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.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
"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"
I Do... Not
Love & marriage are everywhere.
First, this post.
Then this post.
Followed by, this post.
Not to mention, my brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law are tying the knot in less than three weeks.
I am with my aforementioned & hyperlinked peers on this one; my perspective on marriage is neutral at best, and if I'm really honest about it, it's pretty much straight up negative. Marriage freaks me out.
Luckily, The Girls are all on the same page as I am, so my "I'm 26 and at some point soon one of my best friends is going to get married" bridesmaid duties are nonexistant. (At least for some time.)
In my very serious long term relationship, I used to want for it... and I was barely 22 when we broke things off. Much too young to be thinking about white dresses and last name changes. Much. Too. Young. (Not to mention foolish.)
The ex & I are still close, still very much in touch, and we still see each other, and now it occurs to me how much we've grown, how much we've evolved and changed and I think: Shit. If I got what my delusional & in love twenty-something self wanted, we'd be like the people I know who are my age and already have an ex-spouse. And I know quite a few of those people.
Today I think: If "it" happened, there would be no white dress, no tiered cake, no church, no name change. It's not about the show, it's about the commitment. And, frankly, I think you can get that without all the pomp and circumstance.
For those who think otherwise, feel free to spend thousands of dollars on expensive dresses, invitations, DJs, venues, food, favors, photographers, cakes and honeymoons. Just please make sure you post all your pictures on facebook so my not-yet-hitched friends and I can ooo and ahh over your expense and then take bets on how long it will last.
Cynical & Bitter, party of two? Present.
First, this post.
Then this post.
Followed by, this post.
Not to mention, my brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law are tying the knot in less than three weeks.
I am with my aforementioned & hyperlinked peers on this one; my perspective on marriage is neutral at best, and if I'm really honest about it, it's pretty much straight up negative. Marriage freaks me out.
Luckily, The Girls are all on the same page as I am, so my "I'm 26 and at some point soon one of my best friends is going to get married" bridesmaid duties are nonexistant. (At least for some time.)
In my very serious long term relationship, I used to want for it... and I was barely 22 when we broke things off. Much too young to be thinking about white dresses and last name changes. Much. Too. Young. (Not to mention foolish.)
The ex & I are still close, still very much in touch, and we still see each other, and now it occurs to me how much we've grown, how much we've evolved and changed and I think: Shit. If I got what my delusional & in love twenty-something self wanted, we'd be like the people I know who are my age and already have an ex-spouse. And I know quite a few of those people.
Today I think: If "it" happened, there would be no white dress, no tiered cake, no church, no name change. It's not about the show, it's about the commitment. And, frankly, I think you can get that without all the pomp and circumstance.
For those who think otherwise, feel free to spend thousands of dollars on expensive dresses, invitations, DJs, venues, food, favors, photographers, cakes and honeymoons. Just please make sure you post all your pictures on facebook so my not-yet-hitched friends and I can ooo and ahh over your expense and then take bets on how long it will last.
Cynical & Bitter, party of two? Present.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Dogs: A Rant About Pseudo Parenting
They're driving me crazy.
They follow me everywhere I go; their tags jingle a persistent chorus as I walk from room to room.
They sleep with me - which is really cute, and not at all annoying. Except when they hog the covers and I can't turn over for fear of waking them. One often sleeps under the covers, as close to body heat as he can be. He snores. The other sleeps at my feet, silently. When I stir at the sound of the alarm, they are ready. Kissing faces and growling happy growls. We get up, we go to the yard, we run. Unfortunately today, it has started to rain. Our visit to the outdoor cat-chasing playground is abbreviated.
I make coffee - there they are, under my feet. "You don't like coffee," I tell them. They start leaping and jumping, excited to try it, anyway. "Give us coffee! We like whatever you like!"
I sit on the couch, coffee cup in hand, laptop on lap - there they are, sitting on me. "You can't blog," I tell them, taking a sip from my coffee cup. They climb towards me, sniffing the cup, doggy feet stomping my keyboard to get closer to it. "We want the coffee! We want the computer! Blog? Sure! Let's do stuff together!"
I get up from the couch to shower - they leap from the couch, tails wagging, tags jingling, nails clicking on the hardwood, and they follow me to the bathroom. "I am shutting the door," I tell them. They reluctantly stop at the door and I shut it - but not quite all the way - and can see them pacing outside. I can hear their tags slowly swinging with their gait. "Where is she? How long will she be gone? What's in there, anyway? We want to go!"
I make breakfast - they follow me from the fridge to the counter, from the sink to the garbage, from the stove to the island. Sniffing, jingling, trying to catch whatever hits the floor. "This is people breakfast. You already had your breakfast," I say. They leap up, jumping, happy growling, excited. "C'mon, just give us a little bit! We're so worthy. People food! People food!"
"Cookie," I say.
They leap higher. They talk louder, whimpering, growling, panting.
"I guess that's a yes," I say.
One eats his cookie in an inhalation. The other likes to chase his, and eat it slowly. Of course, this means the Inhaler follows the Slow Eater and watches, waiting for crumbs, which he will eat if allowed. I have to watch and reprimand, "That's not your cookie! Be nice!"
I appreciate the adoration. I do. I appreciate the companionship. Really.
But, please, stop following me. I'm not doing anything interesting and I promise that if I am doing something incredibly cool and dog-relevant, you two will be the absolute first to know.
I'm not even sure if I want children, but I hope I feel more inclined to their needs and their persistence than I do the Dogs. If only because I know a child's excitement cannot be rewarded or quelled simply by flaunting a two syllable word: Cookie.
I'm going to go throw the ball around with them now. The Inhaler will chase the ball relentlessly, the Slow Eater usually spots the ball by the time the Inhaler has brought it back to my feet. He tries... he tries.
Anyway, rain or shine - energy needs to be expended and everyone should be having more fun around here. You, too.
-k.
They follow me everywhere I go; their tags jingle a persistent chorus as I walk from room to room.
They sleep with me - which is really cute, and not at all annoying. Except when they hog the covers and I can't turn over for fear of waking them. One often sleeps under the covers, as close to body heat as he can be. He snores. The other sleeps at my feet, silently. When I stir at the sound of the alarm, they are ready. Kissing faces and growling happy growls. We get up, we go to the yard, we run. Unfortunately today, it has started to rain. Our visit to the outdoor cat-chasing playground is abbreviated.
I make coffee - there they are, under my feet. "You don't like coffee," I tell them. They start leaping and jumping, excited to try it, anyway. "Give us coffee! We like whatever you like!"I sit on the couch, coffee cup in hand, laptop on lap - there they are, sitting on me. "You can't blog," I tell them, taking a sip from my coffee cup. They climb towards me, sniffing the cup, doggy feet stomping my keyboard to get closer to it. "We want the coffee! We want the computer! Blog? Sure! Let's do stuff together!"
I get up from the couch to shower - they leap from the couch, tails wagging, tags jingling, nails clicking on the hardwood, and they follow me to the bathroom. "I am shutting the door," I tell them. They reluctantly stop at the door and I shut it - but not quite all the way - and can see them pacing outside. I can hear their tags slowly swinging with their gait. "Where is she? How long will she be gone? What's in there, anyway? We want to go!"
I make breakfast - they follow me from the fridge to the counter, from the sink to the garbage, from the stove to the island. Sniffing, jingling, trying to catch whatever hits the floor. "This is people breakfast. You already had your breakfast," I say. They leap up, jumping, happy growling, excited. "C'mon, just give us a little bit! We're so worthy. People food! People food!"
