The Bee Funeral

Padded bra, padded ego

2012-02-02T22:12:00.000-08:00

Warning: this story is incredibly charming, like myself. If you cannot handle overwhelming amounts of charm, I’d suggest you back away slowly, or at least sit down. Please refrain from emotional eating. If you are at the library, please keep your hands and boogers to yourself.

The story begins in a Nordstrom Rack dressing room, where one young woman (myself) was trying on unmentionables. Or bras. Oops, I mentioned it. Damn. (UNDERWEAR! UNDERWEARS FOREVER!!) It was at this point that I realized that the amount of padding that the bras I was trying on was directly related to how much I was padding my ego. Due to a pretty hefty weight loss that resulted in looking not fat in a bikini (yay), but not busty (regular women just can’t win), I had to go down a notch or two on the bra size. A crushing defeat as a woman in her “prime of life”, I admit. The beginning of the alphabet is a weird place to be. It is a place that goes uninhabited by the Salma Hayeks of the world and that lady from Modern Family. The latina one, not the blonde skeleton one (no no, the blonde skeleton, she lives there). Thus, a little ego padding/chest padding was needed on my part. I mean, who really wants to look like a washboard, and not in the toned ab muscles sort of way.

And as I made my purchase, I realized the same probably goes for a lot of women. The amount of padding your bra has may directly correspond to how much padding your ego needs. I am not saying this is true for all women. And I’m certainly not saying that a women’s sense of self-worth should be derivative of her breast size. But let’s face it, as soon as boob jobs were invented, countless members of my gender have rushed to get under the knife and get those suckers enhanced. Pump up the jam. Women who stuff their bras with Kleenex have even more ego problems that a simple padded bra can just not handle by itself. Obviously, it is a source of esteem for women in one way or another, and it always will be. Oh shut, up feminists. You know it’s true and inevitable.

So chalk up another one for self-discovery, I suppose. Who would have thought that undergarment-shopping would provide such a heart-warming tale of one woman's quest for self-acceptance and true love. I mean, a bra that fits. Same thing. To the men who have read this post, I apologize if you are feeling discriminated against or generally awkward. To compensate, I will try to come up with a phallic joke. Or tell me one, because I don’t know any. (Actually, never mind, because penis jokes aren’t funny.) And to the pervert who thought this was a girl blogging about her wild panty raids, I am truly sorry. I don’t even know what a panty raid is. Though I do tend to get my knickers in a twist from time to time. That counts, I think.

Milking it (Or, how to succeed in dating without really trying)

2012-01-12T16:22:00.000-08:00

Talking to the grocery store clerk you have a crush on should be a pretty easy process. Smiling, expressing how much you love fresh, organic garlic, laughing at the googly eyes of the poor, dead fish in the meat case, etc. But what do you do when the crush in question is employed in a department that is completely irrelevant to your needs? Enter: the incredibly handsome, dark-haired gentleman who works in the dairy department of the local Corporate Chain Over-priced Yuppie Health Food Store.* Really, sir? The dairy department? Why can't you work in vegetables? Of course, it wouldn't be hard to work in a grocery store department that a food-allergy queen such as yourself has no use for. Bakery? Hells no. Ice cream? Crackers and snacks and all manner of processed junk deparment, even though you're at a supposed "health foods" store? No. Shut up. But the dairy department? It's the equivalent of the "athletic supporters" department of the sporting goods store or the Music for Idiots section of the record store--gag-inducing and completely useless.

So what's a person to do? The first, most obvious option is to linger a little around the department. He's looked at you a couple times so you know he's not repulsed, you've looked at him. (Obviously. Duh.) So you pretend you're really interested in the kefir even though you know of its instantly-making-you-throw-up effects. Even the lactose-free kind. Oh, the injustice. But there's only so much lingering you can do before it seems creepy, so you strain to think of anything you could possibly need. You scan nearby shelves, and only see mountains of honey, maple syrup and peanut butter towering in around you. Everything is completely useless! You can't even pretend to be interested. Fake vegan cheese? No, and why does that atrocity even exist. Hm, maybe I could walk by him and get some eggs. They're just around the corner. Nope, I've got two full cartons at home. Dammit, why don't you need eggs right now, you idiot?! Or a similar inner dialogue may ensue. Too bad he doesn't work in the bath and body department, because you're spending an inordinate amount of time there, trying to decide between green-fungus or rust-colored nailpolish. You decide on the "Bayside Berry", and plan on wearing it next time you see him and doing jazz hands to get him to notice you.

Aside from lingering up until the almost-creepy point, what else can you do? There is the possibility of trying to strike up a conversation given the material you've been provided with. Like B.S.-ing an essay question on an exam. Brilliant people do it all the time. And you're brilliant, right?

"So...milk...huh? That's cool. All that lactose and casein and high mucus content. I totally lack the enzymes to process it. Awesome, huh?"

"In fact, I have about a zillion food allergies. Can't digest a damn thing. Oh, why, you ask? Mysterious health problems." (Nothing is sexier than mysterious health problems!) "Care to join me for some vegetable mush and water soup with extra sea salt?" And so on and so forth.

"Dude, have you noticed how much sugar they load into yogurt? Even the supposedly more noble organic kind? It's insane! I mean, are we such wimps that we can't tolerate a little tartness to our food and have to dump sugar into everything? Yogurt's not a health food, it's a dessert, people! Get it through your heads! The injustice!" (And other impassioned sexy-sounding junk-food-rage rantings.)

But for some reason, you've a suspicion that these impassioned food-related speeches and embarrassing self-confessions may not prove so successful, so you are left to consider other options. You could somehow get this guy promoted to produce. Then he has to talk to you. There's no way out. (Cut to fantasy of him surprising you with a bouquet of rainbow chard and a necklace made of garlic cloves. "How did you know?") Or, since there is an unseen force that compels you to patronize this store bi-weekly, you can always come back. Come to think of it, those mints you bought are giving you an allergic reaction. Yes! You can come back and return them. Finally, your food allergies have come in handy. Thank you, body, for reacting to everything I put in you! I love you. (Cut to montage of you hugging yourself, clips of you laughing at your own jokes through the years, skipping through a field of daisies, holding your own hand. Then sneezing and collapsing on the ground.)

There has to be a way. Otherwise you may be relegated to establishing a committed relationship to a man made of Brussels sprouts for the rest of your life. You know you've already considered it.

(Image from here)

*I say this like I am against it. Who am I kidding. I love my CCOYHFS a lot. It's embarrassing, really.

Ah, I just died in your arms tonight...

2011-07-25T18:31:00.000-07:00

*The title of this post has nothing to do with the content therein. It was the song I was listening to at the time when I was trying to come up with a title.

...Well, it's unofficially official: I have recently re-acquired my writing mojo. My writin' jones. I have been intravenously re-infected with the writing bug. Like a guy who only sort of seems to like you, my desire to write disappeared unexplained for a while. And like a guy who only sort of seems to like you, it reappeared and called me out of the blue. I answered, confused and purposefully annoyed-sounding, but on the inside, I rejoiced and welcomed it with relief back into my life. Such is the life of a writer and a girl who guys maybe sort of sometimes probably like in a half-assed fashion.

