I have the afternoon free.
It's 70 degrees.
Sunny.
I've been shopping.
I'm going to go running.
Then maybe shop some more.
Write while sitting on sunbaked steps.
Meet up with friends.
Dinner?
A movie?
Ben & Jerry's?
All of the above? (The most likely option)
Go outside and play, friends.
Stop reading a blog.
'Cause I'm done wasting time inside writing.
xoxo,
V
p.s. COUNTING CROWS SUMMER TOUR!
3.31.2006
3.29.2006
I think I'd decided to be in one of those moods even before I opened my eyes.
Just felt appropriate. I needed a day to feel sad and think about things and whatever else I wanted to do to sulk.
Today won't let me. And I thank the day for it. I'm grinning, feeling an extra bounce in my step. Laughing. A lot. Giving compliments away freely, delighted to find myself receiving even more.
And I was able to finally blare some Josh Ritter today.
See, I'd been waiting for months to blare a certain song and really feel the words.
Patience was required. I'm not good at being patient. But I held off.
Until today. I cranked up the volume, lowered the windows and kept the percussive beat on my steering wheel.
I'm not walking around in short sleeves and sandals - like SOME PEOPLE in this town are - but I certainly understand why Burlington has scrambled to shed its winter skin as quickly as humanly possible, having grown cranky and antsy to load the bulky layers into trunks and storage space.
We know that the temperature is expected to dip back down in a few days, but these last few days have been a step in the right direction. And today, amid the skirts, capris and, I'm not joking, tank tops visible along Church Street, I've been delighted with the appearance of outdoor seating, street vendors and even more of the buskers I enjoy so much in warmer weather.
Screw the lack of budding trees! The rally cry ignores that the grass is more brown-green than green-brown! Spring! Spring! Spring! We're free!
If you have this song, I recommend playing it nice and loud. If you don't have it, I recommend getting it. And then playing it nice and loud. You'll feel glorious and like a brand new person.
Well, not a brand new person, but a whole lot better.
Snow Is Gone
Birds beneath my window dustying their wings upon the lawn
I hear them in the morning light giving last amen to a migratory song
They’re never looking round for me — their eyes are on the sky or the ground below
But I’d rather be the one who loves than to be loved and never even know
Hello blackbird, hello starling
Winter’s over, be my darling
It’s been a long time coming
but now the snow is gone
You were beautiful when I first saw your feathers and confectionery airs
Like the earth it up and promised you the stars but you really didn’t care
I sang in exultation pulled the stops — you always looked a little bored
But I’m singing for the love of it — have mercy on the man who sings to be adored
Hello blackbird, hello starling
Winter’s over, be my darling
It’s been a long time coming
but now the snow is gone
I’m underneath your window now — it’s long after the birds have gone to roost
and I’m not sure if I’m singing for the love of it or for the love of you
But I’ve flown a long way, honey, hear my confession then I’ll go
I’d rather be the one who loves than to be loved and never even know
Hello brown one, hello blue one
Last night’s feathers exchanged for new ones
Hello blackbird, hello starling
Winter’s over, be my darling
It’s been a long time coming
but now the snow is gone
Just felt appropriate. I needed a day to feel sad and think about things and whatever else I wanted to do to sulk.
Today won't let me. And I thank the day for it. I'm grinning, feeling an extra bounce in my step. Laughing. A lot. Giving compliments away freely, delighted to find myself receiving even more.
And I was able to finally blare some Josh Ritter today.
See, I'd been waiting for months to blare a certain song and really feel the words.
Patience was required. I'm not good at being patient. But I held off.
Until today. I cranked up the volume, lowered the windows and kept the percussive beat on my steering wheel.
I'm not walking around in short sleeves and sandals - like SOME PEOPLE in this town are - but I certainly understand why Burlington has scrambled to shed its winter skin as quickly as humanly possible, having grown cranky and antsy to load the bulky layers into trunks and storage space.
We know that the temperature is expected to dip back down in a few days, but these last few days have been a step in the right direction. And today, amid the skirts, capris and, I'm not joking, tank tops visible along Church Street, I've been delighted with the appearance of outdoor seating, street vendors and even more of the buskers I enjoy so much in warmer weather.
Screw the lack of budding trees! The rally cry ignores that the grass is more brown-green than green-brown! Spring! Spring! Spring! We're free!
If you have this song, I recommend playing it nice and loud. If you don't have it, I recommend getting it. And then playing it nice and loud. You'll feel glorious and like a brand new person.
Well, not a brand new person, but a whole lot better.