"Cookie," I say.
They leap higher. They talk louder, whimpering, growling, panting.
"I guess that's a yes," I say.
One eats his cookie in an inhalation. The other likes to chase his, and eat it slowly. Of course, this means the Inhaler follows the Slow Eater and watches, waiting for crumbs, which he will eat if allowed. I have to watch and reprimand, "That's not your cookie! Be nice!"
I appreciate the adoration. I do. I appreciate the companionship. Really.
But, please, stop following me. I'm not doing anything interesting and I promise that if I am doing something incredibly cool and dog-relevant, you two will be the absolute first to know.
I'm not even sure if I want children, but I hope I feel more inclined to their needs and their persistence than I do the Dogs. If only because I know a child's excitement cannot be rewarded or quelled simply by flaunting a two syllable word: Cookie.
I'm going to go throw the ball around with them now. The Inhaler will chase the ball relentlessly, the Slow Eater usually spots the ball by the time the Inhaler has brought it back to my feet. He tries... he tries.
Anyway, rain or shine - energy needs to be expended and everyone should be having more fun around here. You, too.
-k.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Just Another Weekend Scene
What better way to start the long weekend than to sit on the couch with J & watch bad television with one (okay, nearly two) bottles of chardonnay?
Wait, I can think of a better way to start the long weekend (heavy sarcasm): Posting on my blog three times in one day. Actually, it might even be four posts by now. I think it is. I think there have been four. Yeesh. One posting for each of the people who might read it today. Oh, eff, I hate math. Well, posting is what the blogosphere receives as evidence of a long, slow day at the office and a leisurely night on the couch.
In actuality, I need not lament about the way I'm handling my Long Weekend, because, guess what? I don't have weekends, I work them. So there.
Every weekend is exactly the same. I dress all in black, I wear an apron, I smile and say things like, Absolutely! and Sounds awesome! or For sure! and then, still smiling, I turn around and walk away thinking That does not sound awesome... and then, at the computer, I reach the gaggle of girls who are also wearing all black and wearing aprons and I say You wouldn't believe what that asshole at twenty-two wants... and then we laugh and I head back to twenty-two and I say, Here you are, sir! with a huge smile that says Please tip me 20%, you demanding sonofabitch. And, he will, 'cause I'm good at my job.
So, you know what? Pretty much this means I can waste as much of my Long Weekend as I want. Wine. Dinner. Couch. Television. Whatever.
Ahem. Sorry for the work related rant...
Anyway, I also cooked dinner tonight. A dinner that was supposed to be a replication of a meal J & I had in Philadelphia. It ended up being not-totally-dry broccoli rabe in a salad with other wet veggies and some super-dry chicken. It looked fantastic. Not that it didn't taste good... but, really, you had to eat the wet-rabe together with the dry chicken so that it tasted as if it was at a normal hydration level. Again, mathmatics. Point taken: That Ikea salad spinner isn't really cuttin' it.
Anyway, none of it really mattered because the sourdough was crunchy, fresh and delicious, the brie was perfectly soft, the wine was chilled and crisp, and the company was fantastic. Even the dogs behaved for a bit.
Oh, how I love Friday Night Date Night.
So, happy Long Weekend. That is, if you find the thematic social pressure related to national observances applicable to you.
For some additional humor, peruse here.
-k.
Wait, I can think of a better way to start the long weekend (heavy sarcasm): Posting on my blog three times in one day. Actually, it might even be four posts by now. I think it is. I think there have been four. Yeesh. One posting for each of the people who might read it today. Oh, eff, I hate math. Well, posting is what the blogosphere receives as evidence of a long, slow day at the office and a leisurely night on the couch.
In actuality, I need not lament about the way I'm handling my Long Weekend, because, guess what? I don't have weekends, I work them. So there.
Every weekend is exactly the same. I dress all in black, I wear an apron, I smile and say things like, Absolutely! and Sounds awesome! or For sure! and then, still smiling, I turn around and walk away thinking That does not sound awesome... and then, at the computer, I reach the gaggle of girls who are also wearing all black and wearing aprons and I say You wouldn't believe what that asshole at twenty-two wants... and then we laugh and I head back to twenty-two and I say, Here you are, sir! with a huge smile that says Please tip me 20%, you demanding sonofabitch. And, he will, 'cause I'm good at my job.
So, you know what? Pretty much this means I can waste as much of my Long Weekend as I want. Wine. Dinner. Couch. Television. Whatever.
Ahem. Sorry for the work related rant...
Anyway, I also cooked dinner tonight. A dinner that was supposed to be a replication of a meal J & I had in Philadelphia. It ended up being not-totally-dry broccoli rabe in a salad with other wet veggies and some super-dry chicken. It looked fantastic. Not that it didn't taste good... but, really, you had to eat the wet-rabe together with the dry chicken so that it tasted as if it was at a normal hydration level. Again, mathmatics. Point taken: That Ikea salad spinner isn't really cuttin' it.
Anyway, none of it really mattered because the sourdough was crunchy, fresh and delicious, the brie was perfectly soft, the wine was chilled and crisp, and the company was fantastic. Even the dogs behaved for a bit.
Oh, how I love Friday Night Date Night.
So, happy Long Weekend. That is, if you find the thematic social pressure related to national observances applicable to you.
For some additional humor, peruse here.
-k.
A Conversation Had At Work
TT: Aw, man, Katie, you must be gassin' 'em, huh?! Nice!
Me: I have no idea what you just said.
TT: Aren't you happy, though?
Me: Yes.
TT: Yeah, you gassin' 'em, girl. Got 'em! Right? Yeeeaah... Got 'em!
Today TG handed me this: (Courtesy of The Urban Dictionary)
slang
The ever-evolving bastardization of the written and spoken language as a result of social and cultural idolization of celebrities.
Aw, snap, son. Check out the fine-ass sho-tee rockin' all dat ice.
(Translation: Hello, my good sir. Take a gander at the beautiful women wearing the expensive jewels.)
Me: I have no idea what you just said.
TT: Aren't you happy, though?
Me: Yes.
TT: Yeah, you gassin' 'em, girl. Got 'em! Right? Yeeeaah... Got 'em!
Today TG handed me this: (Courtesy of The Urban Dictionary)
slang
The ever-evolving bastardization of the written and spoken language as a result of social and cultural idolization of celebrities.
Aw, snap, son. Check out the fine-ass sho-tee rockin' all dat ice.
(Translation: Hello, my good sir. Take a gander at the beautiful women wearing the expensive jewels.)
Downtown New Bedford, Friday @ 1:45PM
Dear Lady in a Convertible Wearing a Visor,
You just cut me off while driving, nearly causing an accident. The reason you weren't paying attention to where you were going was, ironically, another car accident.
This brings me to my next point, which is that I hate visors.
I hate them.
They are hats that don't have heads. I just don't understand them.
And, as most who know me can attest, I don't make a practice of hating that which I don't understand, but this is an exception. Visors are the exception.
If you are especially passionate about visors, maybe you could fill me on what makes them so awesome.
Also, please pay attention to where you are driving. Or, perhaps remove the visor so that your view is less obstructed.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Katie
You just cut me off while driving, nearly causing an accident. The reason you weren't paying attention to where you were going was, ironically, another car accident.
This brings me to my next point, which is that I hate visors.
I hate them.