Like the disappearance of the elusive Peanut Butter Snickers back in the '80s, no one can really explain the disappearance of my writer's thumb. Or index finger. I'm just glad both the candy bar and my writing have re-appeared to a crowd of anxious, adoring fans. Dry spells just happen for "creative types" I guess. And for whatever reason, my compulsive need to ramble on aimlessly in written form about my mundane daily dealings was relegated to sit on the back burner, like the grotesquely gurgling, spattering pot of gravy-mush that it is. There is no one or no one thing to blame for bringing it back. But if I had to blame/thank someone, it would be the people who have told me that I am an un-bad writer and that my writing is not akin to eating crap on toast for breakfast. I wouldn't know, because my restricted diet does not allow me to eat crap-toast for breakfast, so I will just have to trust them. So to you folks: thank you. I am back, new and improooved. (Now with 30% less sugar and 50% more cholesterol!)

The problem is, I don't know what to write about anymore. Nothing and everything has happened in my life as of late. Nothing has happened in the "I'm really cool/important and travel all around the world and eat adventurous foods and am incredibly captivating" way. But everything has happened in the "Personal journey where no one travels but they learn way too much about themselves and still feels themselves growing up at age 25" way. I am at a turning point both in life and as a writer. But as I've been counseled to do by various friends (who probably secretly think I'm way too tightly wound), I will stop over-thinking things and pick a candy bar, dammit/go out with that guy/dance like a moron.

Hitch yourself up to the golden.

2011-02-27T20:02:00.000-08:00

"Here, I'm alive. Everything all of the time."

Today, while my thoughts unraveled from the oft-muddled jumble that they are and were sifted into contemplation of what and who I want to be, this lyric from Radiohead's second-weirdest album kept repeating itself over and over in my head like a broken record. And it's true. Here I am, world. And what I want to be is everything. Everything all of the time.

You see, the way I view the world as a wide-eyed post-grad is a strange duality. I could chalk it up to having textbook anxiety that sometimes hovers over one's mind like one of those stupid little bee-like bugs you see in the summer that hover in one place for a really long time (for years I've tried to figure out what those bugs are. I still don't know). Or, I could label it "the mind of an artist" because that's so much cooler (I mean, it's not like anxiety has ever been in vogue). Yes, I choose the latter--the rose-colored, unpredictable, erratic, translucent mind of an artist. Through my eyes, the world is wide and magnificent and full of possibilities. It is an incredible, beautiful place. With that said, it can also be a daunting, overwhelming, panicky place. So much to do! So much unfamiliarity. So much fear of failure. So much wide-open space, metaphorically and physically. How do I even know where to begin without my head exploding into a hailstorm of mashed potatoes and raspberry jam?

Everything all of the time. I want to be a writer. Which is good, because that is my bankable skill. One needs to make a living somehow. But the problem is, I also want to be everything. A musician, an artist, a researcher. A fantastic cook. An expert pie-maker who can whip out the perfect crust that puts Grandma's to shame. The matriarch of an incredible, happy, functional family (though obviously not at the moment). An environmentalist. I want to research bugs and plants and count rings on trees. I want to research soil and watershed systems for some reason. I want to appease my strange fascination with mycology and dig up mushrooms in a forest. I want camp out in the woods and go fishing and eat wild raspberries. I want to learn how to kick up my heels and dance non-self-consciously even though I am completely uncoordinated. I want to climb walls of craggy rocks and get cuts that develop into scars of honor. I want to be a printmaker and make woodcut prints on giant slabs of beautiful, swirly oak or irritable, sliver-giving birch. To painstakingly roll strips of ink into the thirsty pores of the wood and turn it in the press with carefully laid paper and see the ghost of my engravings in colors and space and shapes. And carve away, reductive process upon process until it's clean and beautiful and perfectly aligned. I want to paint, even though the very thought of painting makes me want to tear the top of my head off because I don't understand it. I want the world. I want to be, to do and to say many things.

So where does one begin to tackle these hopes and aspirations and quell the anxiety and fear that creeps up and boils over and douses any kindled flame of aspiration? Add that to the fear of not "fitting in" with any of the tradespeople of whatever you are pursuing, and you've got a self-inflicted, cumbersome situation on your hands. Which is just silly. An unecessary worry I've too often concerned myself with. "Fitting in"--or the lack thereof--is just a mind-set. And who cares anyway? If you want to do something, do it. You fit in by proxy because you are simply a human being surrounded by peers who share that same passion met with insecurity that you do, and you're all working toward a common goal. To express. To conjure beauty and stir things up and make things happen. To get through difficult times and to bask in the joy of precious life. This, coupled with the mere notion that we are fortunate enough to have these opportunities to thrive, celebrate and embrace--well, my friends, that could very well be the remedy to the post-grad's quandry. That, and to just breathe once in a while. It all glows warm in time, but the time to start is right now.

I nicked it when you let your guard down for that split second. And I'd do it again. Goodbye.

2011-01-28T19:58:00.000-08:00

...Oh, how I sorely wish I could hide in a giant mound of sugar whilst stealing some of it for my tea at my leisure.

You see, I've completely gone off of sugar. (And into the deep-end.) As per per doctor's orders. It's been three days. I am also temporarily going without any form of carbohydrates (also per doctor's orders), but that's beside the point.* The point is, I am here to unabashedly whine about going off of sugar. And to go a little crazy. It's now embarrassingly clear how much of a hold it has on me. So much so, that before I started this gig, I can't remember the last time I went without at least a little piece of chocolate per day. I never thought "going without chocolate" was a real thing that people did, like buying eggs or watching Chevy Chase marathons. But it is. As is going without sugar. Before now, my brain just couldn't comprehend it. I would seriously try to understand the concept, and it never ended well. It just did not compute. "Go... with-out choc-o-luhhhht?? Wha? No... shoog-ar? Mom?" By that point, I'd be lying on the sidewalk with my eyes glazed over, thinking of some kind of weapon I would have to fashion in order to survive without such things. Or I would have just avoided full comprehension and moved onto something completely unrelated. "I wonder how many ladders it would take to get to the moon?" The possibility of going without sugar just wasn't a possibility.

The sad thing is, the gap between hyperbole vs. reality is slim here. I haven't ended up on the sidewalk in the past few days, but basically, I am having withdrawals that make me feel like a venomous, ravenous baby dinosaur and everythingisannoyingandIhateverythingalways!!! There have been tears. Mood swings. (Sorry, Mom.) Which doesn't sound like a whole lot if you're aware of my propensity for such things. It's kind of nuts. Sugar and I are going through a terrible break-up, and now I'm shuffling around the house in my robe, weeping quietly, hands clasping a wad of tissues, while thinking fondly of the great times we had together, and also thinking of how toxic our relationship was and how crazy it made me. But still. Oh, how I crave it. It's now painfully clear how truly addicted I was to sugar. Also, it's clear now why God portions it out in those tiny packets. And why he lives on a plantation in Hawaii.** But nothing really worth doing is going to be easy. That's just the way life is. And it's okay. Maybe even grand.

We'll see how long I can last without ingesting a single grain of sugar (and without a single grain of rice to boot!). Just don't be surprised if you find me crouched by the Lazy Susan eating brown sugar straight out of the bag with my bare hands.*** In the meantime, here's to everyone's good health. And to being grateful for health. And to doing everything we can to maintain it, even if it makes some of us a little crazy sometimes. May everyone feel great and be happy. Happy belated 2011, everyone! Let us all raise a glass in gratitude. A glass of plain-flavored water, of course. (Now with more plain flavor!)

