So. A few months ago, I had one of the hardest decisions of my life (based on past experiences you can figure out how much hyperbole has been sprinkled on that statement). Luckily, it was kind of made for me.
Two of the most amazing, smartest, prettiest, sassiest ladies I know (Cindy-loo and KChu) are getting married to two of the luckiest guys in the known universe (AndyP and Howie Howardson, respectively). And it just so happens they picked the exact same day to celebrate. But of course, they couldn't get married in the same room. Noooo, that would be "weird." So I had to make the epic choice of which one do I love more. Well, not actually. Cindy-loo very sweetly (and for reasons that still I don't quite understand because I am terrible at this particular job) asked me to rep for her in front of Greek Jesus.
I so rarely get a chance to hang out with Greek Jesus, that I said yes. And a bridesmaid was made.
So Cindy-loo and AndyP. get my presence at their wedding.
KChu, and Howie Howardson get this, a blog about them. (and honestly, I don't know which is the fuzzier end of that lollipop).
KChu & Howie Howardson,
There is some thing crazy special, and the most fun of your 20's life, about getting a front row ticket to watching real, true, forever love happen.
Its pretty rare to know, and be friends, with two single people, and then watch overtime as they evolve to be a couple. Still two awesome people, but two people who have high-fived and decided that they're going to take on this big, bad world together.
I feel like so many of my friends started dating strangers (we like to call the interlopers) who only through their dating of one of the finest people in the world, have I gotten to be friends with. But KChu and Howie were both great people with solid stamps of approval before the first awkward attempt at hand holding ever went down.
This was Howie Howardson getting real, real sauced at 9:30 AM watching Badger Football. Maybe flirting with a waitress, maybe yelling at the televisions, but always there, surrounded by at least 6 female friends and occasionally a dude or two. And we all waited for the girl who would walk through the doors of that stupid, stupid bar and be good enough for Howie - and his pile of lady friends.
Well, what do you know? She was already there. Maybe it took a few more months for her to become part of the circle but she was a brilliant, occasionally overserved but always responsible, fast friend. She went to college on the East Coast (unlike everyoneelseintheuniverse who had gone to school out in these parts) but she was still from Wisconsin in all the best ways. East coast brains with a midwest heart? Ain't no shame in KChu's game.
There they each were. Through the yelling and the confetti and the gallons of Miller Lite being spilled every where. They managed to spot all the right things about each other. And while the rest of us were contemplating what the secret ingredient in the tater tots was, and where Naulty had lost her credit card, they were in those very baby stages of becoming a team.
Then there was the time line of drama. Drawn on text messages and serious bathroom talks, on book club conversations and the bottom of the shot glass. The good and the bad and the "what happened last night?" We were spectators and occasional coaches, whether they liked it or not.
While they were weathering each other, they were also forced to weather us - Statler and Waldorf times six, but much higher pitched. Us girls with too much time on our hands were there for the commentary, but also to occasionally steal focus with all our own silly, silly hearts.
And then you survived! You survived those years with an Apple Holler and a Mars Cheese Castle between you. Even though it had to have been tough, we all secretly knew that this was the test, this was your journey through the Hidden Temple, and if you made it through you would be together for life (and also possibly win a trip to Space Camp).
KChu & Howie Howardson, I don't know if you can really comprehend how much we all love you. You are both incredibly smart, and perhaps with your powers combined you can understand how much we (me, and all your other loud, drunk friends) have loved watching you guys find each other and start this life together.
Thanks for letting us come on the journey with you. Thanks for being awesome while single and while dating. Thanks for both being able to (individually) hold your own at a late-night Baby Atlas dance party. Thanks for being two of the best listeners in the history of people-having-ears.
I have been told that every bar in the world can only produce one couple. While people will meet in bars and inevitably make bad choices with each other, each bar can only produce one real, amazing, forever couple. I am so happy that Redmond's got you guys. And as a celebration of that, let's never go back.
I love you both so much. I'm sorry I can't be there to be embarrassing on the dance floor.
-R
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Best Birthday Stories - The one with the dress
When I moved to New York, I thought I was very, very grown-up. I didn't cry when my Mom left, and even though I had no idea what to do with myself, I pretended like I did. I faked it - and inevitable, I made it. I moved in late August, at the tender age of 17. Its not every day you turn 18 in a brand new adventure, so I decided to make the most of it.
On my Actual Birthday - at 1 AM, I was in a diner on the Upper East Side, with D-$, my roommate. She had been at a failed attempt at an American Idol audition (back when that was something you did) and had just come back. I had been writing my first ever college midterm papers (I wasted no time perfecting my procrastination) and we decided to get food (oh college).
ANYWAY - We get to the diner and look up on the tv, and what do I see? The name of my hometown, flashing on the TV. I convince the surly, Eastern European woman to turn up the volume and find out that the police had caught the two snipers who had been shooting in the DC area (remember that?) - so Happy Birthday to me.
We go home, sleep for three hours and then do whatever 18 year old spends her whole life dreaming of - stood outside of the Today show like a couple of tourist idiots and made a sign using notebook paper, a crayola marker and some chewed gum.
It totally worked, y'all. I spent the 6:05 AM minute of my 18th birthday getting a hug from the weather-guy-who-isn't-Al-Roker.
As if that wasn't the most amazing thing - a few hours later (after turning in aforementioned paper) my Mom, Big Cuz, and Aunt Bluh- Bluh rolled up/down from Maryland/Nantucket respectively.
Since I didn't have any friends yet, my family was sweet enough to come celebrate with me. My mom drove 4 hours to bring me my favorite food and quality time with my favorite older cousin. And my aunt came down from her island sanctuary to spend a crazy weekend in noisy, smell, dirty New York.
Not only did they come to visit, they also brought presents (as if their presence wasn't enough). For my birthday my Cousin Peter had invited me to come with him to see Aida at Lincoln Center. And I was desperately in need of the appropriate attire. My grandmother (in one of the best Birthday maneuvers of my grown up life) sent up five dresses and I got to pick two (Oh! The luxury!)
I ended up picking a funky black and brown patterned one with bell sleeves and a wide skirt (which is what I actually wore the night of the opera) and my very. first. Little Black Dress. It was simple, and flattering and didn't need to be dry cleaned. When I wore it, I felt like such.a.grown.up.
After my family left, I cried for the first and only time from true homesickness (rather than homesickness mixed with heartbreak, or school/job woes). To have a family that loved me enough to drive all this way and celebrate with me. How could I spend my life so far away from all that?
That was the last birthday I spent with my family until I turned 23 - when my Dad was in Chicago and took me out to delicious tapas. And since then, I haven't been lucky enough to have any family close by to help me celebrate. Luckily I have this amazing pile of friends to make me feel embarrassingly loved, but I miss my family sometimes too.
And - that little black dress? The one I kept, but didn't wear to the Opera? It still hangs in my closet. I wore it last Thursday to an event. And about a month before that to an important meeting. And maybe two weeks before that, out to dinner. It's gotten a little smaller - but it still reminds me of my family, goes through the wash like a champ and comes out making me feel just as grown up as it did 8 years ago.
On my Actual Birthday - at 1 AM, I was in a diner on the Upper East Side, with D-$, my roommate. She had been at a failed attempt at an American Idol audition (back when that was something you did) and had just come back. I had been writing my first ever college midterm papers (I wasted no time perfecting my procrastination) and we decided to get food (oh college).
ANYWAY - We get to the diner and look up on the tv, and what do I see? The name of my hometown, flashing on the TV. I convince the surly, Eastern European woman to turn up the volume and find out that the police had caught the two snipers who had been shooting in the DC area (remember that?) - so Happy Birthday to me.
We go home, sleep for three hours and then do whatever 18 year old spends her whole life dreaming of - stood outside of the Today show like a couple of tourist idiots and made a sign using notebook paper, a crayola marker and some chewed gum.
It totally worked, y'all. I spent the 6:05 AM minute of my 18th birthday getting a hug from the weather-guy-who-isn't-Al-Roker.
As if that wasn't the most amazing thing - a few hours later (after turning in aforementioned paper) my Mom, Big Cuz, and Aunt Bluh- Bluh rolled up/down from Maryland/Nantucket respectively.
Since I didn't have any friends yet, my family was sweet enough to come celebrate with me. My mom drove 4 hours to bring me my favorite food and quality time with my favorite older cousin. And my aunt came down from her island sanctuary to spend a crazy weekend in noisy, smell, dirty New York.
Not only did they come to visit, they also brought presents (as if their presence wasn't enough). For my birthday my Cousin Peter had invited me to come with him to see Aida at Lincoln Center. And I was desperately in need of the appropriate attire. My grandmother (in one of the best Birthday maneuvers of my grown up life) sent up five dresses and I got to pick two (Oh! The luxury!)
I ended up picking a funky black and brown patterned one with bell sleeves and a wide skirt (which is what I actually wore the night of the opera) and my very. first. Little Black Dress. It was simple, and flattering and didn't need to be dry cleaned. When I wore it, I felt like such.a.grown.up.
After my family left, I cried for the first and only time from true homesickness (rather than homesickness mixed with heartbreak, or school/job woes). To have a family that loved me enough to drive all this way and celebrate with me. How could I spend my life so far away from all that?
That was the last birthday I spent with my family until I turned 23 - when my Dad was in Chicago and took me out to delicious tapas. And since then, I haven't been lucky enough to have any family close by to help me celebrate. Luckily I have this amazing pile of friends to make me feel embarrassingly loved, but I miss my family sometimes too.
And - that little black dress? The one I kept, but didn't wear to the Opera? It still hangs in my closet. I wore it last Thursday to an event. And about a month before that to an important meeting. And maybe two weeks before that, out to dinner. It's gotten a little smaller - but it still reminds me of my family, goes through the wash like a champ and comes out making me feel just as grown up as it did 8 years ago.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Thursday's Best Internet Finds! Traveling Edition.
Guys. It's almost Friday. Woot.
Here are some things from the internet to keep you going until 2 or 3 PM tomorrow when you check out on the week and spend the rest of your work day on Facebook and devising plans to sneak out early.
I am beyond excited to know both of these amazing woman personally. They are both smart, funny and look really good in a LBD. Not only that - they are both on incredible journeys that reading about leaves me seething with jealousy.
Meegan and I worked together as Smart Homies at MSI. And she let me buy her copy of Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim for super cheap after my Mom took mine. Right now she is at a Sloth Sanctuary in Costa Rica helping injured sloths and having a Grade-A adventure. She is also taking videos. Read (and watch, for all of you with lazy eyes) about all of the amazing things she is doing Here!
Holly was one of my favorite students while I taught dance (since it was over 10 years ago, I am allowed to have retrospective favorites). She just graduated from college (those years went by fast!) and is now on a trip to Cambodia! She is working with children (perhaps in an orphanage?) and posts some insanely adorable pictures. I get so excited to see kids I have worked with grow up to be amazing young adults. Holly's super cute photos and descriptions of her adventures can be found Here!
Sadly, both of their adventures are much too short - but bookmark them and read while you can.
Here are some things from the internet to keep you going until 2 or 3 PM tomorrow when you check out on the week and spend the rest of your work day on Facebook and devising plans to sneak out early.
I am beyond excited to know both of these amazing woman personally. They are both smart, funny and look really good in a LBD. Not only that - they are both on incredible journeys that reading about leaves me seething with jealousy.
Meegan and I worked together as Smart Homies at MSI. And she let me buy her copy of Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim for super cheap after my Mom took mine. Right now she is at a Sloth Sanctuary in Costa Rica helping injured sloths and having a Grade-A adventure. She is also taking videos. Read (and watch, for all of you with lazy eyes) about all of the amazing things she is doing Here!
Holly was one of my favorite students while I taught dance (since it was over 10 years ago, I am allowed to have retrospective favorites). She just graduated from college (those years went by fast!) and is now on a trip to Cambodia! She is working with children (perhaps in an orphanage?) and posts some insanely adorable pictures. I get so excited to see kids I have worked with grow up to be amazing young adults. Holly's super cute photos and descriptions of her adventures can be found Here!
Sadly, both of their adventures are much too short - but bookmark them and read while you can.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Giving you space
Listen everyone - we've talked about spelling and if you were around back when I was in high school/early college years, we perhaps talked about my struggles with "paragraphs that aren't so long you want to stab yourself in the eye," but here is something that I am having some real problems with -
I cannot remember that there is only one space after a sentence-ending period now. I am finding it nearly impossible to finish a sentence and then only hit the space bar once before starting the next one. My brain can only compute hitting it twice.
We've had a computer since I was in elementary school. I recently passed the point where I have been using a computer (and so, by association, putting two spaces at the end of a sentence) for more than 50% of my life, and when you consider that I didn't actual have fine motor skills for the first couple years, its an even bigger divide.
I understand that there are also people out there who have a much more impressive percentage of how much of their lives they've had a computer, but for the most part they are 16 and cannot be trusted. And I understand that there are people who are my age who have acclimated just fine. But really, its a challenge to change a subconscious action. Can you imagine if they just moved the "J" key over to where the quotation mark key is? There would be an outrage. They would take to the streets! QWERY 4 LYFE!
So, this blog is an apology for the fact that when you read this blog, you may notice that sometimes there are two spaces and some times there is just one after a sentence is over. I ask that you try not to hate me too much for my complete disregard of what is the Correct thing to do.
I will have you know that in any sort of professional writing, I am willing to go that extra mile and remove all the extraneous space betwixt my sentences. Also, I spell check like its my job (which, sometimes, it is) which is how I know I spelled sentence wrong, and differently ever single time I wrote it in the first draft of this blog.
I cannot remember that there is only one space after a sentence-ending period now. I am finding it nearly impossible to finish a sentence and then only hit the space bar once before starting the next one. My brain can only compute hitting it twice.
We've had a computer since I was in elementary school. I recently passed the point where I have been using a computer (and so, by association, putting two spaces at the end of a sentence) for more than 50% of my life, and when you consider that I didn't actual have fine motor skills for the first couple years, its an even bigger divide.