They are hats that don't have heads. I just don't understand them.
And, as most who know me can attest, I don't make a practice of hating that which I don't understand, but this is an exception. Visors are the exception.
If you are especially passionate about visors, maybe you could fill me on what makes them so awesome.
Also, please pay attention to where you are driving. Or, perhaps remove the visor so that your view is less obstructed.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Katie
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Textual Healing?
I have a close friend who is dating someone new. They are both rather smitten with each other, and everything is perfect, except for one thing. He's a texter, not a caller. All she wants is one phone call a day, but the precedent has been set: They communicate only through text message.
In junior high school, we passed notes, danced arm's lengths away from each other, whispered, giggled, played MASH to decide our fates, and ultimately, someone, somewhere, ended up making out.
In high school, things became slightly more sophisticated. People had pagers, so if you really liked someone you could send them a page. 143 meant "I love you," 911 meant "I need you urgently," and so on and so forth. Not to mention, the rampant use of three way. Three way calling. (Get your minds out of the gutter. Geesh.) Three way calling meant two girls could call one boy, but only one girl would talk. The other sat in her bedroom somewhere, pressing mute and just listening. The talking girl would ask the boy who he liked, of course hoping to discover it was the girl pushing mute. If not, well, then, life went on.
In college, it was the beginning of rampant, instantaneous communication. Those who are local might remember makeoutclub. (Maybe it wasn't just local, but I seem to recall it was a Boston thing.) It still exists now but has really beefed up it's aesthetic. Back in the day, it was just pages upon pages of uncategorized profile synopses. Black background, small pictures, brief information detailing likes and dislikes, and a screen name. This is how boys who went to punk/indie/emo shows found girls who went to punk/indie/emo shows, and vice versa.
Of course, once located on makeoutclub, the boy and girl would talk via instant messenger (which, later in it's progression would be referred to much more succinctly as AIM). Instant messaging was the next phase in relationship communication, or relationication. (I just made that up and yet my spell checker seems to be complying. I'm just gonna go with it.)
Now, once out of college, as all of my friends are now, we are considered - according to most - young adults. Which, of course, means we have hit the age requirement to identify ourselves as "adults," but we have yet to reach the responsibility quotient that would then relieve us of our "young" qualifier.
So, what now? How do boys and girls - er - I mean men and women, communicate now? How does one young adult talk to another young adult? Well, we text message of course.
Somehow, the cyclical tides of relationication have brought us right back to passing notes in junior high, paging 143, and instant messaging - except now it's all contained in a handheld device that comes along wherever we go. Our relationication skills apparently peaked at three way calling, and have plummeted ever since. At least then we were (deceptively) speaking to one another using (I assume) proper English. Now it's "where you @?" or "@ work. sup?" or even "k.ttyl8r" What is that?
We don't speak, we email. We don't call, we text. We don't meet for coffee, we facebook.
What happens to us when saying what we feel is restricted by a 160 letter count? Are we more concise or do we just omit things in favor of saving space? Are we saving face at the same time?
I have another friend who was once broken up with via text message. A text message. A break up text message. I mean, really. I'm no fan of breaking hearts, and I do it with the utmost passivity, but that's just a little uncouth, don't you think? Txt me l8r & let me kno.
-k.
In junior high school, we passed notes, danced arm's lengths away from each other, whispered, giggled, played MASH to decide our fates, and ultimately, someone, somewhere, ended up making out.
In high school, things became slightly more sophisticated. People had pagers, so if you really liked someone you could send them a page. 143 meant "I love you," 911 meant "I need you urgently," and so on and so forth. Not to mention, the rampant use of three way. Three way calling. (Get your minds out of the gutter. Geesh.) Three way calling meant two girls could call one boy, but only one girl would talk. The other sat in her bedroom somewhere, pressing mute and just listening. The talking girl would ask the boy who he liked, of course hoping to discover it was the girl pushing mute. If not, well, then, life went on.
In college, it was the beginning of rampant, instantaneous communication. Those who are local might remember makeoutclub. (Maybe it wasn't just local, but I seem to recall it was a Boston thing.) It still exists now but has really beefed up it's aesthetic. Back in the day, it was just pages upon pages of uncategorized profile synopses. Black background, small pictures, brief information detailing likes and dislikes, and a screen name. This is how boys who went to punk/indie/emo shows found girls who went to punk/indie/emo shows, and vice versa.
Of course, once located on makeoutclub, the boy and girl would talk via instant messenger (which, later in it's progression would be referred to much more succinctly as AIM). Instant messaging was the next phase in relationship communication, or relationication. (I just made that up and yet my spell checker seems to be complying. I'm just gonna go with it.)
Now, once out of college, as all of my friends are now, we are considered - according to most - young adults. Which, of course, means we have hit the age requirement to identify ourselves as "adults," but we have yet to reach the responsibility quotient that would then relieve us of our "young" qualifier.
So, what now? How do boys and girls - er - I mean men and women, communicate now? How does one young adult talk to another young adult? Well, we text message of course.
Somehow, the cyclical tides of relationication have brought us right back to passing notes in junior high, paging 143, and instant messaging - except now it's all contained in a handheld device that comes along wherever we go. Our relationication skills apparently peaked at three way calling, and have plummeted ever since. At least then we were (deceptively) speaking to one another using (I assume) proper English. Now it's "where you @?" or "@ work. sup?" or even "k.ttyl8r" What is that?
We don't speak, we email. We don't call, we text. We don't meet for coffee, we facebook.
What happens to us when saying what we feel is restricted by a 160 letter count? Are we more concise or do we just omit things in favor of saving space? Are we saving face at the same time?
I have another friend who was once broken up with via text message. A text message. A break up text message. I mean, really. I'm no fan of breaking hearts, and I do it with the utmost passivity, but that's just a little uncouth, don't you think? Txt me l8r & let me kno.
-k.
The Double Edged Sword
My friends have always been my life.
My friends have always been my reason, my exception, my acceptance, my reconciliation, and my purpose.
I have many, I know, I'm lucky that way. However, there are a select few who I am more reliant upon than others. It is those friends who I turn to on a night that I want to just be alone.
I want to be alone; I'm bummed, I'm slightly depressed, I'm practicing avoidance. The solution? Get The Girls. And when I do? I feel one hundred times better.
They are the reason I smile. They are the reason I can talk it out. They are the reason why I can laugh about it all later.
Tonight, it was dinner at M's house, a newly founded tradition, now that we don't live together and M has a house that isn't... mine. She's so hospitable, always welcoming, always ready. I'm impressed.
I was planning on going to dinner, had RSVP'd "yes," invited a guest and then, stayed a bit longer with J after work. K came, too, and the three of us spent some time talking. That was followed by the planned dinner at M's which was awesome, and even more entertaining & enlightening than I expected it to be.
But, as great as it was, I still left with one thing on my mind: I miss my friends.
Maybe I wouldn't miss them so much if they weren't so awesome.
But, they are.
Double edged, lucky me.
-k.
My friends have always been my reason, my exception, my acceptance, my reconciliation, and my purpose.
I have many, I know, I'm lucky that way. However, there are a select few who I am more reliant upon than others. It is those friends who I turn to on a night that I want to just be alone.
I want to be alone; I'm bummed, I'm slightly depressed, I'm practicing avoidance. The solution? Get The Girls. And when I do? I feel one hundred times better.
They are the reason I smile. They are the reason I can talk it out. They are the reason why I can laugh about it all later.
