I'm a girl.

So, you know the phrase "the girl next door" that's been in our vernacular ever since Doris Day was invented? Or was it Sandra Dee? I can't remember. Anyway, this term is generally used to describe the unassuming, sometimes innocent, cute "regular" girl who manages to be just friends with men-types! (I know, weird.) But she also happens to be really hot/pretty, charming and smart, and you can't believe she's been there this whole time and you just started noticing how amazing she is and now she's the girl of your dreeeeeeams!

Ahem. Anyway. On that note, I have decided that if we're placing girls in neighborhood locations, I am "the girl five blocks down, two blocks over, past the abandoned warehouse, through the swampy area (you'll need some boots), up the little rocky path, through that barbed-wire fence, over the grassy knoll, through the brambles, and if you get lost, give me a call."

Yes. Interpret it how you will.

Simple thoughts

A few thoughts for the day, though very scattered and tangential. Enjoy?


I love it when my earrings surpass my hair in length.

To Adrianne: I miss you every single day, no exaggeration. Posting on your facebook page weirds me out. That's why I don't do it. Sorry?

On that note, rest in peace, King of Pop. Wow. If you see Adrianne, tell her I love her.

I'd rather be funny than pretty. Good thing, or I'd be screwed.

The other night I had the worst possible combination of bad dreams. This involved: falling into a huge pile of dried dog poo in the middle of the desert, being given the shaft by a jerk-faced male, Satan/zombies + my family, and sobbing in a pasture of cows because they were going to be slaughtered.

Composing a song in your head is frustrating when you don't have the instruments to carry it out.

"Protest against the rising tide of conformity."

Columbine flowers are miraculously beautiful.

I will never be into Feist. You can't make me.

I will make Key Lime pie for the second time this week. I think I'm obsessed with it. Let me know if you want some.

An afterthought.

Dear Northern Utah,
Are you trying to be the Pacific Northwest? If so, I suggest you stop trying. I don't know who you're trying to fool with your recent chilly, wet, thunderous nature in the midst of summer. I mean, I appreciate the recent frequent downpours, and I like your newfound super green-ness. But it's not really you. Are you trying to change who you are because you think Seattle and the like are prettier than you? Seattle and friends are very pretty, but so are you. You are pretty in your own special way, as Mom says. And you are a desert and not a coastal state. So quit trying to be something else. Get some confidence and just be yourself, dammit! Seriously, get a grip.

With love,
KG

For the price of a cup of tea.

Dear foreboding, rumbly-tumbly storm clouds,

Since you decided to set in and chase me inside from my sanguine Sunday bike ride, I guess I will write something. (P.S. I don't like you.)

If I have many flaws (which I do), one of them is that I get really attached to places and days gone by. I also get attached to people, but that is probably more normal than being in love with a coffee shop or a doorway, so we'll leave that one behind.

If you are the kind of person whom I talk to frequently, you know that I haven't been able to get over the beloved Citrus and Sage cafe since it closed last August. If you are one of these people, don't read this and save yourself from hearing me repeat myself.

Citrus and Sage was by far my favorite place in Logan, located conveniently on my favorite street in Logan. I sometimes ride by it on my bike, looking for signs of life and wondering why one of the lights is on. The "for sale" sign hangs resiliently, waiting for someone's interest (and money).

This place brought a great crowd of people together. There was that guy with the face tattoos and that Bill fellow who basically lived there. There were snooty people and college professors. There was Saturday night Jazz, poetry readings and study sessions. In the summer, you'd sit outside on the big wooden deck that was draped with potted flowers, and you'd sip your iced tea while folksy singer-songwriters would play into the dusk. I used to tell myself that one day I'd get up the nerve to play my songs in public and perform there.

One time, for some reason, someone hatched chickens in the upper level of the house where the tiny used bookstore was. Just these little eggs in a little incubator, sitting on a table waiting to be born. That's just the kind of place it was. (The awesome kind.)

One time I interviewed the former owner. She said she opened Citrus and Sage to bring people together to a place where they could just relax and hang out. She mentioned that she and her husband would often end up at Village Inn at night because there was no other place to relax and have a cup of coffee (and maybe a goopy cinnamon roll-- the ones at Citrus and Sage were quite outstanding).

Now it's back to Village Inn for a while, I guess. I am not opposed to pie. But it certainly 'aint no cinnamon roll or scruffy musician.