I understand that there are also people out there who have a much more impressive percentage of how much of their lives they've had a computer, but for the most part they are 16 and cannot be trusted. And I understand that there are people who are my age who have acclimated just fine. But really, its a challenge to change a subconscious action. Can you imagine if they just moved the "J" key over to where the quotation mark key is? There would be an outrage. They would take to the streets! QWERY 4 LYFE!
So, this blog is an apology for the fact that when you read this blog, you may notice that sometimes there are two spaces and some times there is just one after a sentence is over. I ask that you try not to hate me too much for my complete disregard of what is the Correct thing to do.
I will have you know that in any sort of professional writing, I am willing to go that extra mile and remove all the extraneous space betwixt my sentences. Also, I spell check like its my job (which, sometimes, it is) which is how I know I spelled sentence wrong, and differently ever single time I wrote it in the first draft of this blog.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Book 16 - Feed
So. I just realized I am supposed to read 26 books in 11 weeks. Survey says? Not possible. As far as resolutions go this year - I did not do so well. Typical.
Anyway - I am still reading books and New Yorkers, but mostly watching television. And now? Having nightmares.
Books very rarely affect me outside of when I am reading them. Exceptions? The Historian and The Kiss - which made me so fully depressed in every moment of my life that I literally had to stop everything and finish reading it so I could be put out of my misery.
Anyway, Feed is yet another book that messed with me outside of book-reading time.
First things, first. I got this book from one of the parents at my program. The glee this brings me is nearly indescribable. I love book recommendations and I really love when they come from places and people you wouldn't expect. This particular parent is lovely, but I don't know how much she knows about what I read. Truth be told - I will probably read a book recommended by an acquaintance before a friend. If only because they are so much more rare, that I am more curious about what their recommendation says about me/them/our relationship. Double bonus points for when you actually let me borrow your copy of the book (how do you know I am going to give it back? That's trust).
Anyway. In theory - Feed is kind of brilliant. It combines two incredibly trendy topics (blogs and zombies) and explores them in a really thought-provoking-about-the-future kind of way.
The flaws? Well, the language is colloquial at best. And here's the thing - I love informal writing. In case you have just been clicking on this page and not actually reading anything, colloquialisms are my bread and butter. However, in book form, it doesn't really work for me. Its hard to read sarcasm without kind of rolling my eyes. I think it, more than subject matter, is what makes a book for teenagers rather than spanning all age groups. And Feed drops the F-bomb like its trying to impress its older brothers. I found it somewhat tedious.
And, I love my brother like, a fair amount. We are pretty cool. However, there was something really creepy about the relationship between the siblings in this book. Maybe it was the chasing zombies bit. There is no way my brother and I would chase zombies together. We would be on the couch crossing our fingers that those zombies might be in the kitchen making us a sandwich.
The other thing is I really, really Hated the way the book ended. Without dropping a major spoiler fart on this blog - I really feel like she made the wrong choice - especially in terms of making it a trilogy. I am not going to say this guarantees that I am not going to read the next one, because that kind of hyperbole always kicks me in the ass (see - leggings) but I feel like I lost a fair amount of interest. Feel free to get a spoiler-iffic discussion going in the comments regarding this if you'd like.
All that being said, this was an entertaining read. As I discovered while reading this book, I am way more interested in medically-created zombies over religious/extraterrestrial/unexplained zombies. Also, as a card-carrying, check-cashing (back in the day) member of the print press and a hopeless romantic about the future of blogging I really love how these things got tied together. Also, I loved the character of Buffy - and the idea of a "fictional." How nice to give people who fill the internet with fan fiction, deviantart, Emo-y Live Journal poetry a place to call home and a sense of ownership and ranking-system value (and I am not saying what they do now isn't valuable, it is just hard sometimes to wade through the painful stuff and find the things that are good).
But its truly the isolationist themes that got to me. As I went to a football game, and traveled on public transit and spent hours and hours at a company retreat trying to figure out how I can get more kids into classes that are already at 20 or 30 people. I tried to imagine a world where you didn't do all these things - where, in fact, you avoided them.
I am not going to lie - it freaked me out. As a person who craves big city anonymity over the suburbs (which, according to this book, is what the universal norm will be after the zombies come) this is more terrifying than the actual zombies. In every minute where I was surrounded by complete strangers, I felt my breath catching - what happens when there is a panic? What will I do? Fun fact - the only thing I could ever think to do was, "find an exit strategy." I would be the worst real-person-turned-hero Ever.
The whole, "Whoops, how did we get zombies?" plot actually made sense, and felt so stomach-wrenching plausible. And as we wrangle with the media leaving out pieces of the story, and flat-out not covering things (the #occupywallstreet movement comes to mind). I got all panicky. It reminded me of the story my Mom told me about the first time she read, The Handmaid's Tale, and then she went to the bank and her ATM card didn't work. An awful sense of foreboding terror.
Is there anything but an awful sense of foreboding terror? Like is there a whimsical sense of your impending doom? Perhaps to one of those emo poets?
Anyway - I am still reading books and New Yorkers, but mostly watching television. And now? Having nightmares.
Books very rarely affect me outside of when I am reading them. Exceptions? The Historian and The Kiss - which made me so fully depressed in every moment of my life that I literally had to stop everything and finish reading it so I could be put out of my misery.
Anyway, Feed is yet another book that messed with me outside of book-reading time.
image (via)
First things, first. I got this book from one of the parents at my program. The glee this brings me is nearly indescribable. I love book recommendations and I really love when they come from places and people you wouldn't expect. This particular parent is lovely, but I don't know how much she knows about what I read. Truth be told - I will probably read a book recommended by an acquaintance before a friend. If only because they are so much more rare, that I am more curious about what their recommendation says about me/them/our relationship. Double bonus points for when you actually let me borrow your copy of the book (how do you know I am going to give it back? That's trust).
Anyway. In theory - Feed is kind of brilliant. It combines two incredibly trendy topics (blogs and zombies) and explores them in a really thought-provoking-about-the-future kind of way.
The flaws? Well, the language is colloquial at best. And here's the thing - I love informal writing. In case you have just been clicking on this page and not actually reading anything, colloquialisms are my bread and butter. However, in book form, it doesn't really work for me. Its hard to read sarcasm without kind of rolling my eyes. I think it, more than subject matter, is what makes a book for teenagers rather than spanning all age groups. And Feed drops the F-bomb like its trying to impress its older brothers. I found it somewhat tedious.
And, I love my brother like, a fair amount. We are pretty cool. However, there was something really creepy about the relationship between the siblings in this book. Maybe it was the chasing zombies bit. There is no way my brother and I would chase zombies together. We would be on the couch crossing our fingers that those zombies might be in the kitchen making us a sandwich.
The other thing is I really, really Hated the way the book ended. Without dropping a major spoiler fart on this blog - I really feel like she made the wrong choice - especially in terms of making it a trilogy. I am not going to say this guarantees that I am not going to read the next one, because that kind of hyperbole always kicks me in the ass (see - leggings) but I feel like I lost a fair amount of interest. Feel free to get a spoiler-iffic discussion going in the comments regarding this if you'd like.
All that being said, this was an entertaining read. As I discovered while reading this book, I am way more interested in medically-created zombies over religious/extraterrestrial/unexplained zombies. Also, as a card-carrying, check-cashing (back in the day) member of the print press and a hopeless romantic about the future of blogging I really love how these things got tied together. Also, I loved the character of Buffy - and the idea of a "fictional." How nice to give people who fill the internet with fan fiction, deviantart, Emo-y Live Journal poetry a place to call home and a sense of ownership and ranking-system value (and I am not saying what they do now isn't valuable, it is just hard sometimes to wade through the painful stuff and find the things that are good).
But its truly the isolationist themes that got to me. As I went to a football game, and traveled on public transit and spent hours and hours at a company retreat trying to figure out how I can get more kids into classes that are already at 20 or 30 people. I tried to imagine a world where you didn't do all these things - where, in fact, you avoided them.
I am not going to lie - it freaked me out. As a person who craves big city anonymity over the suburbs (which, according to this book, is what the universal norm will be after the zombies come) this is more terrifying than the actual zombies. In every minute where I was surrounded by complete strangers, I felt my breath catching - what happens when there is a panic? What will I do? Fun fact - the only thing I could ever think to do was, "find an exit strategy." I would be the worst real-person-turned-hero Ever.
The whole, "Whoops, how did we get zombies?" plot actually made sense, and felt so stomach-wrenching plausible. And as we wrangle with the media leaving out pieces of the story, and flat-out not covering things (the #occupywallstreet movement comes to mind). I got all panicky. It reminded me of the story my Mom told me about the first time she read, The Handmaid's Tale, and then she went to the bank and her ATM card didn't work. An awful sense of foreboding terror.
Is there anything but an awful sense of foreboding terror? Like is there a whimsical sense of your impending doom? Perhaps to one of those emo poets?
Monday, October 10, 2011
Best Birthday Stories - The one with the glass
So in honor of my impending 27th birthday (which is the official beginning of being Old) I am counting down some of my favorite birthday stories. Best does not necessarily mean happiest or most special, but really that they are the stories that have stuck with me throughout the years.
I had exactly three Redmond's birthdays - at the middle one when I turned 24, I wore a flower print dress and my hair looked amazing.
We started with champagne at the Ashland apartment and then moved to the temple of doom. Needless to say (because its Redmonds) we were overserved. About a month before my birthday, I decided that Crown Royal and ginger ale was my signature drink...and I haven't had one since.
Once I started throwing maraschino cherries at the waitstaff it was time to go. But going home? Hell no - that's for 25 year-olds. So we went to Baby Atlas which is the best and occasionally worst place to have a dance party. Its one of the biggest crap shoots in the city.
On that particular night, it was about half an hour from being a crime scene. Within 10 minutes, 4 beer bottles had been shattered precariously close to my feet.
You would think that since it was the end of October, I would have had shoes on to cover my feet from the shards of glass flying everywhere. But if you knew me, you would know that I had flip flops on, because I am a child.
So rather than having a dance party with my friends, I sat upstairs in Matilda's and let Boyfriend (who was still trying to woo me at this point) pick glass of my (essentially) bare feet. C'est tres romantic.
Once everyone realized what kind of clusterbomb Baby Atlas was on that particular night, we decided to go to Clark's for some "gee.dee hashbrowns." Once we got there, Maimees friend who was in town for the weekend stormed out, for reasons unknown to all of us, and decided he was going to walk the the three miles back to her apartment (despite not having any idea where he was or where her apartment was).
That was pretty lame, but then there were chicken fingers and a side of pancakes and I felt better, even though there was probably still some glass in my foot.
Then it was time to go home, because even at the tender, young age of 24, I could only handle so much physical pain, whiskey and buzz killing.
Once we got back to the apartment on Ashland, I was trying to take off my coat, which was clearly a task I was not up to, as in the process, I managed to knock a champagne glass off the coffee table and break it into a million pieces.
To this day, I cannot quite figure out the physics of this particular maneuver and had Boyfriend not been there, I probably would have just put a note on the door, telling people it was there and left it until morning. But while I lay on the couch talking simultaneously about how I was far too old and how I wish you could always eat chicken nuggets with maple syrup, Boyfriend cleaned up my mess (the first of many, to be sure) before putting me to bed.
This birthday was clearly a disaster, but it makes a good story and it was pretty much the last birthday of complete debauchery. AND, I found out later, a friend of a friend, hooked up with another friend of a friend that night after meeting at my party. It was probably because of my hair (it really did look amazing).
I had exactly three Redmond's birthdays - at the middle one when I turned 24, I wore a flower print dress and my hair looked amazing.
We started with champagne at the Ashland apartment and then moved to the temple of doom. Needless to say (because its Redmonds) we were overserved. About a month before my birthday, I decided that Crown Royal and ginger ale was my signature drink...and I haven't had one since.
Once I started throwing maraschino cherries at the waitstaff it was time to go. But going home? Hell no - that's for 25 year-olds. So we went to Baby Atlas which is the best and occasionally worst place to have a dance party. Its one of the biggest crap shoots in the city.
On that particular night, it was about half an hour from being a crime scene. Within 10 minutes, 4 beer bottles had been shattered precariously close to my feet.
You would think that since it was the end of October, I would have had shoes on to cover my feet from the shards of glass flying everywhere. But if you knew me, you would know that I had flip flops on, because I am a child.
So rather than having a dance party with my friends, I sat upstairs in Matilda's and let Boyfriend (who was still trying to woo me at this point) pick glass of my (essentially) bare feet. C'est tres romantic.
Once everyone realized what kind of clusterbomb Baby Atlas was on that particular night, we decided to go to Clark's for some "gee.dee hashbrowns." Once we got there, Maimees friend who was in town for the weekend stormed out, for reasons unknown to all of us, and decided he was going to walk the the three miles back to her apartment (despite not having any idea where he was or where her apartment was).
That was pretty lame, but then there were chicken fingers and a side of pancakes and I felt better, even though there was probably still some glass in my foot.
Then it was time to go home, because even at the tender, young age of 24, I could only handle so much physical pain, whiskey and buzz killing.
Once we got back to the apartment on Ashland, I was trying to take off my coat, which was clearly a task I was not up to, as in the process, I managed to knock a champagne glass off the coffee table and break it into a million pieces.
To this day, I cannot quite figure out the physics of this particular maneuver and had Boyfriend not been there, I probably would have just put a note on the door, telling people it was there and left it until morning. But while I lay on the couch talking simultaneously about how I was far too old and how I wish you could always eat chicken nuggets with maple syrup, Boyfriend cleaned up my mess (the first of many, to be sure) before putting me to bed.
This birthday was clearly a disaster, but it makes a good story and it was pretty much the last birthday of complete debauchery. AND, I found out later, a friend of a friend, hooked up with another friend of a friend that night after meeting at my party. It was probably because of my hair (it really did look amazing).
Saturday, October 08, 2011
The Post about "Dance Moms"
I very much considered not writing this blog - especially since I just wrote about dance a hot minute ago, but my brain is wickedly lacking in the "things to bother people with" department and I know y'all are just itching to get some new bidz'ness to waste your work day with.
Here's the thing people, Dance Moms is either the craziest, scammiest, most absurd piece of reality television on right now (which is saying a. Lot) or competitive dance has changed in the past 11 years.