Tonight, it was dinner at M's house, a newly founded tradition, now that we don't live together and M has a house that isn't... mine. She's so hospitable, always welcoming, always ready. I'm impressed.
I was planning on going to dinner, had RSVP'd "yes," invited a guest and then, stayed a bit longer with J after work. K came, too, and the three of us spent some time talking. That was followed by the planned dinner at M's which was awesome, and even more entertaining & enlightening than I expected it to be.
But, as great as it was, I still left with one thing on my mind: I miss my friends.
Maybe I wouldn't miss them so much if they weren't so awesome.
But, they are.
Double edged, lucky me.
-k.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Very Superstitious
"Superstition ain't the way," says Stevie Wonder. I disagree.
I wasn't raised with religion. I mean, it was there, but in the same way that there are fast food restaurants on every corner. McDonalds, Burger King, Quiznos, Subway, Wendy's, Papa Ginos... they're all there, readily and frequently available, but they only become relevant when you decide you want to indulge. Religion in our house was kind of like that. It just wasn't something we did all the time.
In place of baptism, confirmation, mass, or confession there was ancestry, four leaf clovers, lucky pennies and blowing out dandelion seeds.
When I crashed my car driving home from a long shift of inventory-taking one night, I had to make The Phone Call. The phone call to my soundly sleeping mother. The phone call I knew would wake her, and scare her. I had to tell her that I had hit a car on a nearly deserted 95 South, spun off the highway, and was awaiting the state police and a tow truck. I stood in the tall grass of the interstate; it was wet with early morning dew, and it soaked my nylon covered legs, which were still shaking with the impact of the collision. I was scared and alone, the car I hit had driven away, but I knew I had her. Seven digits and two ring tones away, she was there.
"Hello?"
"Mom?"
"Katie? What's wrong?"
"I've been in an accident - but I'm okay."
"An accident?"
"Yes, Mom, I crashed on 95. I'm on my way home from work. But I'm okay."
"Oh my. Grampa Young was watching you. He kept you safe."
There was no God in her version. There was no prayer, no overseer, no angel, no religion. There was my Grampa Young. My grandmother's father, my great grandfather whom I had never met, but who had made such an impact on my mother that it was him who she thanked. And, I didn't doubt her. I didn't doubt him.
My grandmother, the daughter of Grampa Young, had a knack for finding four leaf clovers. She found them everywhere she went. She would dry them between the pages of her Fanny Farmer Cookbook. It's the copy my mother has now, with a broken binding and missing hardcovers, and there are still clovers taped to the pages.
One morning, I woke up and something was just... wrong. I felt sad. More than sad. I felt like walking, talking sad. I asked my boyfriend to drive me home, and he obliged. But, before we got into his car, before I stepped off the grass, he stopped to pick up the mail. While I waited, I looked down, between my feet, and staring up at me was a four leaf clover. I plucked it from the earth and it was official. She was there. It was okay. I was okay.
My parents bought a plot of land for their retirement. At the time, it was nothing more than a campsite. No electricity. No well. Nothing. But they were hopeful. Then, in the midst of one particularly difficult day of self doubt, my mother happened upon a four leaf clover. It was meant to be.
She still sends them to me; clovers she has pressed between the pages of my grandmother's Fanny Farmer. She tapes them to index cards and sends them along in the mail, writing things like "this should 'do you' for a while" on the cards.
My grandmother's maiden name, the same name Grampa Young carried, is my middle name. She's closer to me that way. She is who I remind myself of when I'm in need of ethereal guidance. Her love, her kindness, her hopes. I have her blue eyes. Piercing and small, when I see myself in the mirror without eyeliner or mascara, they are her eyes that look back at me. Some of my tattoos bear her name, her memory, and I'm sure more will follow.
This lineage, this is my religion.
And then, there are the more trivial superstitions.
I can't pass up a heads up penny. I can't not pause when the clock reads 11:11. If I do, I feel guilty. It's nothing like Catholic Guilt, but it's guilt nonetheless. What if I missed out on something vital? Relevant? Lucky?
Tonight when I got home from work, I sat on the porch while the dog expended some pent up energy in the yard. I looked out into the glow of the flood light and suddenly, one single dandelion seed floated down towards me from the pitch black abyss that hung above where the light could reach. It's fluff glowed like a small light bulb and it floated ever so slowly and ever so directly right towards me, eventually landing in one of the potted plants on the stairs.
It's probably something most people wouldn't dwell on, but I wondered about it. Did someone, somewhere, blow a dandelion stem's seeds away and make a wish?
If that dandelion seed grows in the soil of that potted plant, I'll let it live. Weed or not, it's a superstition I'm willing to employ. Sorry, Stevie.
-k.
I wasn't raised with religion. I mean, it was there, but in the same way that there are fast food restaurants on every corner. McDonalds, Burger King, Quiznos, Subway, Wendy's, Papa Ginos... they're all there, readily and frequently available, but they only become relevant when you decide you want to indulge. Religion in our house was kind of like that. It just wasn't something we did all the time.
In place of baptism, confirmation, mass, or confession there was ancestry, four leaf clovers, lucky pennies and blowing out dandelion seeds.
When I crashed my car driving home from a long shift of inventory-taking one night, I had to make The Phone Call. The phone call to my soundly sleeping mother. The phone call I knew would wake her, and scare her. I had to tell her that I had hit a car on a nearly deserted 95 South, spun off the highway, and was awaiting the state police and a tow truck. I stood in the tall grass of the interstate; it was wet with early morning dew, and it soaked my nylon covered legs, which were still shaking with the impact of the collision. I was scared and alone, the car I hit had driven away, but I knew I had her. Seven digits and two ring tones away, she was there.
"Hello?"
"Mom?"
"Katie? What's wrong?"
"I've been in an accident - but I'm okay."
"An accident?"
"Yes, Mom, I crashed on 95. I'm on my way home from work. But I'm okay."
"Oh my. Grampa Young was watching you. He kept you safe."
There was no God in her version. There was no prayer, no overseer, no angel, no religion. There was my Grampa Young. My grandmother's father, my great grandfather whom I had never met, but who had made such an impact on my mother that it was him who she thanked. And, I didn't doubt her. I didn't doubt him.
My grandmother, the daughter of Grampa Young, had a knack for finding four leaf clovers. She found them everywhere she went. She would dry them between the pages of her Fanny Farmer Cookbook. It's the copy my mother has now, with a broken binding and missing hardcovers, and there are still clovers taped to the pages.
One morning, I woke up and something was just... wrong. I felt sad. More than sad. I felt like walking, talking sad. I asked my boyfriend to drive me home, and he obliged. But, before we got into his car, before I stepped off the grass, he stopped to pick up the mail. While I waited, I looked down, between my feet, and staring up at me was a four leaf clover. I plucked it from the earth and it was official. She was there. It was okay. I was okay.
My parents bought a plot of land for their retirement. At the time, it was nothing more than a campsite. No electricity. No well. Nothing. But they were hopeful. Then, in the midst of one particularly difficult day of self doubt, my mother happened upon a four leaf clover. It was meant to be.
She still sends them to me; clovers she has pressed between the pages of my grandmother's Fanny Farmer. She tapes them to index cards and sends them along in the mail, writing things like "this should 'do you' for a while" on the cards.
