but I'll spare you any further walk down Memory Lane. I know it's more fun for me than it is you.
Briefly, however, I will sum today up in music; a song that when I hear it next, and probably for a while, will always remind me of tonight:
Circle Dance by Stevie Nicks.
Why do I walk around in circles, walk around in circles, walk around in circles.... oh, here we go again.
Weather I Mean To Or Not
I'm a creature of my environment; my mood is in direct correlation to the weather.
I have my own take on Ghiorse Factor that corresponds directly to how happy, depressed, tired, energetic, ambitious and motivated I am due to the weather conditions.
Hence, if the weather is.... (insert number here) ... then I am ... (see correlating mood).
0-4 Unmotivated, Lethargic, Listless, Depressed
5-7 Slightly Motivated, Unhappy, Generally Foul & Negative
8-10 Insatiably Motivated, Excitable, In Love With Life, Hopeful & Positive
These past few days I've been running at anywhere from a 0 to a 6. It's really wretched, and I'm awaiting the bright, sunshiny, blossoming days of summer, that I just know can turn my mood in mere moments, so I can remember what 8-10 feels like.
So, let's dwell on some small things that up the factor a bit, shall we?
1. Time spent with an old friend means good company, good conversations, and good cuddles; it doesn't really matter what's going on outside. (+4 points)
2. My Girls. They're always on the list, no matter what. And we managed to spend all of last Saturday, which was gorgeous, together & outside. Lovely. (+5 points)
3. Guilty pleasures. I will say nothing further, but know that there is some reality television on the unspoken list... I know, I know. (+2 points)
4. The Dogs. They do make me slightly crazy, but they are each other's bestie & I know Kota is so happy to see Sammy when he comes over. And, they provide endless entertainment. Oh, and they cuddle too. (+3 points)
So... I just thought I should sum this up and admit that I'm pretty much I'm a sucker for anyone/thing that cuddles. Right.
5. Hope. I always have it, and I'll rely on it forever. (+5 points)
Alright, alright, a little mushy for my taste, too, but I can't help it. It's true...
6. My galoshes. The only thing worse than a bad mood and a rainy day is a bad mood, a rainy day, and wet, cold feet. Ugh.
7. My rainy day playlist: The Ladybug Transistor, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, !!!, MGMT, Morrissey, Jenny Lewis, The Violent Femmes, Passion Pit.... etc.
I'm off now. I'll be at K's for a bit, for dinner & a good laugh as is our usual.
I'm wearing my galoshes out tonight - fashion faux pas or not - and, you know what? I'm going to jump in every puddle I pass.
That adds a few points to today's Katie Factor, which as of right now is running at about a 7 - weather begone.
xo.
I have my own take on Ghiorse Factor that corresponds directly to how happy, depressed, tired, energetic, ambitious and motivated I am due to the weather conditions.
Hence, if the weather is.... (insert number here) ... then I am ... (see correlating mood).
0-4 Unmotivated, Lethargic, Listless, Depressed
5-7 Slightly Motivated, Unhappy, Generally Foul & Negative
8-10 Insatiably Motivated, Excitable, In Love With Life, Hopeful & Positive
These past few days I've been running at anywhere from a 0 to a 6. It's really wretched, and I'm awaiting the bright, sunshiny, blossoming days of summer, that I just know can turn my mood in mere moments, so I can remember what 8-10 feels like.
So, let's dwell on some small things that up the factor a bit, shall we?
1. Time spent with an old friend means good company, good conversations, and good cuddles; it doesn't really matter what's going on outside. (+4 points)
2. My Girls. They're always on the list, no matter what. And we managed to spend all of last Saturday, which was gorgeous, together & outside. Lovely. (+5 points)
3. Guilty pleasures. I will say nothing further, but know that there is some reality television on the unspoken list... I know, I know. (+2 points)
4. The Dogs. They do make me slightly crazy, but they are each other's bestie & I know Kota is so happy to see Sammy when he comes over. And, they provide endless entertainment. Oh, and they cuddle too. (+3 points)
So... I just thought I should sum this up and admit that I'm pretty much I'm a sucker for anyone/thing that cuddles. Right.
5. Hope. I always have it, and I'll rely on it forever. (+5 points)
Alright, alright, a little mushy for my taste, too, but I can't help it. It's true...
6. My galoshes. The only thing worse than a bad mood and a rainy day is a bad mood, a rainy day, and wet, cold feet. Ugh.