Back in my day. When you competitively danced, you were given a routine at the beginning of the "season," MONTHS ahead of your first competition. Whether it was small group, solo or large group every thing was choreographed, costumed and practiced within an inch of its pointed-toes, big-arms life before you could even feasibly buy a plane ticket to the competition. You did the same routine (or maybe, some at one competition and some at another) and you wore the same clothes and Nothing Changed.
I think once, mid-season, a triple piourette got made a double because someone couldn't land it and they were blowing the timing, but beyond small things - everything was always the same for a whole season. In fact I am willing to wager a guess that if you pumped the particular jams that I danced to, I could still whip out some moves. This was Eleven Years ago. That is how ingrained into my head these dances were. There are some brain cells that could have probably been put to better use figuring out what calculus is exactly - but nope, those cells are full of shuffle-cross-step-ball-change.
SO NOW. I am watching Dance Moms because it is the kind of junky television that gets my motor going. Oh man, little girls and their insane parents with sequins thrown in...its like taking bong hits of tackiness. The only thing that makes me sad is it is on at the same time as Toddlers and Tiaras. Its like Lifetime and TLC want you to make a choice. And I say, cut the baby in half. I want it all.
(a side note - there is a piece of me that knows it is wrong to watch both of these shows with as much regularity as I do - so I refuse to tivo either of them. I will very often watch Dance Moms on demand, relax its free, but I will not make it "appointment viewing." There is a frilly ankle-socked line that I am just not willing to cross).
Anyway - on Dance Moms the girls learn dances 3 - 5 days before the competition and there seems to be some sort of disastrous situation with the costumes that never, ever seems to land in any one's favor (except, of course, Maddie - she wins at everything) and they are always scrambling. This is totally insane. Of course they aren't placing. Of course they are forgetting the steps. They're eight years-old. Unless you have some sort of Rain-man like abilities, almost no one is going to learn a dance in three hours, especially a girl who is verbally abused by her manipulative, terrifying freight train of a dance teacher.
So now my question is - what the blunt? Is this some sort of thing cooked up by the producers so that the crewneck-kitten-applique-sweatshirt wearing brigade watching this over their Stoffers lean cuisines don't get too bored? Is it Abby Lee drinking that hubris juice? Or is this how competitions are done now?
My experience was limited to be sure (I never got to practice my dance in front of a drag queen named La'Queefa - much to my retrospective dismay) but I cannot image this is how they are running these particular shit shows.
Anyway, this has always struck me as so false and transparent. Why would you be trying to get costumes less than a week in advance? Doesn't that just sound like a bad idea? See also getting a kid to commit anything to memory.
And now that I've seen the finale where (spoilers!) they have to audition for the "music video" there was this huge "a-ha!" reveal of why Abby Lee tortured her dancers by not giving them enough time. It was a training technique! Ooohhhhh.
Nope. Not at all. That business is for your class time. In classes you can learn a combination in 10 minutes and then perform it all to your hearts content - in competitions its just stupid.
AND, while we are talking about things that are stupid, I cannot imagine something dumber than having parents observe classes and auditions and rehearsals. I will give them a pass on the parents being there for the music video shoot since I think its required to have a guardian on location for anything like that - but otherwise, this is a total scam set up by Lifetime. No dance teacher (or really any teacher/coach) wants parents within a 2 mile radius of a class or rehearsal happening. It only makes everyone mad and the baby jesus cry pink glittery tears of sadness.
On a personal note, I was SO satisfied to see (spoilers!) Chloe get the lead in the video. As a second banana in my own experience who once or twice had that moment - it is the most satisfying thing. One can only hope that it will help her realize that the best thing she can do is get out of there right after high school and become a worldly, confident woman while Maddie tears her acl, gets knocked up by a casting director and moves back in with her lunatic mom for the rest of time.
Here's the thing people, Dance Moms is either the craziest, scammiest, most absurd piece of reality television on right now (which is saying a. Lot) or competitive dance has changed in the past 11 years.
Back in my day. When you competitively danced, you were given a routine at the beginning of the "season," MONTHS ahead of your first competition. Whether it was small group, solo or large group every thing was choreographed, costumed and practiced within an inch of its pointed-toes, big-arms life before you could even feasibly buy a plane ticket to the competition. You did the same routine (or maybe, some at one competition and some at another) and you wore the same clothes and Nothing Changed.
I think once, mid-season, a triple piourette got made a double because someone couldn't land it and they were blowing the timing, but beyond small things - everything was always the same for a whole season. In fact I am willing to wager a guess that if you pumped the particular jams that I danced to, I could still whip out some moves. This was Eleven Years ago. That is how ingrained into my head these dances were. There are some brain cells that could have probably been put to better use figuring out what calculus is exactly - but nope, those cells are full of shuffle-cross-step-ball-change.
SO NOW. I am watching Dance Moms because it is the kind of junky television that gets my motor going. Oh man, little girls and their insane parents with sequins thrown in...its like taking bong hits of tackiness. The only thing that makes me sad is it is on at the same time as Toddlers and Tiaras. Its like Lifetime and TLC want you to make a choice. And I say, cut the baby in half. I want it all.
(a side note - there is a piece of me that knows it is wrong to watch both of these shows with as much regularity as I do - so I refuse to tivo either of them. I will very often watch Dance Moms on demand, relax its free, but I will not make it "appointment viewing." There is a frilly ankle-socked line that I am just not willing to cross).
Anyway - on Dance Moms the girls learn dances 3 - 5 days before the competition and there seems to be some sort of disastrous situation with the costumes that never, ever seems to land in any one's favor (except, of course, Maddie - she wins at everything) and they are always scrambling. This is totally insane. Of course they aren't placing. Of course they are forgetting the steps. They're eight years-old. Unless you have some sort of Rain-man like abilities, almost no one is going to learn a dance in three hours, especially a girl who is verbally abused by her manipulative, terrifying freight train of a dance teacher.
So now my question is - what the blunt? Is this some sort of thing cooked up by the producers so that the crewneck-kitten-applique-sweatshirt wearing brigade watching this over their Stoffers lean cuisines don't get too bored? Is it Abby Lee drinking that hubris juice? Or is this how competitions are done now?
My experience was limited to be sure (I never got to practice my dance in front of a drag queen named La'Queefa - much to my retrospective dismay) but I cannot image this is how they are running these particular shit shows.
Anyway, this has always struck me as so false and transparent. Why would you be trying to get costumes less than a week in advance? Doesn't that just sound like a bad idea? See also getting a kid to commit anything to memory.
And now that I've seen the finale where (spoilers!) they have to audition for the "music video" there was this huge "a-ha!" reveal of why Abby Lee tortured her dancers by not giving them enough time. It was a training technique! Ooohhhhh.
Nope. Not at all. That business is for your class time. In classes you can learn a combination in 10 minutes and then perform it all to your hearts content - in competitions its just stupid.
AND, while we are talking about things that are stupid, I cannot imagine something dumber than having parents observe classes and auditions and rehearsals. I will give them a pass on the parents being there for the music video shoot since I think its required to have a guardian on location for anything like that - but otherwise, this is a total scam set up by Lifetime. No dance teacher (or really any teacher/coach) wants parents within a 2 mile radius of a class or rehearsal happening. It only makes everyone mad and the baby jesus cry pink glittery tears of sadness.
On a personal note, I was SO satisfied to see (spoilers!) Chloe get the lead in the video. As a second banana in my own experience who once or twice had that moment - it is the most satisfying thing. One can only hope that it will help her realize that the best thing she can do is get out of there right after high school and become a worldly, confident woman while Maddie tears her acl, gets knocked up by a casting director and moves back in with her lunatic mom for the rest of time.
Friday, October 07, 2011
and Beyond.
Apparently, NASA is looking for Astronauts.
I struggle with thinking that I am worthless a fair amount of the time and normally a little bit of convincing can get me to see that maybe I am worth just a touch more than my Kelly Blue Book value.
However, this is one area that makes me feel completely hopeless.
I have always wanted to go into space. Its a completely intangible dream but one (like so many others) I can't seem to shake.
I can see how impractical it is, but beyond that, I am also quite aware that I will never be smart enough to go into space.
You can try to negotiate with me all you want on this one, but I will never back down. This is the one thing I have ever wanted that is completely unobtainable, not because of luck or money or resources, but because I do not have the brain power to accomplish it.
Its frustrating, to say the least, but something I accept with only a little bit of sadness.
I know there are a lot of things that deserve money over the funding of the space program (many of them are causes that are nearest and dearest to my heart) but to go to space? To go beyond? To experience something that no one who has gone there seems to be able to truly describe?
I want it if only for that challenge.
Is this giving up? Or is it acceptance?
While I know I am not qualified, I challenge those who do go into space (and also read my blog, I have to assume that the two are not mutually exclusive) to be smart enough to get there, and then write about it.
I struggle with thinking that I am worthless a fair amount of the time and normally a little bit of convincing can get me to see that maybe I am worth just a touch more than my Kelly Blue Book value.
However, this is one area that makes me feel completely hopeless.
I have always wanted to go into space. Its a completely intangible dream but one (like so many others) I can't seem to shake.
I can see how impractical it is, but beyond that, I am also quite aware that I will never be smart enough to go into space.
You can try to negotiate with me all you want on this one, but I will never back down. This is the one thing I have ever wanted that is completely unobtainable, not because of luck or money or resources, but because I do not have the brain power to accomplish it.
Its frustrating, to say the least, but something I accept with only a little bit of sadness.
I know there are a lot of things that deserve money over the funding of the space program (many of them are causes that are nearest and dearest to my heart) but to go to space? To go beyond? To experience something that no one who has gone there seems to be able to truly describe?
I want it if only for that challenge.
Is this giving up? Or is it acceptance?
While I know I am not qualified, I challenge those who do go into space (and also read my blog, I have to assume that the two are not mutually exclusive) to be smart enough to get there, and then write about it.
Thursday, October 06, 2011
An apple.
My MacBook was a Christmas/Graduation present from my Mom the winter after I graduated from college. When she gave it to me, I think she thought I didn't like it, because I lost the power of speech.
I could not believe that this thing I had wanted so very badly was actually now mine.
Every time I open it, this small piece of me gets so excited because this Macbook is still mine.
Call it hype, call it a superior product, call it easy-to-use - I have never loved any piece of technology quite as much as I have loved my MacBook (and now my future phone).
And whether or not you own an apple product (and let's be real, you probably do) you have to admire a guy who was able to build this much hype.
"Because the man who was crazy enough to think he could change the world, was the one who did."
My job is silly, but in some ways this quote speaks to everything I do and every goal I set. Most of the writing on this overpriced, dirty (white was a bad choice) and now frustratingly slow (more RAM for Christmas plz) is frivolous, but there is some, just sitting on the desk top, that speaks to this dream.
Thank you Steve Jobs for everything you created. Even if its all just smoke and mirrors and funny ads.
At least it doesn't get viruses.
I could not believe that this thing I had wanted so very badly was actually now mine.
Every time I open it, this small piece of me gets so excited because this Macbook is still mine.
Call it hype, call it a superior product, call it easy-to-use - I have never loved any piece of technology quite as much as I have loved my MacBook (and now my future phone).
And whether or not you own an apple product (and let's be real, you probably do) you have to admire a guy who was able to build this much hype.
"Because the man who was crazy enough to think he could change the world, was the one who did."
My job is silly, but in some ways this quote speaks to everything I do and every goal I set. Most of the writing on this overpriced, dirty (white was a bad choice) and now frustratingly slow (more RAM for Christmas plz) is frivolous, but there is some, just sitting on the desk top, that speaks to this dream.
Thank you Steve Jobs for everything you created. Even if its all just smoke and mirrors and funny ads.
At least it doesn't get viruses.
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Get a job (an open letter to my baby sister)
Dear 'Bear,
So you are going on a job interview. Congratulations! While I know that you have gone on a few of these in the past, you will discover that people hiring college students are looking for something a little different than people hiring high schoolers. When you a hire a high schooler you really just want them not to show up to work stoned and maybe maaaaybe go 5 minutes with out answering their cellphones once in a while (the things we do for cheap labor).
When you a hire a college student (at least, in my experience of hiring college students, which I now do with some regularity) you are using this interviewing process as a learning experience for them, but I see it not as a, "I am not going to hire you just because you showed up 'almost' on time and are learning" rather a, "When you don't get a phone call from me, use it as a chance to learn something about not being terrible at this," learning experience.
And guess what, chances are most of the college students you are competing against for these jobs probably do not have meddling older sisters to tell them how its done. So, anytime you would like to show your thanks in snowcaps and a diet Green Tea Ginger Ale, is fine with me. You lucky devil. You're welcome.
I will say that if you follow these steps exactly and you don't get the job, you have free reign to call your ex-potential-company-of-employment whatever sort of conjugation of "douchebag" you would like.
So - first things first - you better research the living daylights out of this company. You have a google, use it. "But this company out in po'dunk nowheresville doesn't have a website." Yeah, but chances are they have been written up in the local newspaper, or are listed as an external link as someone else's website. Whatever it is - you can figure out a way to make it work. Figure out a way to bring it up in conversation.
"I want to work here because I truly believe in your mission, [insert mission from website here], and think I would be a valued member of your organization."
"I read about your work with [insert thing you read in the paper/other website] and am excited to be involved in this kind of work."
Here's the thing, this stuff sounds real dumb, but people eat it up, especially from college kids. Its one thing to want a job, its another thing to want a job with this particular hiring-college-kids-because-they-don't-need-health-insurance jamspot.
And then you get to the interview. And you arrive 5-10 minutes early. Not any more or any less. If you roll up 30 minutes early, people are going to be annoyed. They have way more important things to do, like play on facebook, and troll around the office looking for free cupcakes.
And good lord, keep your flip flops at home. And your jeans. And your bookbag. You know what you do bring? Your freakin.resume. Maybe I skipped a tweet somewhere, but I am pretty sure you should bring a copy of your resume with you to every single interview. Not because they'll ask for it, but because on the off chance that they do, you haven't failed at the very first request they've ever made of you.