My grandmother's maiden name, the same name Grampa Young carried, is my middle name. She's closer to me that way. She is who I remind myself of when I'm in need of ethereal guidance. Her love, her kindness, her hopes. I have her blue eyes. Piercing and small, when I see myself in the mirror without eyeliner or mascara, they are her eyes that look back at me. Some of my tattoos bear her name, her memory, and I'm sure more will follow.
This lineage, this is my religion.
And then, there are the more trivial superstitions.
I can't pass up a heads up penny. I can't not pause when the clock reads 11:11. If I do, I feel guilty. It's nothing like Catholic Guilt, but it's guilt nonetheless. What if I missed out on something vital? Relevant? Lucky?
Tonight when I got home from work, I sat on the porch while the dog expended some pent up energy in the yard. I looked out into the glow of the flood light and suddenly, one single dandelion seed floated down towards me from the pitch black abyss that hung above where the light could reach. It's fluff glowed like a small light bulb and it floated ever so slowly and ever so directly right towards me, eventually landing in one of the potted plants on the stairs.
It's probably something most people wouldn't dwell on, but I wondered about it. Did someone, somewhere, blow a dandelion stem's seeds away and make a wish?
If that dandelion seed grows in the soil of that potted plant, I'll let it live. Weed or not, it's a superstition I'm willing to employ. Sorry, Stevie.
-k.
Boston
I can't navigate there. I can't identify my location. I don't know where I've been once I've left, preventing the option to return to any exact place ever again.
I'm like the small-brained participant in some MIT experiment... and I'm okay with that because, you know what? I love Boston.
I'm not sure why I can't pull it together around that city... I lived there in the every-other-weekend style when I was an adolescent, I've been hundreds of times to see museums, schools, games, friends, shows, and on occasion, to shop. So. Why can't I figure it out?
Yesterday I was in the presence of two veteran Bostonians, so thankfully my trip was well chaperoned and completely directed. We spent all of Sunday in the city, celebrating M's birthday to the fullest extent.
First, brunch at a friend's restaurant.
Second, some down time at A's house.
Then, we went to see The Gold Dust Orphans do Willy Wanker which is getting phenomenal reviews. If you are local you should really go see it - next week is the final set of shows... go!
Then, it was on to Bukowski's for a couple of beers and some sweet potato fries. Yum.
Then, M found a gay bar that hosted Sunday night karaoke. Needless to say, he was not giving us any options. It was his birthday, and this was his moment. Karaoke. Yes. I said it. And, yes, I sang it.
The karaoke emcee spotted A & I the second we walked in with M, and immediately went to work on dismantling our firm No Karaoke platform. We guessed it was probably because we were the only two chicks in a gay bar. Eventually, M & I worked up the courage to test our pipes, and A bowed out. M chose the song: Jimmy Eat World's A Praise Chorus. One of many long-time favorite songs, it always takes me back in time to my freshman year of college, to the year M & I first met actually, and though it is not a song I would expect many other people to know, it didn't matter when we got on that stage. We had a blast.
As we were leaving the club, a man pulled M & I aside.
"You're good," the man pointed to M, "but you're better." The man pointed at me.
"Oh yeah?" M asked.
"Yeah," said the man, "you need to give her more stage."
"See? I need more stage!" I gloated to M.
"Yeah, and you need to swing the microphone. More attitude!" the man encouraged me, swinging his hips while miming a microphone, "Swing it!"
"Next time... next time." I said, and hoped there would be a next time.
Happy birthday, M.
Next Friday I'll be in the city again, and I fully expect to see more things I've never seen before.
I'm going to try & find my way to the Miracle of Science simply because I've been there before, I like it there, and I want to go back. Who knows? I might actually make it.
If I do, I'll not only be as proud as the day MR and I successfully navigated the T from Quincy to The Garden, but I'll also be having a delicious lunch with my Colorado family.
Here's to Boston, my very own maze. Someday I'll conquer it... someday.
-k.
I'm like the small-brained participant in some MIT experiment... and I'm okay with that because, you know what? I love Boston.
I'm not sure why I can't pull it together around that city... I lived there in the every-other-weekend style when I was an adolescent, I've been hundreds of times to see museums, schools, games, friends, shows, and on occasion, to shop. So. Why can't I figure it out?
Yesterday I was in the presence of two veteran Bostonians, so thankfully my trip was well chaperoned and completely directed. We spent all of Sunday in the city, celebrating M's birthday to the fullest extent.
First, brunch at a friend's restaurant.
Second, some down time at A's house.
Then, we went to see The Gold Dust Orphans do Willy Wanker which is getting phenomenal reviews. If you are local you should really go see it - next week is the final set of shows... go!
Then, it was on to Bukowski's for a couple of beers and some sweet potato fries. Yum.
Then, M found a gay bar that hosted Sunday night karaoke. Needless to say, he was not giving us any options. It was his birthday, and this was his moment. Karaoke. Yes. I said it. And, yes, I sang it.
The karaoke emcee spotted A & I the second we walked in with M, and immediately went to work on dismantling our firm No Karaoke platform. We guessed it was probably because we were the only two chicks in a gay bar. Eventually, M & I worked up the courage to test our pipes, and A bowed out. M chose the song: Jimmy Eat World's A Praise Chorus. One of many long-time favorite songs, it always takes me back in time to my freshman year of college, to the year M & I first met actually, and though it is not a song I would expect many other people to know, it didn't matter when we got on that stage. We had a blast.
As we were leaving the club, a man pulled M & I aside.
"You're good," the man pointed to M, "but you're better." The man pointed at me.
"Oh yeah?" M asked.
"Yeah," said the man, "you need to give her more stage."
"See? I need more stage!" I gloated to M.
"Yeah, and you need to swing the microphone. More attitude!" the man encouraged me, swinging his hips while miming a microphone, "Swing it!"
"Next time... next time." I said, and hoped there would be a next time.
Happy birthday, M.
Next Friday I'll be in the city again, and I fully expect to see more things I've never seen before.
I'm going to try & find my way to the Miracle of Science simply because I've been there before, I like it there, and I want to go back. Who knows? I might actually make it.
If I do, I'll not only be as proud as the day MR and I successfully navigated the T from Quincy to The Garden, but I'll also be having a delicious lunch with my Colorado family.
Here's to Boston, my very own maze. Someday I'll conquer it... someday.
-k.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
It's Oh So Quiet
Saturdays are long days. Open to close. For twelve hours, I work amidst noise. Music, talking, other people talking, laughing, yelling, joking, more laughing... more laughing. (We're a funny bunch of friends.) From morning until night it's straight up, nonstop noise. In theory, it seems like a nice retreat to come home to silence.
In theory.
But, late at night (actually, early in the morning) when I come home to silence it's just discerning.
The Girls and I lived in the old house for three years. Directly above the restaurant, the noise was constant. It was noisy when we worked, it was noisy when we went home. It surrounded us, engulfed the house, and made everything feel safe. Music, talking, other people talking, laughing, yelling, joking, more laughing - and we heard it all through the floorboards. Muffled, but present. We had no neighbors on our block, but we had noise. Evidence: life existed, if only in the form of the throbbing bass lines beneath our feet.
And now, I live on a quiet street. In a quiet house.
It's like someone pushed Mute.
I got home tonight, it was almost one in the AM. I could hear my feet crunching gravel. I saw no people. No evidence of life, except the cars. People drove here. People are inside those houses. The house to the right of mine glows through drawn curtains. Across the street, the blue flicker of a television turned on in a dark room flashes through partially opened blinds. To the left, the for sale house has a porch light on, which proves someone had to have been there to turn it on, even though now the house is empty.