*Don't worry, it's nothing serious. Just health issues that I don't really want to share on a public forum. You understand, right? Oh, and it's not because I want to be on the Atkins Diet. I'll haunt the Atkins Diet in its dreams! No, it's actually to lose weight. I'm really trying to get down to 80 lbs now. JUST KIDDING. Just very kidding.

**Simpsons reference. (Do they ever stop? Nope, they don't. Sorry.)

***This may or may not have happened once in the recent past. Or twice.

...and the truth will set you free.

2011-01-27T20:43:00.001-08:00

I wish I could say that I just watched An Inconvenient Truth and now have some profound thoughts to share about it. No, I have not actually ever seen that movie. And yes, I feel ashamed. Al Gore worked so hard. Surprising that I haven't seen it, I know, being the animal-tree-everything-hugger that I am. However, I was just thinking of the title of that documentary, and it stirred up an interesting thought. That's almost the same as watching it, I think. Right?

An Inconvenient Truth.

The phrase seems a bit redundant, yeah? Because, when you think about it, aren't most truths inconvenient? I'm not speaking of eternal truths, like the things that make the world comfortably spin. I am just speaking of Truth with a capital T. While studying to be a journalist (which still has yet to happen. Answer my emails, my darling Salt Lake Magazine!), Truth was branded into our brains. We were taught to analyze what truth really was, and when it was appropriate to seek and reveal truth so as to not harm individuals who might be affected by such revelations. We were also taught not to hide it because of vested interests. (That's the very short version of it. It's been a while since I've been in school, so I've forgotten how to speak of my trade in an eloquent fashion. Um, I like... words. Good words are... good. Roast... beef?) Nevertheless, it was drilled over and over into our eager, nubile minds to seek truth and report it, no matter how hair-ripping-out-inducing or cumbersome. We explored instances in which exposing the truth might be especially painful, or inconvenient. Of course, there are the heartbreaking situations involving death, accidents, medical results and such. Those suck. Those really, really suck, to put it ever so articulately. Sometimes there is nothing more painful than finding out a harsh reality of life. And dealing with it. Devastating, and yes, not the most convenient thing in the world. But on a lighter note, the title, An Inconvenient Truth got me thinking about different truths that may not be so convenient to discover or reveal.

Here are some.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to amputate your butt." (No one wants or expects to have their butt removed.)

"I love you." Or, "I hate you." (Let's face it, you may not love or hate that person back. And that can be so darn inconvenient. And heartbreaking.)

"Excuse me, I ran over your cat. Oh, and I ate all your hotdogs." (Cat death + consumption of all your hard-earned sodium-injected mystery meat = no good.)

Realizing that there is no toilet paper in your bathroom stall.

"Oh hey, I just shrunk your favorite jeans down to a size negative zero in the dryer. Oh, and that canned chili you just ate? That was actually Botulism-in-a-can."

"You know that person you've been calling "Grandma" your whole life? Yeah, that's just a house plant named Steve."

Peering at your bank account. (A harsh truth/reality for some. "Some" meaning myself.)

See, all of these truths are rather inconvenient. In fact, they're downright difficult and sometimes painful. That's not to say truth can't be convenient, however. I may be beating a dead horse here, but the point is, no matter how incovenient or how terrifying, truth is not something to cower behind. What do we have to gain as individuals? Or as a society?

Whether in journalistic discipline or in everyday life, truth should irrevocably be sought out by ourselves. How far does anyone get not being true to themselves or to others? No matter what religious belief or ethics system you adhere to, truth should be the pinnacle of all that is right in the world. Because with it comes justice. And peace. Clarity. And so many things. Truth as an eternal, infinite principle is rather inexplicable. It's one of those things that just is. One of those things that makes the world turn and steadies the cosmos. I'd almost say that truth itself is a universal truth. It just is because it is. And no matter our quest to find truth, is guaranteed to be worth it in the end. Let us be true and honest with ourselves and with others. And the world will turn madly, steadily, bravely on.

The perils of modern vernacular (and how that involves a dress made of cream cheese).

2011-01-10T20:03:00.000-08:00

"Epic."

I am now going to take billions of words to express how vehemently opposed I am to the recent implementation and incessant usage of this word in the 18 - 40 crowd's daily vernacular. I hate it. Nay, I loathe it. (I made "loathe" a vomity green color to effectively express my distate.) I realize it's rather ridiculous to go on about how much you hate a word, especially when it's inevitable that it has taken over everyone's vocabulary around you and there's nothing you can do about it. And that it's just a word, and there are much bigger problems in the world and maybe you should just get over it and go help some starving children. I also realize that pretentiously griping about it is probably just as annoying and trite as the offending word itself. But oftentimes word-nerds and nerds in general are moved to defend the honor of their respective fields, whether it be the English language or sci-fi films. And as a word nerd, I realize how hard-pressed people become to find words besides "cool" and "awesome" to describe cool and awesome things. ("My, those sneakers are capital!" "Boy, that guitar solo sure was first-rate!" See, I know how hard it can be.) Basically, "epic" is to 2010 as "radical" was to the 1980s. It's happening, and I'll just have to fall off my crippled high-horse and deal with it. Move over, "cool", there's a new sheriff in town and his name is "over-used, overblown adjective that should only be used in high-action thriller film trailers starring Will Smith." On that note, I've decided there are a limited number of situations in which "epic" should be used only:

1. In aforementioned trailers for thrilling, action-or-drama-packed blockbuster films starring Will Smith or Denzel Washington or that guy who has a creepy smile on his face all the time but is a really good actor.

2. I can't think of anything else.

I can't think of any situation that would ever occur in the existence of mankind in which I would use this word. I would rather walk around town wearing a dress made of cream cheese instead of using this word. Hyperbolic, I know. Opinionated, yes. Even if... let's see. Say there was an Radiohead/Led Zeppelin/Arcade Fire concert. And Steve Carell with a beard asks me to be his date. And then me and Steve are hanging out in our front-row seats with the Society of Beard Growers, and Conan O'Brien shows up doing a jig. Both of them tell me how great I am, and then Robert Plant winks at me from on stage, after which fireworks start shooting out iPhones and someone has a baby and Steve Carell proposes to me and Jonny Greenwood from Radiohead gives me his signed guitar and tells me that we are, in fact, related. Whew! Mind-blowing!! Unbelievable! Still, STILL, I could not bring myself to use that word. "Epic" to me is like "Voldemort" to Harry Potter people. It must not be mentioned.

Here are some real-life examples to help you properly use this word:

"Check out my epic mustache! My girlfriend hates it!"** NO. NOT ACCEPTABLE USAGE. YOU GET AN F.

"Did you see my grandma's milk mustache? It's epic!" ALSO NOT OKAY. And stop making fun of Grandma.

"Man, I can't wait for the millenium! It's going to be epic!" YAY! ACCEPTABLE.

So, here is a good rule of thumb. Millenium = okay to use. Will Smith action movie = acceptable. Everything else = not okay. (It is also important to note that the transitive property does not apply here: Willenium, Will Smith's 1999 sophomore rap album = not okay.)