And during the interview, remember, the thing people like to talk about most?? Is themselves. So talk about why you're qualified and answer all their questions (and for the love of god, spend 20 minutes before you walk into the interview thinking about a time you had a challenge/had to over come something/failed so you don't have to make something up on the spot). But then! Talk about them! Ask them about their background and why they like working at whatever place is underpaying them to do way more work than they should be. Ask them what they would ask if they were being interviewed (oh man! Double bonus points!) and be genuinely interested in what they have to say.
And then? You leave. You can email the next day to say thank you for the opportunity to interview but that is IT. Do not call, or text or bother them. Believe me, if they want to hire you, they probably will.
Be friendly. Smile a lot. Ask questions. Be excited about whatever they are saying. Remember fun facts that you've already learned and drop them like they are hot. In real life you're going to need actually qualifications and proof that you deserve the job, so enjoy this brief moment where being more prepared counts for all the marbles.
Wear deodorant. Don't play with your hair.
Love always,
your big sister.
So you are going on a job interview. Congratulations! While I know that you have gone on a few of these in the past, you will discover that people hiring college students are looking for something a little different than people hiring high schoolers. When you a hire a high schooler you really just want them not to show up to work stoned and maybe maaaaybe go 5 minutes with out answering their cellphones once in a while (the things we do for cheap labor).
When you a hire a college student (at least, in my experience of hiring college students, which I now do with some regularity) you are using this interviewing process as a learning experience for them, but I see it not as a, "I am not going to hire you just because you showed up 'almost' on time and are learning" rather a, "When you don't get a phone call from me, use it as a chance to learn something about not being terrible at this," learning experience.
And guess what, chances are most of the college students you are competing against for these jobs probably do not have meddling older sisters to tell them how its done. So, anytime you would like to show your thanks in snowcaps and a diet Green Tea Ginger Ale, is fine with me. You lucky devil. You're welcome.
I will say that if you follow these steps exactly and you don't get the job, you have free reign to call your ex-potential-company-of-employment whatever sort of conjugation of "douchebag" you would like.
So - first things first - you better research the living daylights out of this company. You have a google, use it. "But this company out in po'dunk nowheresville doesn't have a website." Yeah, but chances are they have been written up in the local newspaper, or are listed as an external link as someone else's website. Whatever it is - you can figure out a way to make it work. Figure out a way to bring it up in conversation.
"I want to work here because I truly believe in your mission, [insert mission from website here], and think I would be a valued member of your organization."
"I read about your work with [insert thing you read in the paper/other website] and am excited to be involved in this kind of work."
Here's the thing, this stuff sounds real dumb, but people eat it up, especially from college kids. Its one thing to want a job, its another thing to want a job with this particular hiring-college-kids-because-they-don't-need-health-insurance jamspot.
And then you get to the interview. And you arrive 5-10 minutes early. Not any more or any less. If you roll up 30 minutes early, people are going to be annoyed. They have way more important things to do, like play on facebook, and troll around the office looking for free cupcakes.
And good lord, keep your flip flops at home. And your jeans. And your bookbag. You know what you do bring? Your freakin.resume. Maybe I skipped a tweet somewhere, but I am pretty sure you should bring a copy of your resume with you to every single interview. Not because they'll ask for it, but because on the off chance that they do, you haven't failed at the very first request they've ever made of you.
And during the interview, remember, the thing people like to talk about most?? Is themselves. So talk about why you're qualified and answer all their questions (and for the love of god, spend 20 minutes before you walk into the interview thinking about a time you had a challenge/had to over come something/failed so you don't have to make something up on the spot). But then! Talk about them! Ask them about their background and why they like working at whatever place is underpaying them to do way more work than they should be. Ask them what they would ask if they were being interviewed (oh man! Double bonus points!) and be genuinely interested in what they have to say.
And then? You leave. You can email the next day to say thank you for the opportunity to interview but that is IT. Do not call, or text or bother them. Believe me, if they want to hire you, they probably will.
Be friendly. Smile a lot. Ask questions. Be excited about whatever they are saying. Remember fun facts that you've already learned and drop them like they are hot. In real life you're going to need actually qualifications and proof that you deserve the job, so enjoy this brief moment where being more prepared counts for all the marbles.
Wear deodorant. Don't play with your hair.
Love always,
your big sister.
Monday, September 26, 2011
I saw it...
This has to be a good sign. You can't have a rainbow on a Monday morning and not have it be a good sign.
Right??
Thursday, September 22, 2011
He gets me.
Rachel - Oh olives. You are the only ones who get me.
Boyfriend - You better not let pickles hear you talk like that...
Also, and I don't mean to brag - but he cooked jerk chicken on Tuesday with a jerk seasoning he made, out of peppers he grew.
I've trained him well.
Boyfriend - You better not let pickles hear you talk like that...
Also, and I don't mean to brag - but he cooked jerk chicken on Tuesday with a jerk seasoning he made, out of peppers he grew.
I've trained him well.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
How lovely to be...
I rarely do nice things for my appearance, because I have accepted myself as a glorified lady hobo but sometimes the opportunity comes along and you take it.
So I got a manicure.
I think in my entire life I have gotten maybe 4 manicures. I documented the nightmare experience of one of them here and here. And then I got one for Bean's wedding with less traumatic results.
And I just got one to celebrate the end of Cindy-Lou's single hood and now I am obsessed with sneaking peeks and my pretty, pretty nails. Of course I've already ruined them a little bit (once a lady hobo, always a lady hobo) but they're still quite nice.
I understand why girls do such things on a regular basis. I don't have the expendable income to allow for such frivolity, but I am inspired to at least try to maintain such a silly piece of femininity for awhile.
Please also note that I got a manicure and then spent most of the day Sunday lying in old sweatpants watching football (as a little bit pictured)...so don't worry - I haven't gone too soft.
So I got a manicure.
This picture makes my fingers look weird.
But, I am obsessed with this pretty blue color.
I think in my entire life I have gotten maybe 4 manicures. I documented the nightmare experience of one of them here and here. And then I got one for Bean's wedding with less traumatic results.
And I just got one to celebrate the end of Cindy-Lou's single hood and now I am obsessed with sneaking peeks and my pretty, pretty nails. Of course I've already ruined them a little bit (once a lady hobo, always a lady hobo) but they're still quite nice.
I understand why girls do such things on a regular basis. I don't have the expendable income to allow for such frivolity, but I am inspired to at least try to maintain such a silly piece of femininity for awhile.
Please also note that I got a manicure and then spent most of the day Sunday lying in old sweatpants watching football (as a little bit pictured)...so don't worry - I haven't gone too soft.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Oh....now I get it.
I hesitate to write about work in this space, because I am quite well aware of how the internet tubes are in everyones' homes - and it is much to easy to link the human me to me on this piece of internet.
But - for a moment, I shall speak in vagaries and metaphors and express as much compassion as my poor, shriveled heart can - to a woman I haven't spoken with in well over seven years.
I used to be a dancer. And I used to be young. And I was somewhat unaware about how many more important things there were in the world besides me and my personal orbit. Now that I am older, I have a little more perspective and have a touch of humility.
Not only that, but I work in a field not too unlike the one I spent the vast majority of my childhood in - and so my perspective is that much more... rotund (??). And so for a moment I would like to give the gift of empathy.
I now understand how hard it must have been to be in charge of something that children (and in some cases, their parents) value so much and put so much weight and focus on. My experiences are different and yet, for the past few weeks I keep coming back to my own childhood - and the irony of this particular role reversal.
I understand how hard it must be to have even the slightest bit of perceived control over a piece of a child's life. I understand the struggle between two rights. I know how important things can seem when you're young.
And so - to the woman who was the me before me - I recognize your struggle. I don't know what it feels like to you but I would be interested to hear it (if I thought you would ever speak to me again).
Life is weird - and I guess I have learned that you would be surprised by the bridges you wish hadn't burned - either through malice or disinterest.
But - for a moment, I shall speak in vagaries and metaphors and express as much compassion as my poor, shriveled heart can - to a woman I haven't spoken with in well over seven years.
I used to be a dancer. And I used to be young. And I was somewhat unaware about how many more important things there were in the world besides me and my personal orbit. Now that I am older, I have a little more perspective and have a touch of humility.
Not only that, but I work in a field not too unlike the one I spent the vast majority of my childhood in - and so my perspective is that much more... rotund (??). And so for a moment I would like to give the gift of empathy.
I now understand how hard it must have been to be in charge of something that children (and in some cases, their parents) value so much and put so much weight and focus on. My experiences are different and yet, for the past few weeks I keep coming back to my own childhood - and the irony of this particular role reversal.
I understand how hard it must be to have even the slightest bit of perceived control over a piece of a child's life. I understand the struggle between two rights. I know how important things can seem when you're young.
And so - to the woman who was the me before me - I recognize your struggle. I don't know what it feels like to you but I would be interested to hear it (if I thought you would ever speak to me again).
Life is weird - and I guess I have learned that you would be surprised by the bridges you wish hadn't burned - either through malice or disinterest.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Book 15 - Unfamiliar Fishes
I spend a lot of time thinking about what I would do were I to meet an author I love in a social setting. I like to imagine that I would be incredibly blase and ask them really erudite questions, perhaps about the oxymoronical irony of using the phrase "erudite questions" - however in my heart of hearts I know I would probably just get embarrassingly drunk and ask if we could be best friends.
The exception to this rule is if I ever meet Sarah Vowell. In this case, I will force myself to stay sober and do whatever I can, even if I am creepily hovering, to listen to every word she says. Then maybe, when its all said and done, find out if she would ever even consider being like, just a regular-see-you-ever-two-months friend. Aiming low, so I won't set myself up for disappointment.
It took me longer than I expected to get through Unfamiliar Fishes. But then I realized that Sarah Vowell books always take a little longer than they should (based on thickness, lack of pictures and size of font) - but that is because she crams so much knowledge into each moment I find myself reading passages over and over to get every nugget of information out of it. This book was no exception.
I was lucky enough to spend some serious quality time in Hawaii a year or so ago, and I went in as a tourist with an embarrassingly WASPy lack of interest about the history of this particular state.
In fact, if I am going to be totally real, my knowledge of the history of Hawaii is based mostly on the Saved By the Bell Hawaii Vacation mini series. In that fine piece of cinematic history, Mr. Belding dresses up as a professor and spews made up crap to save Kelly Kapowski's grandfather's hotel - anyway, he talks about King Kamehameha and how he mandated this hotel be saved back in the day. Every time I saw this movie I was far too interested in how 17 year old Zach Morris thought that he was ready to be a parent and how we had no idea how old Rena Sofer was (also, this maybe one of the best things she's ever done - which says a lot about all the crap she's done over the years).
ANYWAY - when we were driving around Hawaii and I saw the word Kamehameha on all the road signs and finally I verbalized it the same way Principal Belding did and Maimees was impressed that I had gotten the pronunciation right on the first try. I was impressed that something from Saved By the Bell had a modicum of historical accuracy.
It was time to learn something - and any time I can pair learning good conversation-at-parties knowledge with the kind of dark, subtle humor that makes me giggle on my morning commute, I feel like I've won the from-now-until-the-acknowledgements lottery.
It was a difficult and satisfying read, that left me all at once smarter and more at a loss than I was before I started. I now know so much about Hawaii but am helpless about what to do about the incredible douchebaggery of the generations before mine. The story of Hawaii only reiterates what we all already knew about the selfish manifest destiny mindset that America can't seem to kick. But the maple syrup sarcasm that Sarah Vowell pours all over everything makes it that much easier to swallow.
I wish I could be even a fraction as smart and dedicated as Sarah Vowell is - her books are so intricate and wonderful. I want to wear a scarf, brown boots and carry them around - hopefully drawing in funny one-liners and a deeper awareness of how this country really is by osmosis.
Or maybe I'll just get drunk and ask her how she does it.
The exception to this rule is if I ever meet Sarah Vowell. In this case, I will force myself to stay sober and do whatever I can, even if I am creepily hovering, to listen to every word she says. Then maybe, when its all said and done, find out if she would ever even consider being like, just a regular-see-you-ever-two-months friend. Aiming low, so I won't set myself up for disappointment.
image (via)
It took me longer than I expected to get through Unfamiliar Fishes. But then I realized that Sarah Vowell books always take a little longer than they should (based on thickness, lack of pictures and size of font) - but that is because she crams so much knowledge into each moment I find myself reading passages over and over to get every nugget of information out of it. This book was no exception.
I was lucky enough to spend some serious quality time in Hawaii a year or so ago, and I went in as a tourist with an embarrassingly WASPy lack of interest about the history of this particular state.
In fact, if I am going to be totally real, my knowledge of the history of Hawaii is based mostly on the Saved By the Bell Hawaii Vacation mini series. In that fine piece of cinematic history, Mr. Belding dresses up as a professor and spews made up crap to save Kelly Kapowski's grandfather's hotel - anyway, he talks about King Kamehameha and how he mandated this hotel be saved back in the day. Every time I saw this movie I was far too interested in how 17 year old Zach Morris thought that he was ready to be a parent and how we had no idea how old Rena Sofer was (also, this maybe one of the best things she's ever done - which says a lot about all the crap she's done over the years).
ANYWAY - when we were driving around Hawaii and I saw the word Kamehameha on all the road signs and finally I verbalized it the same way Principal Belding did and Maimees was impressed that I had gotten the pronunciation right on the first try. I was impressed that something from Saved By the Bell had a modicum of historical accuracy.
It was time to learn something - and any time I can pair learning good conversation-at-parties knowledge with the kind of dark, subtle humor that makes me giggle on my morning commute, I feel like I've won the from-now-until-the-acknowledgements lottery.
It was a difficult and satisfying read, that left me all at once smarter and more at a loss than I was before I started. I now know so much about Hawaii but am helpless about what to do about the incredible douchebaggery of the generations before mine. The story of Hawaii only reiterates what we all already knew about the selfish manifest destiny mindset that America can't seem to kick. But the maple syrup sarcasm that Sarah Vowell pours all over everything makes it that much easier to swallow.