And they are all completely, totally, silent.
So, I sit in my house and listen closely to my music, the dog determinately chewing his bone, and the click of the keyboard and I try not to hear the house settling, the refrigerator click-whirring on to control it's chill, or the wind shaking the storm windows.
It's going to take some time to get used to this, I think.
In other news, iTunes DJ had my melancholy in mind tonight when it concocted this playlist:
Holland, 1945, Neutral Milk Hotel
All I Want, The Violent Femmes,
I'm So Tired of Being Alone, Al Green
I'll Never Belong, The King Khan & BBQ Show
Heaven, The Talking Heads
Someday You Will Be Loved, Death Cab For Cutie
Strange, Built to Spill
Is Apple tapped into my subconscious? Steve Jobs is such a creep.
k.
In theory.
But, late at night (actually, early in the morning) when I come home to silence it's just discerning.
The Girls and I lived in the old house for three years. Directly above the restaurant, the noise was constant. It was noisy when we worked, it was noisy when we went home. It surrounded us, engulfed the house, and made everything feel safe. Music, talking, other people talking, laughing, yelling, joking, more laughing - and we heard it all through the floorboards. Muffled, but present. We had no neighbors on our block, but we had noise. Evidence: life existed, if only in the form of the throbbing bass lines beneath our feet.
And now, I live on a quiet street. In a quiet house.
It's like someone pushed Mute.
I got home tonight, it was almost one in the AM. I could hear my feet crunching gravel. I saw no people. No evidence of life, except the cars. People drove here. People are inside those houses. The house to the right of mine glows through drawn curtains. Across the street, the blue flicker of a television turned on in a dark room flashes through partially opened blinds. To the left, the for sale house has a porch light on, which proves someone had to have been there to turn it on, even though now the house is empty.
And they are all completely, totally, silent.
So, I sit in my house and listen closely to my music, the dog determinately chewing his bone, and the click of the keyboard and I try not to hear the house settling, the refrigerator click-whirring on to control it's chill, or the wind shaking the storm windows.
It's going to take some time to get used to this, I think.
In other news, iTunes DJ had my melancholy in mind tonight when it concocted this playlist:
Holland, 1945, Neutral Milk Hotel
All I Want, The Violent Femmes,
I'm So Tired of Being Alone, Al Green
I'll Never Belong, The King Khan & BBQ Show
Heaven, The Talking Heads
Someday You Will Be Loved, Death Cab For Cutie
Strange, Built to Spill
Is Apple tapped into my subconscious? Steve Jobs is such a creep.
k.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Out Came the Sun
Every Friday morning, it rains. Every Friday morning, I walk into the office thinking, "I'm glad it's raining while I'm in here." I work on my computer, the one that faces away from the window, and I hear the pitter patter of droplets on the roof, and I congratulate myself on not missing anything like a sunny afternoon or a walk around the park.And then, just as I'm about to conclude my half-day of office work, the clouds part and the sun starts inching through and before I know it - it's a beautiful sunny day.
Today was no exception.
I have some luck with weather, I swear.
Needless to say, since the weather runs the gamut during my Friday's, I get two of my favorite things:
1. The smell of spring rain. Before I duck my head into the car and speed away to the office, I inhale deeply; a smell like wet soil and growing grass mixed with the slightly deadened scent of lilac and cherry tree. It's a good one. If I could bottle it, I would.
2. The sun, drying things off. I roll down the windows, take a deep breath of fresh air, and resist the urge to grin as I drive home; a smell like dry pavement, sun, and heat mixed with subtle violet, dandelion and tree bark.
And in my backyard, things are still dew-dropped, the remnant evidence of this morning still lingering on bared leaves. But the buds are open, the petals sunning themselves, triumphant.
I love spring.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Food Coloring
B says Ralph is getting really big. He is outgrowing his corner of the world. His green corner.
I think my adoration for the color green is taking over my life.
Is that so bad?
My mother gave me this chair and I was going to paint it. Green. Not anymore.
I relate colors to food. The living room walls are the color of the pea soup my mother made and I refused to eat when I was a kid. The pillows on the chair are the color of a crisp, spiny eggplant stalk. My couch is the color of an eggplant when it starts to age, when it's been left in the veggie drawer too long and the edges have started to gray and dull. My design inspiration for the entire room was... an artichoke.
My kitchen is the color of an egg. Creamy yellow and crisp white. Then there's the here-and-there red... like Tabasco. I always eat Tabasco with my eggs.
My room is the only thing I decorated in a theme not related to food. I wanted it to be like sleeping on a cloud; a mod-esque, vintage cloud. It is exactly that.
I like our home. So does Ralph.
Home, sweet home.
Train Song
I like to leave the house in perfect order when I go away. The pillows on the couch must be standing up straight, the blanket I always cuddle with on the couch has to be folded and hidden away, my bed will be made, my clothes clean and in drawers, the towels hung and waiting for my first back-at-home shower, and the dishes washed and stacked. Order. Neat and tidy order. It's pleasant, comforting.
B even left me some lilacs to come home to. Reassuring; people love me here. People who know my favorite flower and care that I'll come home to their scent filtering through the kitchen.
It's all so that when I come back I can just sit back and sigh and remind myself that this is where I belong, but what happens most often is I sit back and wonder if it really is.
I know it's where I am right now, but where am I going?
It's the travel time that messes with my head. There's something about sitting, contemplatively, for hours on end as I commute to and from my destination. I think. I dwell. I wonder. I imagine.
I make notes while I travel - sloppy, imperfect, illegible notes - in my notebook. Notes that are meant to illicit some memory of some pertinent life alteringly important item when I look at them later. My scrawlings. They mean very little. Like dreams that were once so vivid, but now I can barely recall them. I just know they were good. And important. And they must have meant something. But what?
I speed down highways, and cruise through neighborhoods, and picture myself walking out of that front door onto that front porch, instead of this one. I buy coffee in a coffee shop and picture myself there every morning for dark roast instead of here. I meet friends in bars and order beer and imagine that it is the place we meet after a long day, and not the other place, states away. And then I imagine what's missing: the friends on that porch, the friends in that coffee shop, the friends in that bar, states away. It's not really worth it, I think.
It's not reinvention that I want, it's transplantation. Come with me, friends, I'll show you other towns and other cities and other lives that could be ours. We'll walk down different streets and see different houses and not know our way around. We can try new restaurants and eat new food and wonder if the place next door is any good because we've never been there.
We can not know something. Here, we know everything.
I guess coming home to that is comforting.
Straightened pillows, folded blanket, made bed, clean clothes, straight towels, stacked dishes and fresh cut lilacs because someone knew I would like them.
I take a deep breath, unfold the blanket, ignore the mail, and remember why some things are worth knowing.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Sun Stream
I woke up early this morning. The dogs were eager to go out, and though I could have gone back to the warm, cozy bed that I left - I decided to stay awake and get some things done before I leave later today.
It wasn't hard to stay awake because - yay - it's sunny.
My favorite part about waking up early & waking up sunny is the way the sunlight filters through my blinds and streams into my house, permeating everything. I love the way it creeps over the roof of the house behind mine and sends little filtered fingers of light dancing and flickering through maple leaves. I love the way it can't quite reach the far corner of my living room just yet and it seeps through the slats of the blinds and the curtains that have been pulled aside and taunts my plants. (My jade plant - er, stalk - is literally growing horizontally as shown in this image. Poor Jade.)