Also, if you choose, here are some more appropriate, less cringe-inducing words/phrases you can use instead:

Phenomenal

Oustanding (my favorite)

Fantastic

Spectacular

Brain-aneurysm inducing

Cat's pajamas

Raspberries!

Almost as good as Mom's meatloaf!

I can't believe it's not butter! Oh wait, it is butter!

If you are an "epic" junkie, I surely hope these tips will help you break your habit. "Epic" is so 2010. Boooooo to 2010!! What say we come up with a new word for bright, shiny 2011? Grandtacularitis. No, that sounds like a vicious disease. Fantagrandimose? (Mmm, Fanta. Remember Fanta?) Spectubulawesocool. These keep sounding like diseases, so I suggest you come up with some of your own. Just remember, if the situation arises where you think you might need to use the word "epic," you don't need to use it. Just walk away. Look at you, you're way too sassy to be using such a silly word. Though for someone who hates it so much, I've sure used it a lot in this diatribe. Funny. But not... well, you know.

**However, beards are a whole different story than mustaches. Although I do not think that a good, self-respecting beard should be marred with the word "epic" in its description. Heck, use epic to describe your mustaches, I don't care. They're usually only grown in an ironic fashion and they deserve it. Call me biased.

This things I believe.

2010-11-24T22:04:00.000-08:00

I know. There is a blatant grammatical error in the title of this post. I actually did it on purpose for humorous effect. It's from that Simpsons episode where Homer stays home from church and calls in to that radio station... you know, the one... ergh, never mind.*

This post is a departure from the usual tangential, ridiculous, humorous-if-you-like-reading-about-housecats-and-shameful-admissions ramblings in this thing I call a "blog." This post is simply a reflection on a few things I've learned as of late. Nothing too profound. If you're looking for something with great profundity, I'd suggest looking elsewhere on The Internets for such things. (The same goes for great meatloaf recipes. You will not find those here, either. Nor will you find anything having to do with Meatloaf the musician guy, or cooking meatloaf with Meatloaf the musician guy.) Nonetheless, I am simply sharing some realizations. This is a more serious post of a spiritual nature that may or may not be rife with cliche. But I'm okay with that. Sometimes I am just one big, walking cliche. Sometimes you just have to own it. So, here it goes. You've been warned.

I've learned that God has a funny/interesting/what-the-what?! way of teaching us things. A way that sometimes makes us shake our heads and say, "Really?? Really?!!" or just give a big thumbs-up to the sky and smile and say, "You got it, dude," like that horrible catch phrase Michelle from Full House used to say. (Remember Full House, you guys? I liked Who's The Boss better.)

With that said, it's funny how it so often takes the hardest of times to make us turn to spirituality. To open that portal that has been completely boarded with "caution" tape for too long. I can't deny the difference between a life void of spirituality and one that is spiritually fulfilled. And I choose the latter. (The former is like trying to ride a bicycle with no seat. It's difficult and doesn't really make a lot of sense. And it probably hurts your posterior regions a lot more.) Life just makes more sense that way. And is infinitely greater that way.

And while we're speaking of the Powers That Be (is that supposed to be capitalized? I feel weird!), I've decided I simply cannot deny divine inspiration/intervention in my life. It's just too coincidental to be chalked up to, well, coincidence. I believe in it, and that is that. Take it as you will. (I'd recommend taking it with a large grain of salt if this is too preachy for you.)

I've realized I love music more than any non-living thing. Okay, most non-living things. (And maybe more than some living things?) I love making it, sharing it, nerding-out about it, just being part of it in any way possible. It's not like this is any kind of new discovery, but I just keep loving it more and more. There's just no way around it.

On that note, there is nothing better than discovering music that awakens you, that revives you from trudging through a wandering slumber of life. Music that leaves you shaken and stirred. There's something to be said when a syncopated bass surprises you and melts your insides a little. Or when that siren guitar solo punches you in the gut (in a good way) and tells you that there is a god and the world is a magnificent little place.

To Adrianne: I've finally learned to love like you do--fiercely, unabashedly, unconditionally. I understand what life is about, and I understand what you were all about more than I ever have before. And I wish you were here so I could tell you all of this.

As with most things in life, becoming an excellent pie-maker requires time, patience and practice. And the wherewithall not to throw the balled-up pie crust at your mom and run away screaming.** One should not invest their ego in their pie-making, at least until they've honed their craft.

Finding peace with yourself and your surroundings is sometimes a tall order. Nonetheless, it is always my goal.

Life is funny, incredibly hard and beautiful, all in one neat little package. It is enchanting, and I adore it, quite. Don't you?

*Okay, fine. Season 3, episode: "Homer the Heretic."
**This didn't happen. Okay, maybe it happened a little.

Dignity, awash in chocolate.

2010-10-19T22:31:00.000-07:00

Chocolate in the bathtub.

Don't knock it until you've tried it.

I realize that I am likely revealing too much about myself on the ever-precarious interwebs by admitting to such a lackadaisical, indulgent practice, and more importantly, a private one that occurs in the sanctity of one's bathroom. I realize it is also rather embarassing and self-indulgent. But I feel that way about every blog entry I publish. I don't really know why I do it, but I feel compelled to prattle on about (somewhat pointless) things. I am the embodiment of a dissonant duality--the private person versus the blathering, verbose, wandering writer.

But back to chocolate in the bathtub! Why yes, good sir or madam, it is an ideal situation. Unless, of course, you happen to drop your chocolate into the bathtub, creating all sorts of trouble for you and your bathing self. Do you try to fish it out with the loofah? Do you just let it melt and thank the heavens that no one is watching your embarrassing and unfortunate predicament (that you know of)? And then proceed to dump upwards of several oversized chocolate bars so that you are a big, goopy, dark, melty...delicious...rich... (*ahem*) mess whilst simultaneously fulfilling your most morbid and magical dreams all at once, in the sanctity of the unsuspecting porcelain cistern?

Is it really that unfortunate of a situation? I can think of much worse ideas than taking a chocolate bath. Many of them. (I'm sure you can, too. Here, I will think of one for you: eating a bowlful of staples. That is a much worse idea.) Yes, before judging my practices, I encourage you to again refer to the above statement--the part where I tell you not to knock it until you've tried it.

Blathering Writer: 1, Private Person: 0.

The trouble with hiccups, or, how I learned to stop worrying and be okay with writing pointless diatribes.

2010-09-09T22:25:00.000-07:00

Hiccups are simply the worst. This is no recent discovery of mine, but I've a mind to share with the world the pure injustice of their existence. They are, by far, my least-favorite bodily function. Not that I sit around rating my affection for bodily functions on a daily basis. Or on an ever-basis. "Let's see, sneezing ranks #1..." (Though I do rather enjoy a good sneeze.) Nonetheless, hiccups are a never-splendored thing. I am always rudely surprised by how truly unpleasant they are when they creep up into my life and up into my throat like a confused baby bee who is trying to escape from Hell. Every time, I feel as though I'm an infant who is having them for the first time, and I become shocked, perplexed and amazed. I may even cry a little. But if getting hiccups alone isn't bad enough, getting them at inopportune moments just compounds your miserable state of hiccupitude and leaves you whimpering softly, wondering if anyone will ever love you with your stupid, stupid body and its inability to stifle these ugly, unwanted esophogeal anomalies. Obviously, this thought gives me no choice but to drum up a list of the top inopportune moments to have hiccups. Are you ready? Let us begin!