7. My rainy day playlist: The Ladybug Transistor, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, !!!, MGMT, Morrissey, Jenny Lewis, The Violent Femmes, Passion Pit.... etc.
I'm off now. I'll be at K's for a bit, for dinner & a good laugh as is our usual.
I'm wearing my galoshes out tonight - fashion faux pas or not - and, you know what? I'm going to jump in every puddle I pass.
That adds a few points to today's Katie Factor, which as of right now is running at about a 7 - weather begone.
xo.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
What Not to Blog About
Okay... so, here's the deal: I started this blog for literary excersise. Like jumping jacks, you know? They're not the most well respected means of working out, but they still get the blood flowing & the heart pumping.
So what happens when what makes my heart pump isn't necessarily blog ready?
I started this blog under the (self) restriction that I wouldn't blog about really personal things. I'm just not ready for that yet, you know?
In a way, I kind of feel like Harriet the Spy; my notes are my life, but not everyone can read them & understand what they mean.
Poor Harriet, I feel for her.
So what happens when what makes my heart pump isn't necessarily blog ready?
I started this blog under the (self) restriction that I wouldn't blog about really personal things. I'm just not ready for that yet, you know?
In a way, I kind of feel like Harriet the Spy; my notes are my life, but not everyone can read them & understand what they mean.
Poor Harriet, I feel for her.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Point & Shoot (Me)
A couple of years ago, a friend of mine, who is a single mom, asked if I would attend her daughter's dance dress rehearsal so that while she assisted in costume changes, I could take photos of her daughter dancing. I said yes.
I sat in the theater that night as a single, scared twenty-something in a sea of tan, made up, styled, bejeweled, bedazzled women who all knew one another and sat together, gossiped together, hung out together, all while they decorated their small daughters to be the tanner, more made up, more styled, more bejeweled, more bedazzled versions of themselves. I took a deep breath, held on to the camera and snapped for dear life until Little A's "numbers" were all over. Then I fled from the sequins and I never looked back.
Until Wednesday. When the phone rang.
Me: Hey.
D: Will you do me a huge favor?
Me: Yes.
D: Thursday is L's dance dress rehearsal, Chris is taking the boys, but I need someone to videotape.
And, so, tonight, I sat in a sea of glitter and blue eyeshadow and videotaped a four year old stand on stage while three other four year old girls stood around her, attempting to follow the exaggerated prompts the dance teacher was making in front of the stage. Attempting.
And, there they were. Standing in their ballet flats on the same stage that Willie Nelson stood on. And David Byrne. And... other cool people I can't think of right now, but you get the point.
But really. They didn't even dance.
So, I videotaped the standing.
I'm a good, not at all tan, not bejeweled, not bedazzled, friend with a steady hand and an eye for dance photography.
Tell your friends.
I sat in the theater that night as a single, scared twenty-something in a sea of tan, made up, styled, bejeweled, bedazzled women who all knew one another and sat together, gossiped together, hung out together, all while they decorated their small daughters to be the tanner, more made up, more styled, more bejeweled, more bedazzled versions of themselves. I took a deep breath, held on to the camera and snapped for dear life until Little A's "numbers" were all over. Then I fled from the sequins and I never looked back.
Until Wednesday. When the phone rang.
Me: Hey.
D: Will you do me a huge favor?
Me: Yes.
D: Thursday is L's dance dress rehearsal, Chris is taking the boys, but I need someone to videotape.
And, so, tonight, I sat in a sea of glitter and blue eyeshadow and videotaped a four year old stand on stage while three other four year old girls stood around her, attempting to follow the exaggerated prompts the dance teacher was making in front of the stage. Attempting.
And, there they were. Standing in their ballet flats on the same stage that Willie Nelson stood on. And David Byrne. And... other cool people I can't think of right now, but you get the point.
But really. They didn't even dance.
So, I videotaped the standing.
I'm a good, not at all tan, not bejeweled, not bedazzled, friend with a steady hand and an eye for dance photography.
Tell your friends.
"A" For Effort or A Realization That It's Been A While
Last night the following conversation took place:
Boy I Don't Particularly Like: Katie, when are we going to hang out? I text you and you don't answer... what's up with that?
Me: I don't know what to tell you.
BIDPL: Wait, this is your number right...? 774...
Me: No, that's not my number.