I'm really glad it's nice out today, driving in bad weather is awful.
Speaking of driving, I need to work on today's ever-important playlist.
It's entitled: Road Trip in Three Parts or VT Via Rte. 3
Here's what I have so far:
1. Parentheses, The Blow
2. Mama, Coconut Records
3. Everything That Happens, David Byrne & Brian Eno
4. House Jam, Gang Gang Dance
5. Time To Pretend, MGMT
6. Just Impolite, Plushgun
.
.
.
It should be a lovely day.
-k.
Confirmation
Confirmation #1: Another friend, another Etta sighting.
MT said he saw her and, though she was sans Rascal, she still apparently succeeded in driving people out of the theater based solely upon her perverse, suggestive gestures.
Confirmation #2: Another handshake begets another broken promise.
P is getting married in June, my sister and I were both invited, of course, and, in the light of my current singleness, decided we would take one another as "date" to the event. Phew - relief!
Until yesterday when I listened to a message from Sister during which she informed me she is bringing her boyfriend.
I am officially date-less and accompanying the officially Dating. This is a position I'm not comfortable in.
So, what are you doing June Twentieth?
No, seriously.
Confirmation #3: My friends are the best in the world.
Let's just lay in my overgrown yard and let the dogs run around while H wishes he had a glass of wine. Okay. Let's.
There is no wine, however.
Regardless, we lay in the grass and listen to church bells toll.
Let's snap pictures, too. Will the nearly-full moon suffice in absence of a flash? Let's find out. (Outcome pictured.)
Love, birthday love,
-k.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Mama
It's Mother's Day. The day that used to mean that my sister and I struggled through a pancake or muffin recipe and "surprised" my mother with breakfast in bed. (I think two kids banging pots and pans for forty five minutes kind of gave it away before we showed up with the tray.) The day that used to mean that I'd fashion a card or - one in year particular - a Mother's Day Coupon Book. (Items in the book included watching my sister "free of charge" and cleaning out her car.)
This year, like the past few, it means I call my mother and we talk on the phone, or it means that she's comes down to visit and I take her out to brunch. We do grown up things now. Maybe because I grew up or maybe because she's so far away. It's not as easy as it once was.
But it's still pretty easy.
The hard part is knowing that there are friends of mine who celebrate this Mother's Day without their mother.
Four of my friends go without her. One day after another, time passes and and remarkably they get stronger with each one. Some have had more time than others. But still, I'm sure for each of them, today is especially hard.
I feel lucky. Not simply because I have the mom that I have. (Though she is great.) But more so because I've seen something in my friends that makes me humbled to have her. And I'm happy to know my friends who are strong, incredible people with so much loss in their hearts today, that I can't help but feel it in my own.
Today I called my mother and when she didn't answer, I left a message. In a little while, I will go to work, put on an apron and serve brunch, lunch and dinner to a multitude of mothers, grandmothers, and children until later tonight when my shift is over and I'm finally able to sit down and relax and then I'll pick up the phone to see if she returned my call.
She will have.
My thoughts will be with those who are still waiting.
k.
This year, like the past few, it means I call my mother and we talk on the phone, or it means that she's comes down to visit and I take her out to brunch. We do grown up things now. Maybe because I grew up or maybe because she's so far away. It's not as easy as it once was.
But it's still pretty easy.
The hard part is knowing that there are friends of mine who celebrate this Mother's Day without their mother.
Four of my friends go without her. One day after another, time passes and and remarkably they get stronger with each one. Some have had more time than others. But still, I'm sure for each of them, today is especially hard.
I feel lucky. Not simply because I have the mom that I have. (Though she is great.) But more so because I've seen something in my friends that makes me humbled to have her. And I'm happy to know my friends who are strong, incredible people with so much loss in their hearts today, that I can't help but feel it in my own.
Today I called my mother and when she didn't answer, I left a message. In a little while, I will go to work, put on an apron and serve brunch, lunch and dinner to a multitude of mothers, grandmothers, and children until later tonight when my shift is over and I'm finally able to sit down and relax and then I'll pick up the phone to see if she returned my call.
She will have.
My thoughts will be with those who are still waiting.
k.
At Last
The Girls & I celebrated our belated birthdays last night with a trip into Boston to see Etta James at the House of Blues.
While we waited to head inside, we ate and drank outside at a restaurant on Landsdowne, the roar of Fenway Park in the background and the breezing chill of a tepid May evening at our backs.
It was one of those nights. You know, the nights when you feel like the pieces have all fallen into place and it's just... right. So good.
Anyway, there we were, sitting outside, eating, drinking and laughing, all in full view of the House of Blues (the old Avalon, for those who are familiar with the city) and suddenly, a tour bus pulls up.
"Maybe it's Etta."
"She's really late."
"There's some sort of scooter thing happening..."
Necks crane.
We sip our various vodkas in silence. Waiting. Watching.
"Is it?"
"I don't know."
Suddenly, an entourage begins processing from the steps of the tour bus towards the entrance and, in the midst of it, a blonde-headed, gold-sequin-clad Etta James... operating a Rascal.
A Rascal, for those who are unfamiliar (and I find myself in the position of "familiar" because M happens to recieve offerings in the mail for them often, though she is far from Rascal ready at the youthful age of 27), is a scooter for the aged. It's the kind of thing you might dodge out of the way of in the supermarket aisle as someone's Nana speeds towards you, the distinct whir of a low-power motor drifting along with her as she searches for that week's BOGO items.
Etta sped right into the House of Blues, entourage in tow.
Whiiiiiir.
On stage she sat in a chair; a chair that appeared to have been made specifically for her performance(s). A high back, a padded headrest, one arm - padded - the other missing so she could sit - lounge, really - in a low slung, half laying down way, an ideal position from which to belt out a song.
I have never seen Etta before. For those who have also not had the pleasure, let me offer you a generalized interpretation of what goes on.
Etta croons. Etta jams. Etta plays air guitar and points towards the band when she expects a halt in musical accompaniment. (She gets one every time. The lady knows her shit.) Etta sings about men. About sex with men. About women and men. About love. About betrayal. Etta gestures. Etta rubs herself. Breasts. Legs. Ahem. Crotch. Etta makes vulgar faces, twitches her tongue. (Yes. Twitches. Like a snake. Like a perverted snake.) Etta nods encouragingly to the screaming crowd each and every time she performs one of these pervese gestures.
Etta is a filthy seventy-one year old Rascal driver. And the crowd dug it. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it... but it was interesting to watch.
And when she was done. When it was all over. Or, rather, when it was time to tease for the encore, a man pushed out Etta's Rascal and she boarded it, cruising off the stage - ridin' low.
She came back for an encore, riding the Rascal, sang the song (which has escaped me - the victim of too many Citron & sodas) from her chair, and then boarded the Rascal again and cruised away. Gold sequins twinkling into the night.
It was quite... remarkable.
Thanks, Etta. Thanks, Girls.
-k.
While we waited to head inside, we ate and drank outside at a restaurant on Landsdowne, the roar of Fenway Park in the background and the breezing chill of a tepid May evening at our backs.
It was one of those nights. You know, the nights when you feel like the pieces have all fallen into place and it's just... right. So good.
Anyway, there we were, sitting outside, eating, drinking and laughing, all in full view of the House of Blues (the old Avalon, for those who are familiar with the city) and suddenly, a tour bus pulls up.