1. The shower. Have you ever had hiccups in the shower? What is normally a wonderful sound studio for singing that makes you start seriously considering your career in singing, it does not bode well for the hiccuper. Adding insult to injury, it relentlessly magnifies the sound so that it reverberates across town, leaving bystanders to wonder if you need medical assistance or if you've just been eating the soap. Though if you have bystanders surrounding you during your shower, you should probably figure out why that is.

2. In class. Ah, college! Trying to find onesself, grappling with one's supposed adulthood, etc. It would be in your best interest to focus in class and maybe even try to get asked out on a date like you promised your mom you would because you said you would try harder to be more pleasant and less obscure and all the things that "college girls" are supposed to be. But these dreams are squashed when madness erupts in anthropology, and all you can focus on is stifling your hiccups and trying not to explode and spray green tea all over your classmates as the clock ticks by in slow motion to the tune of the ancient professor discussing with glee mating rituals of the Yanomamo in Venezuela. Speaking of mating rituals...

3. While "making out" (or whatever you kids are calling it these days!) The unpleasantness of this one should be pretty obvious. It has not happened to me, thankfully. And as a person of singlitude, I will have to trust that it would, in fact, make for an awkward moment. What would one do in this situation? "Pardon me a moment, darling, for I must hold my breath for a short while until I pass out on the coffee table. May we please resume our activity when my unbecoming inner turbulence has subsided forthwith?"

4. On that note, any kind of romance-y times. Here is some possible dialogue:

"Hey, baby, I'ma get all up in your grill with the romance and stuff. You dig? Let me put on my sexy pants and we'll go out to Burger King."

"Oh, Jerome, you know I love when you talk Burger King!! I would love to go on a fancy date with you. I'll wear all the latest styles! Your braces are so sexy, they make me want to dance. I'ma go get ready and -HICCUP!!"

----Romantic moment ruined; Jerome leaves, never to return.----

5. While eating. You instantly feel like a drunken, buffoonish glutton when you start hiccuping in the middle of eating something. You could be eating a single lettuce leaf, but you instantly feel like the most slovenly, piggish person in the world and begin to immediately reconsider your dietary habits. "Maybe I should eat half a lettuce leaf next time? Maybe just stick to water from now on? Maybe I shouldn't eat while hanging upside-down off the couch? I dunno."

6. Have you ever yawned and hiccuped at the same time? It is pure insanity. It's like your throat is trying to swallow your brain. It's like your esophagus and uvula are trying to simultaneously strangle and marry eachother in a waltz/battle of throat-related body parts. No one is winning, and you are the battlefield. (Unrelated: love is a battlefield, so says Pat Benatar.)

7. Bedtime. You just want to sleep. That's all you ask. But instead, you just lie there, hic'ing into a dark void of despair. "No, you cannot sleep! I'm going to send your body into awkward gyrations instead and make you dream that your cat is your boyfriend/grandmother!" say the hiccups. "Sleep is naught but a myth! Feel my wrath, peasant!"

8. Trying to sing. As a bashful singer who relishes any bit of precious alone-time to be used for clandestine singing, such an unwelcome interruption is infuriating. Especially if you have the temperament of a classically-trained soprano. Not that I do. (Okay, I do.)

9. In church, on the job, or at a funeral. During: Prayer. Meditation. Litany. Important business meeting with Distinguished Business Man. Heartfelt eulogies. These just go without saying. Mostly because I'm too lazy to keep writing. (I think my verbosity has met its match for the day.)

The end.

Break it to them gently.

2010-08-09T14:19:00.000-07:00

I always thought encounters with Jehovah's Witnesses were a thing of the movies or myth. Something that people told exaggerated tales of but that actually never happened.

But... I was accosted today, and now these kind folks exist in the reality part of my brain, instead of being resigned to the fantasy/myth-based part, alongside fish who use wheelchairs and cloudmonsters who hover over you in your sleep and try to steal your dreams. It actually felt kind of cool, like I had joined the ranks of some elite group. But I was not interested in the least, and letting these folks down easy soon proved to be a trying, near-impossible feat. This was unfortunate, because letting people down easy, if I have to let them down, is usually my modus operandi. My brain doesn't really know how to operate outside of that and be forceful or even mean. But I was rushing to get out the door, so I was armed with an excuse. The man began his shpiel. I listened with a polite nervousness. He didn't even say he was with the Jehovah's Witnesses. He just assumed I knew.

"Okay. Well, actually, I'm in a hurry to get out the door," I interjected as nicely as I could. He ignored me.

"Oh, okay. Well, here in Matthew 4:19, Jesus said..." he continued. I listened again.

"I'm sorry, I really am in a big hurry to get to the doctor," I said. "Who are you with, exactly? Can I take a pamphlet or something?" That was the most forcefulness I can muster, which was basically non-existent.

"Oh sure! Here, this one's wonderful ..." he continued on until he heard my dad's booming voice telling him to get on his way. He promptly packed up, said goodbye and skiddaddled, as one might do upon being chided by a voice as deep as my father's (slightly wetting one's pants might be another option). This led me to postulate. Deep-voiced, mustachioed fathers can't always do our bidding for us, so I began to think of what one might do to firmly decline Jehovah's Witnesses' persistent efforts (or anyone's efforts) when you are simply not interested. Here is a top-ten list. Feel free to use them.

10) Act crazy. But really crazy. Some possible dialogue (coupled with erratic, flailing limbs and clapping of hands): "HEY! I'm so glad you're here! I'm in the middle of making a bird house!! I'm thinking of adding a west wing where the Bird President can live. Ha, get it! West Wing?! --The president is great, don't you think? I don't think he's actually a bird, though. He seems like more of a sea dweller!-- But I've drawn the blueprints, it's just a matter of getting them to that darn contractor. Do you know how hard it is to work with a bird-house contractor? Impossible. Hey, how do you feel about cold gravy? LOVE IT, right?!! Am I right?!"

9) Tell them you're Mormon. No wait, that will make them try even harder. Hmm....

8) Tell them you actually belong to a nudist colony and that you're late for an appointment. Then begin unbuttoning things. (The level of discomfort is up to you.)

7) Act crazier. Begin dancing around back and forth in a semi-circle while simultaneously chanting to the Big Rabbit in the ceiling. Then run to protect your cubic zirconia and missile supply.

6) Tell them you're flattered, but spoken for.

5) And if that doesn't work, six simple words: I'm not gay, but I'll learn.*

4) Offer them a tray of cupcakes/other baked goods, licking every single one passionately in the process.

3) Look at your cat instead of them, as if your cat were the one talking. Then only converse with your cat the entire time.

2) Tell them you think you took some kind of pill and that you're pretty sure your legs are made of paper mache, the walls are melting and that you can only hear the sound of tin and foghorns.

1) Tell them you already had a great conversation with Jesus earlier that week, so you're all set.

*Courtesy of Homer Simpson.

A house made of stone

2010-01-30T11:40:00.001-08:00

I recently realized something. Something about being human.