I wish I could be even a fraction as smart and dedicated as Sarah Vowell is - her books are so intricate and wonderful. I want to wear a scarf, brown boots and carry them around - hopefully drawing in funny one-liners and a deeper awareness of how this country really is by osmosis.
Or maybe I'll just get drunk and ask her how she does it.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Couch yogi
Work-out videos are real, real, real silly but effective.
I still find working out to be easily the worst way to spend my time, so I am trying to shorten the amount of time I spend thinking about it. So I cut out the tedious prep work - carrying gym stuff to work, and then to the gym and then spending any time at all in the gym locker room (blech) and then being smelly in public.
So I am reverting to at-home work out videos. So I can be sweaty in my own house and it doesn't require luggage.
The best thing, other than the feeling of hilarious and absurd self-consciousness (why you are embarrassed? No one can see you...) is the wonderful and all encompassing 90's-ness of these videos.
Perhaps there are some work-out videos that were made after 1995, but they don't let you watch them for free on Netflix. So I have to assume that they stopped making work-out videos shortly after they discovered the internet.
I stick mostly with pilates and yoga videos and its interesting to see the number of dudes they put in these. At most there is one dude wearing like old soccer shorts and a neon tank top - and he looks really uncomfortable. As if he is deathly afraid of one of his brahs is going to accidently catch sight of him in one of these videos and never let him hear the end of it.
The one guy is stuck in the back along with the "overweight" girl who is so overeager and excited to be doing shape your buns pilates that she makes me feel bad about myself. And I mean, its television and she is probably not at all fat, its just that she's standing next to a bunch of twigs in yoga pants and crop tops.
Ultimately, doing 30 minutes of pilates in my living room isn't going to make too much of a difference, especially since I answer my phone, spend time shoo-ing away my cat, and get distracted by noises outside the window.
Easily the best part of these videos is the 60-or-so seconds after the exercising is over and the leader and all of her little yoga minions stand around and pretend to be happy and talk to each other about things like the new sushi joint around the block and mens' inability to commit. When clearly the leader-girl is desperate for everyone to be her friend and not talk about her behind her back, and the other people are wondering if their getting paid for this and where they can get a gd doughnut (just like me).
I still find working out to be easily the worst way to spend my time, so I am trying to shorten the amount of time I spend thinking about it. So I cut out the tedious prep work - carrying gym stuff to work, and then to the gym and then spending any time at all in the gym locker room (blech) and then being smelly in public.
So I am reverting to at-home work out videos. So I can be sweaty in my own house and it doesn't require luggage.
The best thing, other than the feeling of hilarious and absurd self-consciousness (why you are embarrassed? No one can see you...) is the wonderful and all encompassing 90's-ness of these videos.
Perhaps there are some work-out videos that were made after 1995, but they don't let you watch them for free on Netflix. So I have to assume that they stopped making work-out videos shortly after they discovered the internet.
I stick mostly with pilates and yoga videos and its interesting to see the number of dudes they put in these. At most there is one dude wearing like old soccer shorts and a neon tank top - and he looks really uncomfortable. As if he is deathly afraid of one of his brahs is going to accidently catch sight of him in one of these videos and never let him hear the end of it.
The one guy is stuck in the back along with the "overweight" girl who is so overeager and excited to be doing shape your buns pilates that she makes me feel bad about myself. And I mean, its television and she is probably not at all fat, its just that she's standing next to a bunch of twigs in yoga pants and crop tops.
Ultimately, doing 30 minutes of pilates in my living room isn't going to make too much of a difference, especially since I answer my phone, spend time shoo-ing away my cat, and get distracted by noises outside the window.
Easily the best part of these videos is the 60-or-so seconds after the exercising is over and the leader and all of her little yoga minions stand around and pretend to be happy and talk to each other about things like the new sushi joint around the block and mens' inability to commit. When clearly the leader-girl is desperate for everyone to be her friend and not talk about her behind her back, and the other people are wondering if their getting paid for this and where they can get a gd doughnut (just like me).
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
World, we have a problem
The travel bugs bite hard, guys.
I want to go everywhere.
Not a day goes by when I don't look at pictures from one of my journeys. And lets be real, I get it, I am one of the luckiest sonsabitches out there. I have had some really amazing opportunities and I totally value them.
However, traveling is like tattoos, is like carbohydrates - you have a little bit and you just want more.
I spend my days trying to figure out how to get away from real life. Planning adventures, and plotting escapes. A few days ago a friend posted a link for a $600 trip to Ireland.
Here's how the inner monologue goes:
"Oooh, Ireland. I'm going. Done. Let's pick a week."
"Um, inner monologue? We're still paying off our last awesome trip."
"But adventure! At a low cost!"
"You do realize that you have to work sometimes, right? you can't just be on salary and also on vacation all the time."
"Yes but..."
"And for that matter, you know how it takes you 4 weeks to make up 2 weeks of not being at work."
"Yes, but..."
"And aren't you planning a trip to Rio, Cuba, Angola and South Africa?"
"Yes..."
"And possibly to Costa Rica?"
"yes."
"Its time that you realized that you cannot go all the places."
"...okay."
And so I don't go to all the places, but if we're thinking about things that we want, (which according to some, we should spend more time doing, if only to give life a little more focus), I want to travel. I want to see the whole world and I want to write about it. And take pictures of all the sunsets, even though they sometimes look the same. I want to meet people and stumble through languages. I want to be awed and humbled. I want the challenge of new money and different public transit. I want to find the courage to ask questions and go without a map.
And though practicality will, for the time being, win out 90% of the time - I like knowing this about myself. Even if it took me 26 years to put it into words. I know that I want to see the whole world for myself. And then tell everyone else how it goes.
Sorry, world. You're stuck with me as long as I can afford it.
I want to go everywhere.
Not a day goes by when I don't look at pictures from one of my journeys. And lets be real, I get it, I am one of the luckiest sonsabitches out there. I have had some really amazing opportunities and I totally value them.
However, traveling is like tattoos, is like carbohydrates - you have a little bit and you just want more.
I spend my days trying to figure out how to get away from real life. Planning adventures, and plotting escapes. A few days ago a friend posted a link for a $600 trip to Ireland.
Here's how the inner monologue goes:
"Oooh, Ireland. I'm going. Done. Let's pick a week."
"Um, inner monologue? We're still paying off our last awesome trip."
"But adventure! At a low cost!"
"You do realize that you have to work sometimes, right? you can't just be on salary and also on vacation all the time."
"Yes but..."
"And for that matter, you know how it takes you 4 weeks to make up 2 weeks of not being at work."
"Yes, but..."
"And aren't you planning a trip to Rio, Cuba, Angola and South Africa?"
"Yes..."
"And possibly to Costa Rica?"
"yes."
"Its time that you realized that you cannot go all the places."
"...okay."
And so I don't go to all the places, but if we're thinking about things that we want, (which according to some, we should spend more time doing, if only to give life a little more focus), I want to travel. I want to see the whole world and I want to write about it. And take pictures of all the sunsets, even though they sometimes look the same. I want to meet people and stumble through languages. I want to be awed and humbled. I want the challenge of new money and different public transit. I want to find the courage to ask questions and go without a map.
And though practicality will, for the time being, win out 90% of the time - I like knowing this about myself. Even if it took me 26 years to put it into words. I know that I want to see the whole world for myself. And then tell everyone else how it goes.
Sorry, world. You're stuck with me as long as I can afford it.
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Book 14 - Emma
Guys! I read another book! That's what I've been doing instead of writing blogs. I get exactly 6 minutes of quiet time a day and I spend it reading (and checking facebook). Sorry, folks.
So, I read Emma.
And technically, this should count as a re-read as (apparently) I read it in college, however, I think it is one of those books I read the first three pages of and was like, "yeah, I can bullshit my way through any assignments that get tossed my direction. Next!" (in my own defense, I was supposed to read something like 40 books that semester, and, actually attempt a social life...clearly the booze won, every time).
Anyway, so I read Emma. And it took me longer than I was expecting, but I've been traveling and, again, I am a terrible person. Also, the beginning of Emma is pretty long with way more exposition than was really necessary. Reading the book was kind of like taking a mental bath. Occasionally I paid attention to my surroundings, but mostly I just enjoyed the words and how they sounded and how easy it was to find the funny in this particular book.
I struggled with the funny in Pride and Prejudice. Everyone is so concerned with being smart in that book that they left me behind. But in this, I got to enjoy Miss Bates and Harriet along with everyone else.
Guys, Jane Austen writing Miss Bates is, to me, the epitome of my writing goals. I am pretty close, but man, the way you can just hear her talking. Its so awesome to me. I got sick of reading it to myself because I found her so tedious. Any book that brings out an emotion like that deserves two thumbs up (even though I know I have friends who don't agree with my assessment).
Also, can we talk about how big a douche Frank Churchill is? Oh man, douchewaffle of the century. I tots would have fallen for him. What a mess.
And let me just say - Jane Austen knows how to build an effin' moment. You spend most of the book just hanging out and then all of a sudden there is Mr. Knightley professing his love. I literally squeeled. Squeeeeeeeled and then bent my knees and tucked my feet up and brought the book closer to my face as if proximity to the pages made the story more likely to happen to me. Even if Mr. Knightley is, for all intents and purposes, a fuddy-duddy it must be nice to swept off your feet, regency style.
Also, fun note - I bought this from Bookworm, my favorite used book store and paid $4, only to turn it over and discover that back in the day (early 90's?) it retailed for $2.50. I am such a sucker.
image (via)
So, I read Emma.
And technically, this should count as a re-read as (apparently) I read it in college, however, I think it is one of those books I read the first three pages of and was like, "yeah, I can bullshit my way through any assignments that get tossed my direction. Next!" (in my own defense, I was supposed to read something like 40 books that semester, and, actually attempt a social life...clearly the booze won, every time).
Anyway, so I read Emma. And it took me longer than I was expecting, but I've been traveling and, again, I am a terrible person. Also, the beginning of Emma is pretty long with way more exposition than was really necessary. Reading the book was kind of like taking a mental bath. Occasionally I paid attention to my surroundings, but mostly I just enjoyed the words and how they sounded and how easy it was to find the funny in this particular book.
I struggled with the funny in Pride and Prejudice. Everyone is so concerned with being smart in that book that they left me behind. But in this, I got to enjoy Miss Bates and Harriet along with everyone else.
Guys, Jane Austen writing Miss Bates is, to me, the epitome of my writing goals. I am pretty close, but man, the way you can just hear her talking. Its so awesome to me. I got sick of reading it to myself because I found her so tedious. Any book that brings out an emotion like that deserves two thumbs up (even though I know I have friends who don't agree with my assessment).
Also, can we talk about how big a douche Frank Churchill is? Oh man, douchewaffle of the century. I tots would have fallen for him. What a mess.
And let me just say - Jane Austen knows how to build an effin' moment. You spend most of the book just hanging out and then all of a sudden there is Mr. Knightley professing his love. I literally squeeled. Squeeeeeeeled and then bent my knees and tucked my feet up and brought the book closer to my face as if proximity to the pages made the story more likely to happen to me. Even if Mr. Knightley is, for all intents and purposes, a fuddy-duddy it must be nice to swept off your feet, regency style.
Also, fun note - I bought this from Bookworm, my favorite used book store and paid $4, only to turn it over and discover that back in the day (early 90's?) it retailed for $2.50. I am such a sucker.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Some things that are true...
1- I am a bad blogger. (Bad blogger! Outside!)
2- I can no longer determine which of the laundry on my floor is clean, and which is dirty.
3-Buying art builds a certain type of euphoria inside of me. Its like when I was allowed to sit at the grown-ups' table as a kid. I just feel SO grown-up (even when the art in question is this)
4- I am reading Emma. I spend a vast majority of my reading time wishing I was watching Clueless.
5- I rediscovered Livejournal. I used to be angsty and whiny.
6- In the past week and (almost) a half, I have used nearly an entire container of hydrocortisone cream on some nasty bug bites I acquired while in Florida. And they're still itchy. Am I doing it wrong?
7- Door County is on my mind.
2- I can no longer determine which of the laundry on my floor is clean, and which is dirty.
3-Buying art builds a certain type of euphoria inside of me. Its like when I was allowed to sit at the grown-ups' table as a kid. I just feel SO grown-up (even when the art in question is this)
4- I am reading Emma. I spend a vast majority of my reading time wishing I was watching Clueless.
5- I rediscovered Livejournal. I used to be angsty and whiny.
6- In the past week and (almost) a half, I have used nearly an entire container of hydrocortisone cream on some nasty bug bites I acquired while in Florida. And they're still itchy. Am I doing it wrong?
7- Door County is on my mind.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
the one where I equate politics with college dating.
I started this blog post awhile ago, and the abandoned it for adventure and being a whiny baby. So it is slightly less topical, but still very valid and something that is constantly on mah mind.
A few weeks ago, I read this little jam and it hit me, real deep. Because I remember the days and weeks when I didn't believe in Barack Obama. The months of primaries when I was just not feeling the political game he was spittin.
And then, something happened.
I heard him speak. A lot. And I heard the people who love and support him the most speak. And there were the speeches you could hear right through, but there were ones that made me feel like, "listen, I know this guy and believe me - he plays for keeps."
And so I jumped on board. All the way. No looking back. Because when your country is a proverbial dung heap and you are teetering on the edge of grown-up-hood, relying on the people in charge to do you right, you have to have faith in your decisions.
But over the past few year or two, dread has crept into my psyche. Its the worst of the bad break-up stories. He's not the guy who has the moral cajones to admit he's not ready for a real relationship, he's the guy who keeps forgetting to call, and doesn't come out when he says he will, and forgets your birthday BUT insists that he loves you, and your his girl and he's doing the best he can and sometimes he writes poetry and slips it under your dorm room door.
And so (because you are a 19-year old girl in this particular metaphor) you keep trying to believe in him and convince yourself that he just needs time to figure it all out.
But how much is too much time? Or the right amount?
And listen, I am extra-double aware, that he was given a rough hand. And no one is willing to cut him a break. And it makes crazy angry. But I just want him to fight for my honor you know.
I want a stranger to hit on me in a bar and for him to punch that guy in the nose and tell him that I deserve a country with good schools, and affordable health care, and a chance to own a house, and funding for the things that matter to me and if he (the stranger) doesn't like that, then he can get lost.