BIDPL: Oh, it's not?
Me: Nope.
BIDPL: Well can I have your number, then?
Sneaky!
I didn't give it to him, needless to say. But, still, he gets an "A" for effort. He really had me thinking he already had my number. Then it was kind of hard to say he couldn't have it, because I was alright with assuming that he had it in the first place. Am I the only one who is impressed by this deception? Maybe. Maybe it's just a testament to how long it's been since a boy has asked for my phone number. Hm. Maybe.
Some other random notices regarding my day so far:
1. I just saw two videos on MTV that were so creepy. Shudder. In one, Pink tries to kill her boyfriend (?) in a bunch of different ways so that he won't leave her. She beats him with a golf club and lets her dog chew on his arm, among other things. Gross. I'd leave Pink. She scares me.
2. At one point in my life I signed up for Monster.com notices about jobs I might be interested in. If anyone else has done it before, you know you have to fill out a profile of the job you are looking for. They still mail me things every week or so, because I'm too lazy to figure out how to cancel it. So, today, I open the email - accidentally, the job search is over - and Monster.com was suggesting that I apply for the position of Chief Financial Officer at some company in Rhode Island. Really? I can't imagine what in the world would have implied that that was the kind of job I was looking for.
3. MTV is still on the television. It's making me angry. Okay. I shut it off.
Boy I Don't Particularly Like: Katie, when are we going to hang out? I text you and you don't answer... what's up with that?
Me: I don't know what to tell you.
BIDPL: Wait, this is your number right...? 774...
Me: No, that's not my number.
BIDPL: Oh, it's not?
Me: Nope.
BIDPL: Well can I have your number, then?
Sneaky!
I didn't give it to him, needless to say. But, still, he gets an "A" for effort. He really had me thinking he already had my number. Then it was kind of hard to say he couldn't have it, because I was alright with assuming that he had it in the first place. Am I the only one who is impressed by this deception? Maybe. Maybe it's just a testament to how long it's been since a boy has asked for my phone number. Hm. Maybe.
Some other random notices regarding my day so far:
1. I just saw two videos on MTV that were so creepy. Shudder. In one, Pink tries to kill her boyfriend (?) in a bunch of different ways so that he won't leave her. She beats him with a golf club and lets her dog chew on his arm, among other things. Gross. I'd leave Pink. She scares me.
2. At one point in my life I signed up for Monster.com notices about jobs I might be interested in. If anyone else has done it before, you know you have to fill out a profile of the job you are looking for. They still mail me things every week or so, because I'm too lazy to figure out how to cancel it. So, today, I open the email - accidentally, the job search is over - and Monster.com was suggesting that I apply for the position of Chief Financial Officer at some company in Rhode Island. Really? I can't imagine what in the world would have implied that that was the kind of job I was looking for.
3. MTV is still on the television. It's making me angry. Okay. I shut it off.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
From My Bad Day to My Blog: How It All Began
Today, while looking for an important document in my very organized and thoroughly firesafe (ahem, right) Shoebox of Important Documents, I found something my mother passed on to me a while ago for safe keeping: the first book I ever wrote.
Copyright circa 1988, this testimonial to my general, ever-present paranoia about getting hurt, which apparently began in early childhood, tells the story of Elizabeth & her bad day. The day is full of pain and suffering when Elizabeth attempts to do kid-like things such as swinging and riding a bike.
I particularly love that my mother wrote the first sentence, "Hi my name is Elizabeth," and then surrendered the pencil to me, which riddles the remainder of the story with poor spelling and grammar, that Elizabeth leaves on a stretcher on the last page, and that she is ecstatic because her mother has allowed her to "walk barefooted."
So, here you are, readers: "My Bad Day, Written + Illistrated by Katherine Newport"
Copyright circa 1988, this testimonial to my general, ever-present paranoia about getting hurt, which apparently began in early childhood, tells the story of Elizabeth & her bad day. The day is full of pain and suffering when Elizabeth attempts to do kid-like things such as swinging and riding a bike.
I particularly love that my mother wrote the first sentence, "Hi my name is Elizabeth," and then surrendered the pencil to me, which riddles the remainder of the story with poor spelling and grammar, that Elizabeth leaves on a stretcher on the last page, and that she is ecstatic because her mother has allowed her to "walk barefooted."
So, here you are, readers: "My Bad Day, Written + Illistrated by Katherine Newport"
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