We face the inevitable-- death of loved ones, dissolved relationships, unexplained heartache, illness, accidentally turning the TV channel to a reality show, etc. And I realized that we have to arm ourselves--or at least I need to, given the fragile mass that I so often prove to be. It's merely requisite for survival. How else can we cope if we don't make ourselves of stone just a little bit? How else can we protect ourselves if we're not just slightly armed to the teeth? Often I've tried to make myself of stone. But it has just ended up being that paste of mud and sand that collapses--crumbles--dissolves--when any kind of rain falls. (In this case, metaphorical rain is an unfortunate thing. I love real rain, however.)

To say "make ourselves of stone" is not to suggest being an insensitive mongrel who is an emotion-starved brick wall with a tough-guy creed. It is simply the suggestion to deal with life like a rock star. Not the Kurt Cobain-fated rock star. And not a meteoroid kind of rock star that is hurtling toward Earth at an alarming speed. But the rock star who suits up in leather (or pleather) pants and counts the band off--1, 2, 3!--and deals with life as it comes because they're just a little bit tough inside and they know how to rock the metaphorical pants off of things. That's all.

But though we may need to build a wall or two for protection, we can't be too guarded. We have to let people in whilst being strong, all at the same time. A challenge, no? At the risk of sounding like a Dungeons and Dragons nerd or the lyrics to a cheesy Peter Cetera** song, humans need to build and maintain their own personal fortresses, all while letting their guard down at the same time. Our walls need to have doors, in other words. And... I just visualized a castle with a drawbridge for some reason. Wow, that IS nerdy.

So, perhaps I'll drink some metaphorical hard cider (because I've heard the real kind is gross) and start rocking the pants off things. Metaphorically, of course. Hear, hear.

**Peter Cetera is synonymous with cheesy. So I guess that was redundant.

Oh, colour me in.

2009-11-06T09:59:00.000-08:00

When it comes to music, I have always been a lyrics nerd. I think it all started when, as a tiny child, I would listen to the Monkees (yes, the Monkees) and would try to figure out what Micky Dolenz was really saying amidst his poor enunciation. For example, I was pretty adamant that he sang, "you'll need no underwear in the sky" in the song "Sometime in the Morning." (The lyrics are actually, "You'll need no longer wear a disguise.") Misheard Monkees lyrics are practically an epidemic in the music world.

However, my fascination with lyrics did not stop with the Monkees (Let's hope not. That would be downright depressing, considering that they mostly did not write their own lyrics and were a musical scam altogether. Yet I still love them.)

Lyrics are essential to songs, and they should be considered an equal partner to the musical part of the song. Think marriage in this day and age versus in the 1950s. The lyrics should not have to wear a frilly apron and greet the music with a pot roast on a perfectly dressed table when he comes home from work. They should rather be equals and both have fulfilling lives and careers. (Too much analogy? Probably.)

This is why I become so perplexed when someone tells me that they just listen to a particular song for the melody or rhythm. That's like saying that you like to eat food only to experience its texture-- not its taste or nutritional value. In other words, it's just stupid. But this directly explains the phenomenon we see in the music industry-- the garbage (there's no other word for it) that masquerades as music and sells millions of copies. "P-p-p-poker face, p-p-poker face," anyone? I try to ignore when this happens and have faith that the world might become less dumb with time. (That's mean. I love you, world!) In the meantime, I will continue to be a lyrics nerd/snob and enjoy them on my own merits whilst spreading the love in hopes to infect people with my fascination.

I will share some tidbits of lyrics from some favorite songs filled with meaning, flavor, and all that is right with the world. (I realize this is rather self-indulgent and silly. I don't really know why I'm doing it. So don't read if you think it is lame.)

"Boys who rape should all be destroyed." -The Raveonettes

"If I could have a second skin, I'd probably dress up in you." -Belle and Sebastian

"I want to be your love, I want to make you cry and sweep you off your feet. I want to hurt your pride, I want to slap your face, I want to paint your nails. I want to make you scream, I want to braid your hair, I want to kiss your friends. I want to make you laugh, I want to dress the same, I want to defend you. I want to squeeze your thighs, I want to kiss your eyelids and corrupt your dreams. I want to crash your car, I want to scratch your cheeks, I want to make you sick. I want to sell you out, want to expose your flaws, I want to steal your things.
I want to show you off, I want to tell you lies, I want to write you books..." -of Montreal

"I am grey, still on the page, oh colour me in." -Broadcast

"Help yourself, don't say a thing. Your love won't show you anything at all... if all you do is talk." -Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

"She said it was all make-believe.. but I thought she said maple leaves. And when she talked about the fall, I thought she talked about the season. I never understood at all." -Jens Lekman

"You say the Beatles stopped the war. They might've helped to find a cure, but it's still not over." -The Black Angels

"Why so green and lonely?" -Radiohead

"Chemicals, don't strangle my pen, chemicals, don't make me sick again. I'm always so dubious of your intent, like I can afford to replace what you've spent. Come on, chemicals!" -of Montreal

"In your heart of chambers, where you sit with your picture books and your ancient wit. In that nook I found you so old and tired. Would you be the one to carry me? I'd like to be someone you could finally learn to love again" -Beach House

"I do believe in something, you know." -The Duke Spirit

2009-10-04T19:10:00.000-07:00

I am fascinated with berries and seed pods. Especially when it rains. One of the first things that made me fall in love with Logan were the rain-drenched trees laden with dripping, red berries that I would walk through on my way to school. It's a weird fixation that not many understand. I'm fine with that.

A fond farewell.

2009-09-29T15:43:00.000-07:00

Goodbye, summer. Thanks for letting me hang my clothes on the line outside my house every laundry day.

I'm going to miss that.

The man in the mustache.

2009-09-13T15:27:00.000-07:00

One grey day.
A threat of rain,
but nothing waters.
We are dry still.

Satiation at the coffee shop
welcomed by a poor sore throat.
One-two-three,
and happy jitters arrive
-on time-
with the otherwordly beats of a DJ's complex machinery.

Transcendence to a different place
where people speak in electronica,
awkward rhythms
and colors.
Psychedelia drawn in pastels-
vivid in time,
divine in nature.

And the man in the mustache kicks out the jams.
And the man in the mustache kicks out the jams.

I was only dreaming.

2009-08-18T16:26:00.000-07:00

What does it mean when you dream that modern-day Nazis are guarding your house, and one of them looks like the guy who plays Draco Malfoy in the Harry Potter movies? And then they throw a time bomb through your window, and you bust out of your house and only thing you grab is your cat. And then you're running up a really steep hill in a successful escape from Malfoy and the Nazis. And then, naturally, all of the sudden you are with a guy who happens to be wearing blue eyeshadow. You tease him, asking if he's going through a Kevin Barnes-eqsue phase. Thankfully, he declines. He is very elusive, hard to read, and likes to watch you get ready for the day. Then he puts a ring on your finger, smiles, and says he's never given a girl a ring before. But it's your ring, one that you bought yourself. Jerkwad.

Kevin Barnes, of Montreal frontman.
(*Warning- if you ever do a Google image search of this man, naked images of him performing will inevitably pop up. This is the exact reason I didn't dare attend his most recent concert. Love you, Kev, but *puke.*)

Overheard.