"Maybe it's Etta."
"She's really late."
"There's some sort of scooter thing happening..."
Necks crane.
We sip our various vodkas in silence. Waiting. Watching.
"Is it?"
"I don't know."
Suddenly, an entourage begins processing from the steps of the tour bus towards the entrance and, in the midst of it, a blonde-headed, gold-sequin-clad Etta James... operating a Rascal.
A Rascal, for those who are unfamiliar (and I find myself in the position of "familiar" because M happens to recieve offerings in the mail for them often, though she is far from Rascal ready at the youthful age of 27), is a scooter for the aged. It's the kind of thing you might dodge out of the way of in the supermarket aisle as someone's Nana speeds towards you, the distinct whir of a low-power motor drifting along with her as she searches for that week's BOGO items.
Etta sped right into the House of Blues, entourage in tow.
Whiiiiiir.
On stage she sat in a chair; a chair that appeared to have been made specifically for her performance(s). A high back, a padded headrest, one arm - padded - the other missing so she could sit - lounge, really - in a low slung, half laying down way, an ideal position from which to belt out a song.
I have never seen Etta before. For those who have also not had the pleasure, let me offer you a generalized interpretation of what goes on.
Etta croons. Etta jams. Etta plays air guitar and points towards the band when she expects a halt in musical accompaniment. (She gets one every time. The lady knows her shit.) Etta sings about men. About sex with men. About women and men. About love. About betrayal. Etta gestures. Etta rubs herself. Breasts. Legs. Ahem. Crotch. Etta makes vulgar faces, twitches her tongue. (Yes. Twitches. Like a snake. Like a perverted snake.) Etta nods encouragingly to the screaming crowd each and every time she performs one of these pervese gestures.
Etta is a filthy seventy-one year old Rascal driver. And the crowd dug it. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it... but it was interesting to watch.
And when she was done. When it was all over. Or, rather, when it was time to tease for the encore, a man pushed out Etta's Rascal and she boarded it, cruising off the stage - ridin' low.
She came back for an encore, riding the Rascal, sang the song (which has escaped me - the victim of too many Citron & sodas) from her chair, and then boarded the Rascal again and cruised away. Gold sequins twinkling into the night.
It was quite... remarkable.
Thanks, Etta. Thanks, Girls.
-k.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Remember when...
Tonight I attended an event that I expected to be exactly like high school.
I was never big on high school.
I had a dirty Ketel One martini with M before we arrived. I was nervous. Anxious, even.
"I'm not going to our ten year reunion next year." I said.
"Why?" M said.
"Because I'm going tonight. To the dress rehearsal. And that's good enough."
In an emotional sense, I was a high school dropout. I stopped contributing socially in my junior year. I didn't "do" prom. I didn't "do" graduation. I practiced avoidance. A favored tactic of mine and one that would inevitably follow me into adulthood.
And so it was that on a dewy, morning-rained-on afternoon some years ago, I stood, one amongst many, holding on to my cap and diploma. I followed the ceremony by posing for obligatory parental pictures and eating dinner with my awkward bio/step families and then, I went on with my life. I was me. I was a graduate. There was no looking back.
That was nearly ten years ago.
In retrospect I'm glad I had my time away - it gave me time to breathe. Time to appreciate what's here versus what isn't. The best friends I made then are, to this day, the best people I know. We passed notes to in the hallway, folded in various puzzle-like bits and signed "Friends 'til Niagara Falls," and they are seeming to be just that. Family. My Girls. The best I know.
The city, too, seems to have remained the same, but now I recognize it's beauty, charm, and potential. I fight fiercely for it's respect. I love it. Love. Always will.
Some things have changed, certainly. I write more than notes now. And I'm proud of that.
And then there was tonight. The dread creeping up on me. The risk of repeating high school - of feeling it all over again.
And tonight, like many nights in this small-large city, was full of familiar faces - some have changed and are near-unrecognizable and some haven't aged, faltered, or wavered in the decade since we last passed one another in a throng of people. Of course, now we are hustling to the bar, not our locker or geometry class. It is the passage of time. We wear it well, I think.
Tonight, there was more than just reconciliation or reconnection or retaliation. Tonight, there was hope. Familiar faces, unfamiliar faces, young, old, drunk, sober, dancing or standing still, it didn't really matter. We were all there for one reason: to help him. To help her. To give means.
We all knew her in the days of study hall and gym class. She was popular enough. Down to earth. Funny. Athletic. Thin. Cool. And now she's a mother of two. A wife. And she has a child with a disease that will more than likely leave her behind to mourn his passing.
So, there we were, a mass of people with nearly nothing in common except an alma mater and the mere fact that we all wanted to, in some way, partake in the hope for him; a piece of her that will be taken, removed, before it's even had time to take root.
It's a nice feeling to be part of something. A memory, a moment, someone's hope or someone's fate.
It makes me wonder... what's in store?
k.
I was never big on high school.
I had a dirty Ketel One martini with M before we arrived. I was nervous. Anxious, even.
"I'm not going to our ten year reunion next year." I said.
"Why?" M said.
"Because I'm going tonight. To the dress rehearsal. And that's good enough."
In an emotional sense, I was a high school dropout. I stopped contributing socially in my junior year. I didn't "do" prom. I didn't "do" graduation. I practiced avoidance. A favored tactic of mine and one that would inevitably follow me into adulthood.
And so it was that on a dewy, morning-rained-on afternoon some years ago, I stood, one amongst many, holding on to my cap and diploma. I followed the ceremony by posing for obligatory parental pictures and eating dinner with my awkward bio/step families and then, I went on with my life. I was me. I was a graduate. There was no looking back.
That was nearly ten years ago.
In retrospect I'm glad I had my time away - it gave me time to breathe. Time to appreciate what's here versus what isn't. The best friends I made then are, to this day, the best people I know. We passed notes to in the hallway, folded in various puzzle-like bits and signed "Friends 'til Niagara Falls," and they are seeming to be just that. Family. My Girls. The best I know.
The city, too, seems to have remained the same, but now I recognize it's beauty, charm, and potential. I fight fiercely for it's respect. I love it. Love. Always will.
Some things have changed, certainly. I write more than notes now. And I'm proud of that.
And then there was tonight. The dread creeping up on me. The risk of repeating high school - of feeling it all over again.
And tonight, like many nights in this small-large city, was full of familiar faces - some have changed and are near-unrecognizable and some haven't aged, faltered, or wavered in the decade since we last passed one another in a throng of people. Of course, now we are hustling to the bar, not our locker or geometry class. It is the passage of time. We wear it well, I think.
Tonight, there was more than just reconciliation or reconnection or retaliation. Tonight, there was hope. Familiar faces, unfamiliar faces, young, old, drunk, sober, dancing or standing still, it didn't really matter. We were all there for one reason: to help him. To help her. To give means.
We all knew her in the days of study hall and gym class. She was popular enough. Down to earth. Funny. Athletic. Thin. Cool. And now she's a mother of two. A wife. And she has a child with a disease that will more than likely leave her behind to mourn his passing.
So, there we were, a mass of people with nearly nothing in common except an alma mater and the mere fact that we all wanted to, in some way, partake in the hope for him; a piece of her that will be taken, removed, before it's even had time to take root.
It's a nice feeling to be part of something. A memory, a moment, someone's hope or someone's fate.
It makes me wonder... what's in store?
k.
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