Is he going to do that? Is he? I am much more grown-up than I was two years ago and I am legitimately fearful for the things that are happening in this country. And I just want some one to tell me its okay and then back it up with some action.
A few weeks ago, I read this little jam and it hit me, real deep. Because I remember the days and weeks when I didn't believe in Barack Obama. The months of primaries when I was just not feeling the political game he was spittin.
And then, something happened.
I heard him speak. A lot. And I heard the people who love and support him the most speak. And there were the speeches you could hear right through, but there were ones that made me feel like, "listen, I know this guy and believe me - he plays for keeps."
And so I jumped on board. All the way. No looking back. Because when your country is a proverbial dung heap and you are teetering on the edge of grown-up-hood, relying on the people in charge to do you right, you have to have faith in your decisions.
But over the past few year or two, dread has crept into my psyche. Its the worst of the bad break-up stories. He's not the guy who has the moral cajones to admit he's not ready for a real relationship, he's the guy who keeps forgetting to call, and doesn't come out when he says he will, and forgets your birthday BUT insists that he loves you, and your his girl and he's doing the best he can and sometimes he writes poetry and slips it under your dorm room door.
And so (because you are a 19-year old girl in this particular metaphor) you keep trying to believe in him and convince yourself that he just needs time to figure it all out.
But how much is too much time? Or the right amount?
And listen, I am extra-double aware, that he was given a rough hand. And no one is willing to cut him a break. And it makes crazy angry. But I just want him to fight for my honor you know.
I want a stranger to hit on me in a bar and for him to punch that guy in the nose and tell him that I deserve a country with good schools, and affordable health care, and a chance to own a house, and funding for the things that matter to me and if he (the stranger) doesn't like that, then he can get lost.
Is he going to do that? Is he? I am much more grown-up than I was two years ago and I am legitimately fearful for the things that are happening in this country. And I just want some one to tell me its okay and then back it up with some action.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Resolutions Update (more chubs, but with a plan!)
I had the very jarring experience of having to put on a bathing suit for the first time all summer last week. Needless to say, it was a very unfortunate reminder of just how poorly I am doing on one of my resolutions.
But, with that came a renewed passion to get in shape for bathing suit season 2012 (or possibly late 2011, if anyone wants to have a Caribbean Christmas, I am totally game).
I started counting calories, which has always been the most annoying thing ever, but made less annoying with a future phone app. It has a whole bunch of brand name/restaurant name food on it - and the internet, at this point, pretty much has a calorie count for everything. ALSO, in some parts of the world, they are required to post calorie counts in fast-food restaurants right on the menu. This is totally something that Chicago needs to jump on. Terrible and awesome at the same time (Chicago specializes in that particular combo).
Of course, the minute I realize I need to put on a bathing suit coincided with the minute I went on vacation, when eating as much as possible, all the time, became the name of the game. It was very frustrating to attempt to count calories, only to be over my "limit" by my mid-morning snack. So of course, I picked happiness and ate whatever I damn well wanted. Happily into my work trip (which started exactly 12 hours after my vacation ended). Eat eat eat. And still no exercising.
Anyway - the plan is to quit the gym and find other ways to get exercising. I realized recently that I hate the gym. I hate everything about it. There is no good quality except that it makes me skinnier and sometimes they give away free smoothie samples. Even though my gym is incredibly convenient, and nice and affordable - the act of going to the gym makes me pretty miserable.
I'll probably give it another month, but I am on the hunt for other exercise options. Now that its not blazing hot all the time, I may revisit the notion of biking places. And if I can finally stop dragging my laptop everywhere, it makes the walk to the red line (when I punk out on biking) much much less miserable.
And I want to do other things. I have a boot camp groupon that I am saving for October, and I am researching dance studios and yoga huts (or whatever they call them) that aren't crazy expensive. Any other brilliant fitness ideas (that aren't "stop complaining and go the the gym like a grown-up") would be awesome...
So while I am quite sure that whatever silly fitness goal I made back on 1/1/2011 will never come true. But no harm in putting my game face on for next year.
Also, apparently there are still 130 days left in the year. In case you were thinking that you're running out of time... you totally are.
But, with that came a renewed passion to get in shape for bathing suit season 2012 (or possibly late 2011, if anyone wants to have a Caribbean Christmas, I am totally game).
I started counting calories, which has always been the most annoying thing ever, but made less annoying with a future phone app. It has a whole bunch of brand name/restaurant name food on it - and the internet, at this point, pretty much has a calorie count for everything. ALSO, in some parts of the world, they are required to post calorie counts in fast-food restaurants right on the menu. This is totally something that Chicago needs to jump on. Terrible and awesome at the same time (Chicago specializes in that particular combo).
Of course, the minute I realize I need to put on a bathing suit coincided with the minute I went on vacation, when eating as much as possible, all the time, became the name of the game. It was very frustrating to attempt to count calories, only to be over my "limit" by my mid-morning snack. So of course, I picked happiness and ate whatever I damn well wanted. Happily into my work trip (which started exactly 12 hours after my vacation ended). Eat eat eat. And still no exercising.
Anyway - the plan is to quit the gym and find other ways to get exercising. I realized recently that I hate the gym. I hate everything about it. There is no good quality except that it makes me skinnier and sometimes they give away free smoothie samples. Even though my gym is incredibly convenient, and nice and affordable - the act of going to the gym makes me pretty miserable.
I'll probably give it another month, but I am on the hunt for other exercise options. Now that its not blazing hot all the time, I may revisit the notion of biking places. And if I can finally stop dragging my laptop everywhere, it makes the walk to the red line (when I punk out on biking) much much less miserable.
And I want to do other things. I have a boot camp groupon that I am saving for October, and I am researching dance studios and yoga huts (or whatever they call them) that aren't crazy expensive. Any other brilliant fitness ideas (that aren't "stop complaining and go the the gym like a grown-up") would be awesome...
So while I am quite sure that whatever silly fitness goal I made back on 1/1/2011 will never come true. But no harm in putting my game face on for next year.
Also, apparently there are still 130 days left in the year. In case you were thinking that you're running out of time... you totally are.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Flying Solo
M- "I am sorry, I wish I could be there for you on your existential journey."
R- "Its okay, it wouldn't be much of an existential journey if you were there helping out."
This was part of a much longer conversation that I had a few months back. And it has latched itself right to the front of my conscious.
As someone who is well aware of what an incredibly good life she leads, there are moments when I am awash in the realization of the futility of everything. I desperately grasp into the fog of my own doubt to try to discover what truly matters. Over time, I have found that these things that matter tend to be the ones that sink to the ground, and tend to easily accessible no matter what the mental weather.
However, I have also discovered that this journey through my own mire is one that can only be taken independently. How could anyone else even think to venture through this? No matter what you are willing to offer, be it treasure or particularly empathetic ears, they are useless on a quest with no map or key.
I survive the journey, surely enough. I always do. And I am never very far from where I began.
Eventually the offers of hands-to-hold will wither away from neglect, and then, well, things will be almost just as they are now.
These battles are mine, but there is nothing quite like having someone with to do a victory dance at the end.
R- "Its okay, it wouldn't be much of an existential journey if you were there helping out."
This was part of a much longer conversation that I had a few months back. And it has latched itself right to the front of my conscious.
As someone who is well aware of what an incredibly good life she leads, there are moments when I am awash in the realization of the futility of everything. I desperately grasp into the fog of my own doubt to try to discover what truly matters. Over time, I have found that these things that matter tend to be the ones that sink to the ground, and tend to easily accessible no matter what the mental weather.
However, I have also discovered that this journey through my own mire is one that can only be taken independently. How could anyone else even think to venture through this? No matter what you are willing to offer, be it treasure or particularly empathetic ears, they are useless on a quest with no map or key.
I survive the journey, surely enough. I always do. And I am never very far from where I began.
Eventually the offers of hands-to-hold will wither away from neglect, and then, well, things will be almost just as they are now.
These battles are mine, but there is nothing quite like having someone with to do a victory dance at the end.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
And you say Chi-City...
It's pretty lame that it took me almost three months to put this blog post up but such is life. When my Mom came to visit in May and brought me lots of letters we also did a little bit of sight-seeing including my first Chicago Architecture Boat Tour. We went on a Wendella tour because it was cheaper but, naturally, you get what you pay for. The tour guide wasn't great and didn't drop a whole lot of knowledge that I didn't already know.
But it was a beautiful day and as my mother listened politely I took way too many pictures.
While my heart is firmly entrenched on the East Coast, there is something about this city that truly intoxicates me.
I like to pretend that I am a real photographer sometimes, and I had a lot of fun playing with reflections and shapes.
And thought they are by far the most boring of the whole trip, I did take a few standard "skyline pictures" as well. Although these views of the city pales in comparison to the view from the Shedd Aquarium and points South.
As these last few weeks of summer begin to slip away, I like to take a minute and think about what a stunning place this is. I feel like I spend a lot of my time trying to rush away and do things, and I hardly ever just appreciate it for how pretty it is.
Its going to get cold way sooner than we think, and everyone will go back to being grouchy and hating each other. But no matter what...its very pretty to look at.
Monday, August 08, 2011
Book 13 - The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks
I think one of my least favorite, but most often asked-of questions is, "What kind of books do you like to read?" It's mostly just frustrating in its misguideness.
Why in the world would you limit yourself to "one kind" of books? I know there are people out there who do such a thing, and I salute them for even picking up a book at all, but am frustrated by close and yet so far they are from having their lives changed.
For example, when forced to give an answer besides, "everything," to the above-mentioned question, I often spout "post-apocalyptic fiction." Which pisses people off because they want you to say something that can be easily categorized. If they continue the conversation (I find that this answer can be a turn-off to many) and let me explain (Margaret Atwood, Hunger Games, blah blah) they then eventually ask, "wow, are there a lot of books out there like that?" The answer, at least according to me is, "in the grand scheme of things, not really." Which is why I hate the pigeon hole it puts me in. How frustrating to be leaving David Sedaris, Erik Larson and others off my most favorites list.
Anyway - soap box aside, I love all books. Some more than others, but I am willing to give anything a shot.
Creative Non-fiction is always a genre I forget how much I love. To be learning real facts AND being entranced by a fascinating story? Epic. Win.
Boyfriend recently discovered how awesome books are and his somewhat creative non-fiction bent has been a fantastic ying to my crazy-dramatic-make-'em-ups fiction yang. He has a whole pile of books that I cannot wait to get my fingers on, but I started with this (bought by me, not by him - for book club).
Ms. Skloot spins a pretty fantastic yarn. I don't want to get bogged down in summary - but this book is about the first "immortal" cells - the HeLa cells, which essentially revolutionized science and the woman (and her family) that they were taken from. Its a hefty story to undertake, and from what I read - she put in her time. She researched and worked for over a decade for this story to come alive, and for someone who cannot focus on something for more than 5 days without totally losing interest, I am completely in awe of her dedication.
However. I wish there was less of her in the book. I feel as though I am reading her story of learning about these people and things when I wish I was just learning about the people and things. Maybe I'm wrong, and it would lose a lot of the relatability if you took out her perspective, but to me- it feels as though she is trying to bestow upon us, her knowledge, rather than the knowledge that just exists. When you read Devil in the White City - Mr. Larson is not a part of your experience. And I think, that is what I love so much about it. It transports me back to that time.
And, to be totally fair- the events of this book happened/are still happening much more recently than most creative non-fiction I am used to reading. So that changes things. But I still couldn't shake the fact that I wanted less of her, more of these people.
I have to give her mad props though - talk about being at the right place at the right time. Affordable, accessible health care has always been a struggle in low-income area (obvs.) but I feel as though in the current political climate, this book struck a particular cord that resonates louder than it may have 10 years ago.
I will be totally honest with you - parts of this book made me cry, and some made me seethe with the injustice of it all. Mostly it just overwhelmed me with how much I truly did not know about the lack of true privacy in the world.
I was fully aware that my spirit, and my image will live in infamy on these crazy internet tubes, but I honestly had no idea that if I was at a hospital (which I haven't been really yet, but give it time) - any bits they take out of me, I no longer own or have control over. Of course there are forms and what not, but the thing that I got most out of this book is that releasing control of your cells, the things that physically make you, you - sitting, reading, breathing, digesting is what needs to happen for any sort of advancement in science. It's some what violating to think, not just because they take what makes up you, but that you can't really control it.
If that doesn't freak you out enough, just think at least I am giving you the heads up...there are people (Ms. Lacks being one of them) who had their cells taken without anyone telling them or their families. And while the idea of monetary compensation is a huge one (though not one I want to get into) it is something to just know. Know that your cells are out there changing things - and if my cells are the secret to curing something (I really hope its morning breath or why I biologically need to eat a whole bag of yogurt covered pretzels in a day) than I am stoked I am doing my part.
I just want the people who give their cells (ie - everyone) to all have equal access to the medical advancements that might come out of it - regardless of financial situation. Its really only fair.
Why in the world would you limit yourself to "one kind" of books? I know there are people out there who do such a thing, and I salute them for even picking up a book at all, but am frustrated by close and yet so far they are from having their lives changed.
For example, when forced to give an answer besides, "everything," to the above-mentioned question, I often spout "post-apocalyptic fiction." Which pisses people off because they want you to say something that can be easily categorized. If they continue the conversation (I find that this answer can be a turn-off to many) and let me explain (Margaret Atwood, Hunger Games, blah blah) they then eventually ask, "wow, are there a lot of books out there like that?" The answer, at least according to me is, "in the grand scheme of things, not really." Which is why I hate the pigeon hole it puts me in. How frustrating to be leaving David Sedaris, Erik Larson and others off my most favorites list.
Anyway - soap box aside, I love all books. Some more than others, but I am willing to give anything a shot.
image (via)
Creative Non-fiction is always a genre I forget how much I love. To be learning real facts AND being entranced by a fascinating story? Epic. Win.
Boyfriend recently discovered how awesome books are and his somewhat creative non-fiction bent has been a fantastic ying to my crazy-dramatic-make-'em-ups fiction yang. He has a whole pile of books that I cannot wait to get my fingers on, but I started with this (bought by me, not by him - for book club).