2009-08-15T15:12:00.000-07:00

It is now time for "Overheard at the Coffee Shop," a series where I tell you about silly, poignant, interesting, or stupid conversations I overhear in coffee shops or other places while staring into a book or newspaper and consuming a delicious drink or foodstuff.

"Overheard 1"- Saturday, August 15, 2009.

Where: Caffe Ibis.
Eating/Drinking: Dark roast coffee and blackberry coffeecake.
Reading: "Me Talk Pretty One Day" by David Sedaris.

Conversation went something like this (quotes are not exact):

Lady who appears to be in her 30s and who is some kind of instructor at the university: "...Well, it's not fair. Women can't go out alone in public without being bothered. I can't go anywhere alone without being hit on or bothered by someone. It's not fair. Guys can just go sit somewhere alone and read in peace. Women are victims."

Guy: Something interesting. (I couldn't hear what he said.)

Commentary in my head went something like this:

Really, madam? I am a female. I have been sitting here, alone in a public place, for about an hour. No one has "bothered" me or "hit on" me, unless you count the fly who landed on my shoulder a couple times. And I think that was more of a throwing-up-on or pooping-on than anything else. And would you believe, madam, that I frequently sit in public places alone without being approached, except for that time when that guy with the really long earrings just couldn't contain himself about how young I looked? You see, the fact that you are a very attractive, intelligent female doesn't permit you to speak for the rest of us. Perhaps you shouldn't make such broad generalizations about women getting hit on all the time, just because it always happens to you. I'm not trying to be rude, that's just how it is. And it's pretty hard to ignore when I, the lone female, am sitting right across from you.

...And that concludes "Overheard at the Coffee Shop" for this week. Stay tuned for more coffee and conversation in the upcoming weeks.

**IRONY: A week after I wrote this, I was "bothered" by a man in the same coffeeshop. I just wanted to sit and read in peace and he kept talking to me and bragging about his art. And somehow I ended up giving him my phone number. Funny how that happens when you are not in the least bit interested in the person. Not to be rude, I'm just being honest. And then he kept calling and calling me for a while. Oops.

An excerpt.

2009-08-10T18:15:00.000-07:00

Dear Miss A.,

I realize it's been a terribly long time since I've written you. I don't really know why. I'm bad at keeping up with things. And facing things. But here I am, I'm facing you, telling you about my day, whether you like it or not.

I thought of you the other day when I bought a classy pair of brown high heels. They are really high and painful. I tried them on probably 20 times before buying them. And there I found myself, lost in the cacophony of shoes at Nordstrom Rack, remembering how you always said high heels were comfortable for you and how it made me jealous. My stupid narrow feet and high arches. Thinking of you amidst the shoe aisles is not an uncommon occurrence for me. I can't go shoe shopping without thinking how much you would want to buy this black pair of peep-toe, hidden platform heels (nevermind you already had several pairs of a similar shoe), or this pair of red satin pumps. Buying my pair of heels was easier knowing you would approve. Buying heels is a big deal for me-- it doesn't happen often. That was always your thing. Maybe that's why I bought them-- so that when I wear them, I'm wearing a little bit of you. I wore them to a wedding with a beautiful aquamarine dress that actually made my eyes blue. I felt pretty for once, and now I understand why you loved to dress to the nines and feel pretty.

I saw the new movie with John Krasinski yesterday. I couldn't help but feel guilty that I was seeing it and you weren't. He was absolutely yours. You would always say, "I want to climb him like a tree." I always thought that was peculiar, but now it makes a lot of sense to me. I mean, he is tall. And handsome, especially with that beard.

For Andrew's wedding luncheon, I sang a lovely little song called "Find Love." Now I understand why you wanted so badly to find true love. I surely hope you've found it somewhere in those crazy stars and planets, amidst millions of flitty butterflies, with Coldplay songs streaming across a galaxy.

And I sure as hell hope I find it on this silly little Earth.

Eat your heart out, Billy Idol.

2009-07-29T21:07:00.000-07:00

There's nothing better than having dance parties with yourself in your apartment.

Don't worry, all my windows and doors are open.

Don't worry, I dance facing a heavily-trafficked street from which many people can see inside my house.

I don't mind.

Yes, you can has cheezburger.

2009-07-23T18:44:00.000-07:00

Alina and I were on a dusky stroll one Tuesday, when we encountered an adorable kitten. It immediately ran up to us, its little collar jangling insistently as it told us in kitty language why we should fall in love with it based solely on its cute kittenous nature. We gave it some love. I put on my best shrill talking-to-kitty voice and cooed lovingly. Wanting to know its name, we inspected the jangly collar. She was called Zhooey, with an "h." But the best part was this inscription on one of the tags:

"O hai! If I iz lost, plz take me hoem k thx!"

If the preceding jibberish looks like jibberish to you, that's because you are not familiar with LOLcats, the insanely popular time-wasting website devoted entirely to kitties and their bad punctuation and spelling.

Upon seeing that inscription, I felt like I was supposed to say some grumpy grandpa thing like, "What is this world coming to. That stupid website is infiltrating our precious vernacular, making us talk to our pets in some inane language, threatening any lingering hint of intelligence we might have as a society. What if that cat was really lost? It would probably die because I can't read the damn inscription on its collar."

Instead, I will say this:
I like LOLcats. I really do. And it really does make me LOL. There, I said it.

kthxbai.

Ants in awkward places.

2009-07-11T16:51:00.000-07:00

I woke up to find a tiny ant biting me in an inappropriate place. "Get away from me, you perv," I said. No wonder I was itchy and couldn't get to sleep. No thanks, ants = no thants.

-Unrelated-

I really love when sneezes come in pairs. It seems to provide some kind of closure. As if you thought the first one was a fluke, the second one sets in and gives you a whole new level of satisfaction, as if to legitimize your entire existence as a sneezer. I'm always jealous of those people who sneeze more than three times in a row. What euphoria. The funny thing is, I am not kidding at all.

Is it true that your eyes will pop out if you don't close them while sneezing? I will try my hardest to keep my eyes open next time I sneeze to find out.* Does the same thing happen if you open your eyes while kissing someone?** What if you kiss while sneezing? These are the important matters I concern myself with daily.

*If you see me without eyes, you'll know what I've been up to. But say hi because I won't be able to see you.

**Chances are, I won't be kissing anyone any time soon to find this out. Contact me in 40 years, and hopefully I'll have found out by then.

With your pen and notebook, you've blown me away.

2009-07-02T18:16:00.000-07:00

If you care to read...

I was rifling through my old Opinion Writing class notebook and it made me laugh. (A shout-out goes to Nancy W.)

Things I secretly like.

I secretly like the smell of cigarette smoke in the winter. In the bitter cold, while walking through campus or a Salt Lake street. I don't like anything about smoking at all. I think it's a pretty nasty habit, and usually the smell makes me gag. But there's a certain brand of cigarette, when mixed with icy weather, that lends itself to a sense of comfort in my mind. I have no idea why. Maybe it's because of the record store. At one point, probably half the staff there smoked and I remember when Garrett would go outside and light up. I thought he might freeze and snap in half because he was so skinny. I would have kissed him right then and there in the snow and tasted his smoker mouth. I wish I would have. I wish I would have done a lot of things.

I also secretly enjoy the smell of the fumes in printmaking class. The ink being stretched thin over the plates. The rosin kept safe in the box, only to burst out through the seams when someone blasts compressed air through a little hole. The spray paint and propane torch. Oh, and the hard-ground being lushly painted over gleaming copper surfaces, like black molasses. And the less pungent soft-ground melting softly in the heat. And the mineral spirits used to clean off the ink from the plates-- I think this one is my favorite. It's also probably not very good for me to smell-- it's basically paint thinner. I love opening the bins of used, soiled rags and getting a whiff of the ink that has been carefully lifted up by oil and mineral spirits. It's the smell of hard work, passion, and a little insanity. I wonder what goes on those bins when no one's looking.

I'm a girl.

2009-06-27T16:30:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-25T17:27:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-06-14T20:27:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-14T15:57:00.000-07:00

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.

People.... people who need peopllllle.....

2009-05-07T19:55:00.000-07:00

I love people. Though it may not be readily apparent to some, seeing as I sometimes have the asocial tendency to snarl and cower awkwardly in a corner in social places, I am fond of people. Most people. I think they are puzzling, lovable, and fascinating. (Except for people on "Rock of Love"-type reality shows.) And lately, though it reeks of creepitude, I have been craving them.* For you see, I live alone in a little box-like dwelling. I share a wall with an elderly (albeit spunky) lady who brings me freezer jam and Valentine's treats. Bless her.

I remember when my dear friend Adrianne asked me if I could really live alone, I brazenly said yes while imagining myself in a hip little kitchen, letting the cat out while sipping a cup of tea. Though I have let the cat out many times and have had many a cup of tea, my kitchen is not hip, and I think the oven might explode someday. But that's fine. The point is, I miss people. I'm not saying this for sympathy purposes-- living alone has its share of perks (see fig.1). But I dearly miss having roommates. People bustling and hustling about their day. People who tell you about their skin diseases and how far they've been with a guy. So if you're looking for a roommate, I'm yours.** If you want. Especially if you like boy-hatin'-on, secret eating, secret underwear pillow-fights,*** and secret secrets. In the meantime, a gangsta-style shout-out to roommate homies of the past will have to do.

To the freshman-year roommates: Poo '99 was fun. So was going to concerts. And interpretive dancing with underwear on our heads.

To the roommates I never really knew: I think we spoke, like, twice. You and your boyfriends were mostly annoying.

To the "Crack House" roommates: I love(d) you more than my own kidneys. Remember when one of you would run around in your underwear all the time? And remember when you awarded me the "Who shot the couch" award at the roommate awards? And one of you would pretend to be a grandma and joke about her diabetes. That same one bought me the new Shins album for no reason. And I learned many, many slang terms for female anatomy. And I got electrocuted by the stove. And someone left a colossal gift-poo in the toilet and I got really, really mad. I still have nightmares about that particular poo.

To the former roommate who sometimes lets me sleep on her couch: Thank you for letting me sleep on the sinky couch.

.....Oh, sweet memories.

Fig. 1) A perk of living alone:
My underwear hanging to dry on the shower curtain rod.

(I probably shouldn't post pictures of my underwear. Good thing it's a low-quality photo.)

*I am not a cannibal.
**Unless you're gross.
***Not really. That's gross. But it did make me sound hot for a moment, huh?

My fruit-striped career

2009-04-23T16:40:00.000-07:00

For some reason, I recently hearkened back to 7th grade math class. It was the first week of school. I remember sitting there in the front row. There were lots of cute boys (ie, smelly 7th graders with bowl-cuts or gelled, pokey hair), and I was thrilled to the brim.

I decided to buy some Fruit Stripe gum. You know, the rainbow zebra gum? I planned on chewing it seductively as to enchant the boy I sat in front of. The next day, I tried. It didn't work.

I wish I would have paid more attention in class.

Hi, Gene.

2009-03-25T12:07:00.000-07:00

I recently had a cologne attack. A colognac attack, rather. Maybe you've experienced one. You're walking home from campus in a stupor, probably thinking about food of some kind or plotting an evil nano-robot scheme, when out of nowhere, a college-going man-child dashes by, leaving you in a cloud of confusion and putrid Aqua di Gio or whatever the hell he has marinated himself in overnight. This particular incidence was so severe I could taste the smell and actually started gagging.

Here are some tips for this guy and other poor saps:

1. Marinade is for chicken and other succulent meats. Not for people. Unless you are a cannibal and you think people meat makes a nice steak.

2. The amount of cologne you wear is not equal to the amount of girls who will immediately throw themselves on you like in those commercials. No one is going to take their clothes off because your cologne makes you an irresistible sex god. Check yourself-- can you even grow a good beard?

3. I would rather smell a consecutive stream of 25 elderly men bathed in Old Spice than taste the smell your pretty-boy brand of cologne that was all the rage with the spiky-haired kids in high school. Plus, grandpas are awesome and they tell me I'm pretty. You look down at me over your popped collar. You lose.

4. Spray once, put down the bottle. A little cologne isn't bad. It's very nice, actually. Here's a rule of thumb: If you can just barely smell the cologne on yourself, that means everyone else can smell it quite well at a level that is unoffensive to the soul.

5. If it's me you're trying to impress (which it's not), you could easily squeak by with wearing some random aftershave you found in your underwear drawer. Wearing deodorant is a definite plus as well. But if it's me you're trying to impress, you would also have to be able to grow a beard and probably kinda dress like a lumberjack.

C'est printemps!

2009-03-18T19:29:00.000-07:00

I've recently taken up a fascination with people's trash. I'm not referring to the everyday, smelly garbage of banana peels and tampon wrappers, although that kind is very interesting and can reveal a whole lot of juicy stuff about a person, like that they use tampons or eat bananas. But right now, I am talking about trash in the sense of baggage. Extra stuff that people don't know what to do with. Stuff that sticks around because it doesn't know how to go away. Card tables and woodscraps, spare tires (either the metaphorical kind or the rubber kind), or emotional baggage left over from a bad break-up-- everyone seems to possess it. And every bit of it seems to tell a story.

Upon the first promising signs of winter thaw, I went on a walk and soon discovered how amazing trash seemed to me. The discarded. The residuals of life. The stuff people keep around because it's too difficult or painful to part with. But piled high in a disheveled heap eyesore, it seemed to have a melancholic artfulness to it, simply because I didn't know why it was there. Especially the bathtub that someone left out in their front yard by some towering scaffolding that hugged the side of the house. This sight made me think that perhaps these people are moving on and leaving the old behind-- spring cleaning, as it were.

I began thinking of my own spring cleaning. My own lingering baggage. The receipts, the endless laundry piles, the omnipresent dust specks that veil my room in a sheath of denial and forgetfulness. My mental pathways that have stirred negativity and spawned immaturity. My un-exercised body and the "love handles" that grace my small frame. Sure, it all tells a story, but it needs to go. It's spring, it's wonderful, and I've spent too long shrouded in winter, wrapped up the dirty gauze of my own self-pity. In my own covert, chilled little world, precious bits of life slipped by as I was sleeping.

I worry it is cliche to talk about "spring rejuvenation," but it's the first time it's ever made sense to me. I never saw spring cleaning as something symbolic. Now I see myself as its human embodiment. Now there's a mess in my living room and it's cleaning time.