Ms. Skloot spins a pretty fantastic yarn. I don't want to get bogged down in summary - but this book is about the first "immortal" cells - the HeLa cells, which essentially revolutionized science and the woman (and her family) that they were taken from. Its a hefty story to undertake, and from what I read - she put in her time. She researched and worked for over a decade for this story to come alive, and for someone who cannot focus on something for more than 5 days without totally losing interest, I am completely in awe of her dedication.
However. I wish there was less of her in the book. I feel as though I am reading her story of learning about these people and things when I wish I was just learning about the people and things. Maybe I'm wrong, and it would lose a lot of the relatability if you took out her perspective, but to me- it feels as though she is trying to bestow upon us, her knowledge, rather than the knowledge that just exists. When you read Devil in the White City - Mr. Larson is not a part of your experience. And I think, that is what I love so much about it. It transports me back to that time.
And, to be totally fair- the events of this book happened/are still happening much more recently than most creative non-fiction I am used to reading. So that changes things. But I still couldn't shake the fact that I wanted less of her, more of these people.
I have to give her mad props though - talk about being at the right place at the right time. Affordable, accessible health care has always been a struggle in low-income area (obvs.) but I feel as though in the current political climate, this book struck a particular cord that resonates louder than it may have 10 years ago.
I will be totally honest with you - parts of this book made me cry, and some made me seethe with the injustice of it all. Mostly it just overwhelmed me with how much I truly did not know about the lack of true privacy in the world.
I was fully aware that my spirit, and my image will live in infamy on these crazy internet tubes, but I honestly had no idea that if I was at a hospital (which I haven't been really yet, but give it time) - any bits they take out of me, I no longer own or have control over. Of course there are forms and what not, but the thing that I got most out of this book is that releasing control of your cells, the things that physically make you, you - sitting, reading, breathing, digesting is what needs to happen for any sort of advancement in science. It's some what violating to think, not just because they take what makes up you, but that you can't really control it.
If that doesn't freak you out enough, just think at least I am giving you the heads up...there are people (Ms. Lacks being one of them) who had their cells taken without anyone telling them or their families. And while the idea of monetary compensation is a huge one (though not one I want to get into) it is something to just know. Know that your cells are out there changing things - and if my cells are the secret to curing something (I really hope its morning breath or why I biologically need to eat a whole bag of yogurt covered pretzels in a day) than I am stoked I am doing my part.
I just want the people who give their cells (ie - everyone) to all have equal access to the medical advancements that might come out of it - regardless of financial situation. Its really only fair.
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Basil Party
If you're anything like me (and for your sake, I hope this is not the case - but, just go with me) you probably have a lot of basil at your house.
Apparently, this stuff is impossible to kill. While most of the plant-tending falls to Boyfriend and his vegetable-whisperer hands, I can even some how keep basil alive.
And its not just alive. It thrives. It is unstoppable. Which is sometimes more trouble than its worth.
Boyfriend is quite good at making the vegetables grow, but he lacks the initiative to then utilize them. So when I stepped out on our deck garden two weeks ago, I realized there were four or five lush green basil plants humming merrily along on their way to being coriander that had yet to be touched.
So while Boyfriend was having a well-deserved break from me in Alabama - I got down to business.
Obviously my first thoughts were pesto and caprese salad but since there is so much I knew I was going to have to go outside my little box. So I went to the only place where I get new recipes (when my mom isn't around) - the internet.
Here is what I have for you.
Basil, Artichoke, Tomato Pasta. I found this recipe here. Its pretty much a no brainer, as its basically a caprese salad in pasta, but I was stoked by the addition of artichokes (canned, obviously) - I didn't use marinated ones because that's the lazy way out. I just sauteed them with the tomatoes in golden balsamic (because its what we had) and pretty much any spices I could find. And I doubled all the good stuff to add to the pasta (recipes are so stingy with the food that actually tastes good).
I think if I make it again, I'll use sun-dried tomatoes, because they have way more flavor, and make some sort of dressing, because this was a little too dry for my taste. Oh, and shredded moz. (instead of little balls) because then you get the melty cheese in your pasta which always makes turning on the oven in the middle of the hottest summer ever more worth it.
And then? Corn-and-Basil Cakes. These are my most favorite thing of this very moment. Noble Pig is always my first stop for new recipes. The problem is, I don't know what kind of glamour shots operation she has going on but her food looks amazing. Mine does not. These especially refused to get actually pancake-y. They just looked sad. Womp womp.
Apparently, this stuff is impossible to kill. While most of the plant-tending falls to Boyfriend and his vegetable-whisperer hands, I can even some how keep basil alive.
And its not just alive. It thrives. It is unstoppable. Which is sometimes more trouble than its worth.
Boyfriend is quite good at making the vegetables grow, but he lacks the initiative to then utilize them. So when I stepped out on our deck garden two weeks ago, I realized there were four or five lush green basil plants humming merrily along on their way to being coriander that had yet to be touched.
So while Boyfriend was having a well-deserved break from me in Alabama - I got down to business.
Obviously my first thoughts were pesto and caprese salad but since there is so much I knew I was going to have to go outside my little box. So I went to the only place where I get new recipes (when my mom isn't around) - the internet.
Here is what I have for you.
Basil, Artichoke, Tomato Pasta. I found this recipe here. Its pretty much a no brainer, as its basically a caprese salad in pasta, but I was stoked by the addition of artichokes (canned, obviously) - I didn't use marinated ones because that's the lazy way out. I just sauteed them with the tomatoes in golden balsamic (because its what we had) and pretty much any spices I could find. And I doubled all the good stuff to add to the pasta (recipes are so stingy with the food that actually tastes good).
I think if I make it again, I'll use sun-dried tomatoes, because they have way more flavor, and make some sort of dressing, because this was a little too dry for my taste. Oh, and shredded moz. (instead of little balls) because then you get the melty cheese in your pasta which always makes turning on the oven in the middle of the hottest summer ever more worth it.
And then? Corn-and-Basil Cakes. These are my most favorite thing of this very moment. Noble Pig is always my first stop for new recipes. The problem is, I don't know what kind of glamour shots operation she has going on but her food looks amazing. Mine does not. These especially refused to get actually pancake-y. They just looked sad. Womp womp.
sad but yummy. Yummy Sad.
Also, I put a ton of Old Bay in which was the perfect addition. I think next time they need more flour and possibly to be cooked in a skillet instead of on the griddle. But seriously, so delicious (and really simple). Do it.
Of course, it may be Sunday night, and you may be trying to eat all the food in your house in preparation for your upcoming annual pilgrimage to the best place in the universe. In which case, this is a perfectly acceptable basil usage.
Not classy - but crazy delicious. No plate required.
Wednesday, August 03, 2011
Book 12.1 & 12.2 - Catching Fire and Mockingjay
Y'all, there is a reason I have a mockingjay key chain on my house keys. These books are amazing. After the epic book drought of 2011 (Icelandic adventures did not lend themselves to getting anything but guidebook reading done), I managed to read two books in three days.
I am fully aware of the fact that there is something ever-so-slightly off about being this into books that are geared for younger readers. However, I feel like, in my own defense, perhaps it is time to call shenanigans on that particular reason for judging me (there are SO many other reasons).
When I, myself, was a young adult I read whatever I could get my hands on. I was a completely unbiased reader. Did I learn some things that maybe I could have waited a few years to learn? Develop some misconceived notions about what to expect from relationships? Start using words I didn't really know the meaning of? Yes. These all happened, but my parents embraced it because a kid who is reading is way better than a kid smoking crack.
Anyway - since a young age, books have been just books and so that has continued into adulthood.
The way I decide what books I am going to read is by how much I want to keep reading them.
Catching Fire was waiting for me at the office on Monday morning. I managed to wait until I got on the train to go home before diving in and then it was non-stop reading. I read while I brush my teeth, and while eating dinner. I read long past it was time to go to bed (even grown-ups have bedtimes, its how we keep ourselves from getting fired at work). The next morning it was the same. I got to my office and I just sat at my desk, computer still off, reading. Then I turned the computer on, and kept reading until it got to the point where I realized that this was just ridiculous. So I put it away...until lunch.
I was done by dinner. And since Catching Fire is so good, I couldn't live with myself until I read Mockingjay too.
I think that Catching Fire might be my favorite of the books, which is weird for me too, guys. I like the smell of uprising. I mean, its no fun when everyone gets killed for their beliefs but its pretty bad ass to get to see what's about to happen. Also its the book where Peeta is a dick, which is satisfying. Apparently even when you're the nicest dude on the planet you can still be a total douche when some one hurts your pride/heart.
Mockingjay - on the second read (the first time was last summer when it came out) is still just as slow and disappointing. And I still kind of wanted to punch Katniss in the face. Like right in the jaw and tell her to grow up and stop whining.
I also wanted to tell everyone to leave her alone because she's a kid, not your dress-'em-up Warrior Barbie. But since we hear her view points rather than anyone else's - her emotions are the ones that annoy me the most.
Also, I slipped for a second and thought that maybe Peeta was the best guy after all. But then I remembered that my hate for shmoopy love business (despite what you may have heard) outweighs my love of cakes, every single time. Also, get a job, Peeta. Get. A. Job.
The best moment of this re-read came when I was letting a coworker borrow The Hunger Games and handed it to him in the middle of summer camp lunch when he was surrounded by 10 - 13 year-old girls. The girls lost their Minds. I think I won all the cool points available that day from having already read all three books.
And here's the thing - anything that gets kids reading is okay. Anything that turns the tv off is amazing. And books that bring together 26-year olds and 12-year olds (and perhaps a more mature audience as well, my mother and most of her friends have read it...and they are in their early 30's) and gives them something to bond over is the most inspiring and truly lifts my spirits in a way that makes me realize how truly important and valuable books are.
So thanks Suzanne Collins and J.K. Rowling and Tamora Pierce and Monica Furlong and Phillip Pullman...for writing books that defy labels and generational gaps.
I am fully aware of the fact that there is something ever-so-slightly off about being this into books that are geared for younger readers. However, I feel like, in my own defense, perhaps it is time to call shenanigans on that particular reason for judging me (there are SO many other reasons).
When I, myself, was a young adult I read whatever I could get my hands on. I was a completely unbiased reader. Did I learn some things that maybe I could have waited a few years to learn? Develop some misconceived notions about what to expect from relationships? Start using words I didn't really know the meaning of? Yes. These all happened, but my parents embraced it because a kid who is reading is way better than a kid smoking crack.
Anyway - since a young age, books have been just books and so that has continued into adulthood.
The way I decide what books I am going to read is by how much I want to keep reading them.
Catching Fire was waiting for me at the office on Monday morning. I managed to wait until I got on the train to go home before diving in and then it was non-stop reading. I read while I brush my teeth, and while eating dinner. I read long past it was time to go to bed (even grown-ups have bedtimes, its how we keep ourselves from getting fired at work). The next morning it was the same. I got to my office and I just sat at my desk, computer still off, reading. Then I turned the computer on, and kept reading until it got to the point where I realized that this was just ridiculous. So I put it away...until lunch.
I was done by dinner. And since Catching Fire is so good, I couldn't live with myself until I read Mockingjay too.
I think that Catching Fire might be my favorite of the books, which is weird for me too, guys. I like the smell of uprising. I mean, its no fun when everyone gets killed for their beliefs but its pretty bad ass to get to see what's about to happen. Also its the book where Peeta is a dick, which is satisfying. Apparently even when you're the nicest dude on the planet you can still be a total douche when some one hurts your pride/heart.
Mockingjay - on the second read (the first time was last summer when it came out) is still just as slow and disappointing. And I still kind of wanted to punch Katniss in the face. Like right in the jaw and tell her to grow up and stop whining.
I also wanted to tell everyone to leave her alone because she's a kid, not your dress-'em-up Warrior Barbie. But since we hear her view points rather than anyone else's - her emotions are the ones that annoy me the most.
Also, I slipped for a second and thought that maybe Peeta was the best guy after all. But then I remembered that my hate for shmoopy love business (despite what you may have heard) outweighs my love of cakes, every single time. Also, get a job, Peeta. Get. A. Job.
The best moment of this re-read came when I was letting a coworker borrow The Hunger Games and handed it to him in the middle of summer camp lunch when he was surrounded by 10 - 13 year-old girls. The girls lost their Minds. I think I won all the cool points available that day from having already read all three books.
And here's the thing - anything that gets kids reading is okay. Anything that turns the tv off is amazing. And books that bring together 26-year olds and 12-year olds (and perhaps a more mature audience as well, my mother and most of her friends have read it...and they are in their early 30's) and gives them something to bond over is the most inspiring and truly lifts my spirits in a way that makes me realize how truly important and valuable books are.
So thanks Suzanne Collins and J.K. Rowling and Tamora Pierce and Monica Furlong and Phillip Pullman...for writing books that defy labels and generational gaps.
Monday, August 01, 2011
The end of the adventure - Days 11 & 12
We woke up in our super adorable little cabin and got ready for our last real day in Iceland. The first stop was Gullfoss. Gullfoss was a very awesome last waterfall (save the best for last and all that). Once again, we got right up in the waterfall's face and took lots of pictures. But let me tell you, I was surprised at how totally meh I was about waterfalls by the last day.
There were hundreds of waterfalls along our journey and they were all stunning and gorgeous and unique. But after 10 days I was just exhausted of gorgeous natural wonders.
After the waterfall, I finally got a picture of my favorite street sign.
For awhile we would see this sign and just scream "NO TOWN," and, in our fatigued and overstimulated brains, it was hilarious. Every time.
On the way back from Gullfoss we stopped for an incredibly necessary car wash.
Our little Kia (nicknamed Mrs. Marion Coatsworth-Haye of Marble Head - bonus points if you know the reference) went the distance for us. Literally. I had no idea what we were going to put that car through and she took it like a champ. After the flat tire incident it was smooth sailing. Except for the fact that she was filthy. So we gave her a nice car bath and then had our very last Icelandic hotdog (sob.)
After hot dogs we went to the Bonus to buy tons of candy to take home. Coconut Chocolate Chip Maryland Cookies (which you can apparently get in other parts of Europe, though I've never seen them), Nizza Chocolate Bars, and Hraun Lava Bars are all awesome and worth the price. Be careful of the bulk candy though - apparently everything is either a gummy or a licorice covered in chocolate. It is very disappointing after you have bought $5 worth to realize the Icelandic error in judgement. Also, while you're at the Bonus - get some rye bread and pancakes to take home. Even the plastic wrapped, store-bought pancakes are going to be an excellent life choice as take-aways from your adventure.
Souvenir shopping out of the way (for the time being) it was time to get on the road to the Blue Lagoon. While we were super excited for this adventure, I think it cemented in all of our minds that the Iceland trip was coming to a close. And it was pretty sad. We had worked so hard and done so much that to have it all be over so fast, seemed kind of surreal.
Once we got to the Blue Lagoon, things got even more surreal. We were pretty over all the naked pre-showering that is required, but we were not over how many people were going to be there. It was freezing that day, and kind of rainy but then you get in the water and its the nicest bathtub ever, and it's full of a bazillion (mostly European, thankfully clothed) people all just kind of floating around in little huddles.
We didn't take cameras because we were not sure where to put them, turns out people just leave their cameras all over the place and no one steals them, because its Iceland. But we didn't trust it. So no Blue Lagoon pictures. But it was lovely. The best part was the 30-minute massage from the big lady with the strong hands. Let me tell you, I am going to pick the burly lady over the hot guy to do my massage every time because you know she means business. A massage is the perfect way to end any adventure, but particularly one where you have been sleeping on crappy hotel beds, asking your body to do crazy stuff it rarely does (hike, ride a horse, sit on a boat) and sitting in a car for upwards of 4 or 5 hours a day.
After face masks, massages, the most amazing waterfall of them all (we got to stand under it! I punched a kid because he wanted a piece of my waterfall space and I wasn't ready to give it up) and tiny bottles of champagne at the swim up bar - toasting to our continued world domination - we left the Blue Lagoon behind.
Then we got to our final hotel. And let's talk about saving the best for last. Each hotel had its own quirks and charms and I liked all of them, but our final hotel was by far the classiest and for not that much more money (if my brain remembers correctly). We had the incredible honor of being one of the hotel's first guests ever! We christened this fabulous room with a loft space and one of the most amazing bathrooms by breaking a glass in the bathroom. Hotel Berg, y'all. Its the ish.
Also, to make it more awesome, the woman who owns it also is the owner of one of the most famous dogs in Iceland (and the website Bulldog.is). Of course she is.
For this, our final night in Iceland, we decided that it was time to finally eat real food again. So went to Kaffi Duus, per the hotel/famous dog owner's recommendation. An Excellent Choice.
We ate as though we had never eaten before. We started with a seafood sampler which was amazing because Iceland knows whats up when it comes to things that live in the sea, but also because there was this sauce. This "jus," if you will, that was made with garlic and perfection. We ate every morsel. When we ran out of bread we used spoons. No classiness here. Not when olive-oil-based happiness is on the line.
Then we got our entrees which were all amazing. Of course, I loved mine the most. Bacon. Wrapped. Monkfish in some sort of sauce-mess that reminded me of hollandaise sauce that some lobsters had had a dance party in along with some obligatory vegetables.
I ate the whole thing. The whole thing. I know, because McKim "you won't," me into it. Did I feel less like a champion than I had anticipated after that last bite went it? Sure. But I do not regret it. It was the most awesome. The calories in that sauce alone totally made up for the lack of actual food over the past 7 days.
We finished dinner and then went back to the hotel to rub our bellies, pack and watch movies on the first TV we turned on all trip. And to put irrational amounts of conditioner in our hair. Mine, at least, needed it. I made the terrible mistake of not bringing a hair elastic to the lagoon so all of the things that are good for your skin in it reeked havoc on my hair. It took four days of deep conditioning after I got back to Chicago for it to finally feel normal again.
We woke up the next morning and had our very last adventure of getting gas, and then returning the car - both of which gave me panic attacks (the former because I thought we were going to be lost forever, not get gas and miss our flight, the latter because I figured right away they would see the tire patch and we would be totally effed and out a bazillion more dollars). Then we got to the airport and I lamented to the nice gentleman behind the check in counter how sad I was to be leaving.
So of course he offered me $1000 in Delta dollars to stay (due to an overbooked flight). There was a moment, when I hoped McKim and Musar would decide it was a good idea and we would have one more day. But when I really thought about it - I wanted to be home in my bed with clean clothes and more conditioner. Though, a part of me wishes I had stayed for one more day at the blue lagoon. Ah well.
Anyway - once we were through security. It was time to go shopping. And shop we did. To the tune of me maxing out my international credit card, and then spending all of McKim's extra cash. I was officially broke at this point. But satisfied.
With 20 or so minutes to go before our plane we figured it was time to saunter down to the gate. We got about halfway there and were greeted with a line of epic proportions. All humans waiting to get on planes like ours. The line was easily 40-minutes long. And our plane was scheduled to be high in the air by then.
Panic set in once again. Musar kept a cool head and found someone willing to let us cut in front of her in the epic line. Why? Because this nice lady had just spent some time in Iceland and the goodness had rubbed off on her.
Finally we got on board and by a stroke of good luck and shenanigans I got to sit next to McKim. So we could drink red wine to excess and talk about big, scary things. And how awesome Iceland is. Oh, and watch Jane Eyre (the new version) which was horrible.
Also we got to sneak a peak at Greenland as we traveled over it. If we thought Iceland was bad ass, it was Greenland's wimpy, hospitable little brother.
Finally, we were back in America. And then after some wrangling, I was back in Chicago. And where was my luggage? Cincinnati? Of course it was. So I went to the Delta lady and she took one look at my smelly, hungover, bedraggled, sad-at-being-home self and told me they would drop my luggage off at my house. Be pathetic and polite- and people will be nice to you.
I get on the blue line to go home and suddenly, I am overwhelmed by everything. The noise, the smells, the people, the fact that there aren't waterfalls and purple flowers outside my window. It was hard to come to terms with how much I fell in love with nature over those 12 days. I fell in love with small towns and vast landscapes. With adventure and solitude. With trying new things and old things.
Iceland was amazing and every penny was worth it. But it wouldn't have been half the trip without the two gems I traveled with. They both made the loveliest of travel companions and I hope this trip hasn't turned them off me for life, especially since I bogarted the baby carrots...and used their pictures on my blog without asking.
Thanks for coming along this journey with me. These posts will change as I get the energy to add additional links and tidbits. Just getting though the story was (clearly) an arduous process. And if anyone is reading to this point, thank you for listening.
There were hundreds of waterfalls along our journey and they were all stunning and gorgeous and unique. But after 10 days I was just exhausted of gorgeous natural wonders.
After the waterfall, I finally got a picture of my favorite street sign.
For awhile we would see this sign and just scream "NO TOWN," and, in our fatigued and overstimulated brains, it was hilarious. Every time.
On the way back from Gullfoss we stopped for an incredibly necessary car wash.
in her clean, pre-flat tire state on the first day of the trip
Our little Kia (nicknamed Mrs. Marion Coatsworth-Haye of Marble Head - bonus points if you know the reference) went the distance for us. Literally. I had no idea what we were going to put that car through and she took it like a champ. After the flat tire incident it was smooth sailing. Except for the fact that she was filthy. So we gave her a nice car bath and then had our very last Icelandic hotdog (sob.)
After hot dogs we went to the Bonus to buy tons of candy to take home. Coconut Chocolate Chip Maryland Cookies (which you can apparently get in other parts of Europe, though I've never seen them), Nizza Chocolate Bars, and Hraun Lava Bars are all awesome and worth the price. Be careful of the bulk candy though - apparently everything is either a gummy or a licorice covered in chocolate. It is very disappointing after you have bought $5 worth to realize the Icelandic error in judgement. Also, while you're at the Bonus - get some rye bread and pancakes to take home. Even the plastic wrapped, store-bought pancakes are going to be an excellent life choice as take-aways from your adventure.
Souvenir shopping out of the way (for the time being) it was time to get on the road to the Blue Lagoon. While we were super excited for this adventure, I think it cemented in all of our minds that the Iceland trip was coming to a close. And it was pretty sad. We had worked so hard and done so much that to have it all be over so fast, seemed kind of surreal.
Once we got to the Blue Lagoon, things got even more surreal. We were pretty over all the naked pre-showering that is required, but we were not over how many people were going to be there. It was freezing that day, and kind of rainy but then you get in the water and its the nicest bathtub ever, and it's full of a bazillion (mostly European, thankfully clothed) people all just kind of floating around in little huddles.
We didn't take cameras because we were not sure where to put them, turns out people just leave their cameras all over the place and no one steals them, because its Iceland. But we didn't trust it. So no Blue Lagoon pictures. But it was lovely. The best part was the 30-minute massage from the big lady with the strong hands. Let me tell you, I am going to pick the burly lady over the hot guy to do my massage every time because you know she means business. A massage is the perfect way to end any adventure, but particularly one where you have been sleeping on crappy hotel beds, asking your body to do crazy stuff it rarely does (hike, ride a horse, sit on a boat) and sitting in a car for upwards of 4 or 5 hours a day.
After face masks, massages, the most amazing waterfall of them all (we got to stand under it! I punched a kid because he wanted a piece of my waterfall space and I wasn't ready to give it up) and tiny bottles of champagne at the swim up bar - toasting to our continued world domination - we left the Blue Lagoon behind.
Then we got to our final hotel. And let's talk about saving the best for last. Each hotel had its own quirks and charms and I liked all of them, but our final hotel was by far the classiest and for not that much more money (if my brain remembers correctly). We had the incredible honor of being one of the hotel's first guests ever! We christened this fabulous room with a loft space and one of the most amazing bathrooms by breaking a glass in the bathroom. Hotel Berg, y'all. Its the ish.
Also, to make it more awesome, the woman who owns it also is the owner of one of the most famous dogs in Iceland (and the website Bulldog.is). Of course she is.
For this, our final night in Iceland, we decided that it was time to finally eat real food again. So went to Kaffi Duus, per the hotel/famous dog owner's recommendation. An Excellent Choice.
We ate as though we had never eaten before. We started with a seafood sampler which was amazing because Iceland knows whats up when it comes to things that live in the sea, but also because there was this sauce. This "jus," if you will, that was made with garlic and perfection. We ate every morsel. When we ran out of bread we used spoons. No classiness here. Not when olive-oil-based happiness is on the line.
Then we got our entrees which were all amazing. Of course, I loved mine the most. Bacon. Wrapped. Monkfish in some sort of sauce-mess that reminded me of hollandaise sauce that some lobsters had had a dance party in along with some obligatory vegetables.
I ate the whole thing. The whole thing. I know, because McKim "you won't," me into it. Did I feel less like a champion than I had anticipated after that last bite went it? Sure. But I do not regret it. It was the most awesome. The calories in that sauce alone totally made up for the lack of actual food over the past 7 days.
We finished dinner and then went back to the hotel to rub our bellies, pack and watch movies on the first TV we turned on all trip. And to put irrational amounts of conditioner in our hair. Mine, at least, needed it. I made the terrible mistake of not bringing a hair elastic to the lagoon so all of the things that are good for your skin in it reeked havoc on my hair. It took four days of deep conditioning after I got back to Chicago for it to finally feel normal again.
We woke up the next morning and had our very last adventure of getting gas, and then returning the car - both of which gave me panic attacks (the former because I thought we were going to be lost forever, not get gas and miss our flight, the latter because I figured right away they would see the tire patch and we would be totally effed and out a bazillion more dollars). Then we got to the airport and I lamented to the nice gentleman behind the check in counter how sad I was to be leaving.
So of course he offered me $1000 in Delta dollars to stay (due to an overbooked flight). There was a moment, when I hoped McKim and Musar would decide it was a good idea and we would have one more day. But when I really thought about it - I wanted to be home in my bed with clean clothes and more conditioner. Though, a part of me wishes I had stayed for one more day at the blue lagoon. Ah well.
Anyway - once we were through security. It was time to go shopping. And shop we did. To the tune of me maxing out my international credit card, and then spending all of McKim's extra cash. I was officially broke at this point. But satisfied.
With 20 or so minutes to go before our plane we figured it was time to saunter down to the gate. We got about halfway there and were greeted with a line of epic proportions. All humans waiting to get on planes like ours. The line was easily 40-minutes long. And our plane was scheduled to be high in the air by then.
Panic set in once again. Musar kept a cool head and found someone willing to let us cut in front of her in the epic line. Why? Because this nice lady had just spent some time in Iceland and the goodness had rubbed off on her.
Finally we got on board and by a stroke of good luck and shenanigans I got to sit next to McKim. So we could drink red wine to excess and talk about big, scary things. And how awesome Iceland is. Oh, and watch Jane Eyre (the new version) which was horrible.
Also we got to sneak a peak at Greenland as we traveled over it. If we thought Iceland was bad ass, it was Greenland's wimpy, hospitable little brother.
Finally, we were back in America. And then after some wrangling, I was back in Chicago. And where was my luggage? Cincinnati? Of course it was. So I went to the Delta lady and she took one look at my smelly, hungover, bedraggled, sad-at-being-home self and told me they would drop my luggage off at my house. Be pathetic and polite- and people will be nice to you.
I get on the blue line to go home and suddenly, I am overwhelmed by everything. The noise, the smells, the people, the fact that there aren't waterfalls and purple flowers outside my window. It was hard to come to terms with how much I fell in love with nature over those 12 days. I fell in love with small towns and vast landscapes. With adventure and solitude. With trying new things and old things.
Iceland was amazing and every penny was worth it. But it wouldn't have been half the trip without the two gems I traveled with. They both made the loveliest of travel companions and I hope this trip hasn't turned them off me for life, especially since I bogarted the baby carrots...and used their pictures on my blog without asking.
Thanks for coming along this journey with me. These posts will change as I get the energy to add additional links and tidbits. Just getting though the story was (clearly) an arduous process. And if anyone is reading to this point, thank you for listening.
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