Snow Is Gone
Birds beneath my window dustying their wings upon the lawn
I hear them in the morning light giving last amen to a migratory song
They’re never looking round for me — their eyes are on the sky or the ground below
But I’d rather be the one who loves than to be loved and never even know
Hello blackbird, hello starling
Winter’s over, be my darling
It’s been a long time coming
but now the snow is gone
You were beautiful when I first saw your feathers and confectionery airs
Like the earth it up and promised you the stars but you really didn’t care
I sang in exultation pulled the stops — you always looked a little bored
But I’m singing for the love of it — have mercy on the man who sings to be adored
Hello blackbird, hello starling
Winter’s over, be my darling
It’s been a long time coming
but now the snow is gone
I’m underneath your window now — it’s long after the birds have gone to roost
and I’m not sure if I’m singing for the love of it or for the love of you
But I’ve flown a long way, honey, hear my confession then I’ll go
I’d rather be the one who loves than to be loved and never even know
Hello brown one, hello blue one
Last night’s feathers exchanged for new ones
Hello blackbird, hello starling
Winter’s over, be my darling
It’s been a long time coming
but now the snow is gone
3.28.2006
I'm not one of those runners who can just zone out and listen to the sound of one's breathing. Or whatever it is runners listen to without an iPod soundtrack.
I have to have some music going. The beat, as you might expect, is pretty important. And in those instances in which I find songs on zee ol'* iPod-io that match the beat I'm creating with my feet, watch out world.
The reason they had to rely on The Six Million Dollar Man and PF Flyers back in the day can simply be chalked up to lack of iPod or otherwise easily transportable audio systems. Because when I get the right song or artist playing, I really am better, stronger, faster. I can run faster, jump higher, yadda yadda yadda.
Well, fine. I'm not sure about the jump higher bit. I haven't tested that out yet.
So. Ramble aside. Once I come across great running music, I tend to set it aside strictly for the running experience. Ryan Adams' "Rock N Roll"? Don't listen to it except for when I'm on the treadmill. Other certain songs or albums are equally reserved.
This is due to the fact that I naively carried the selections from Matt Nathanson's Paradise show over into the other parts of my life. And wondered why, while driving on the highway or organizing things in my room, I started to feel winded.
Hmm.
Yesterday, I made the should-have-been-common-sensical discovery that my LCD Soundsystem music collection is an absolutely brilliant compilation of quick-paced beats suitable for running. Seriously. My workout raced (no pun intended) by, and I was having so much fun rocking out to the tunes that I only had to half-push myself to up my distance.
(Keep in mind that "upping my distance" is an extraordinarily relative term.)
I was torn over this discovery. Great - good running music! Boo - have to save it for running!
I tried. I really, truly, honestly did. But today, driving in the car with windows down and the temperature at a getting-there-so-I'll-take-it-for-now-55-degrees, I couldn't not break the rule.
I dare you to not be similarly invigorated by cool - NOT COLD! - spring breezes and "Movement."
Double dog dare you.
I have to have some music going. The beat, as you might expect, is pretty important. And in those instances in which I find songs on zee ol'* iPod-io that match the beat I'm creating with my feet, watch out world.
The reason they had to rely on The Six Million Dollar Man and PF Flyers back in the day can simply be chalked up to lack of iPod or otherwise easily transportable audio systems. Because when I get the right song or artist playing, I really am better, stronger, faster. I can run faster, jump higher, yadda yadda yadda.
Well, fine. I'm not sure about the jump higher bit. I haven't tested that out yet.
So. Ramble aside. Once I come across great running music, I tend to set it aside strictly for the running experience. Ryan Adams' "Rock N Roll"? Don't listen to it except for when I'm on the treadmill. Other certain songs or albums are equally reserved.
This is due to the fact that I naively carried the selections from Matt Nathanson's Paradise show over into the other parts of my life. And wondered why, while driving on the highway or organizing things in my room, I started to feel winded.
Hmm.
Yesterday, I made the should-have-been-common-sensical discovery that my LCD Soundsystem music collection is an absolutely brilliant compilation of quick-paced beats suitable for running. Seriously. My workout raced (no pun intended) by, and I was having so much fun rocking out to the tunes that I only had to half-push myself to up my distance.
(Keep in mind that "upping my distance" is an extraordinarily relative term.)
I was torn over this discovery. Great - good running music! Boo - have to save it for running!
I tried. I really, truly, honestly did. But today, driving in the car with windows down and the temperature at a getting-there-so-I'll-take-it-for-now-55-degrees, I couldn't not break the rule.
I dare you to not be similarly invigorated by cool - NOT COLD! - spring breezes and "Movement."
Double dog dare you.
3.26.2006
Technically, it's spring. OK, fine. Fabulous. We'll soon be springing forward our clocks, allowing for that extra hour of sunshine. The spring portion of the major league baseball season opens, what, a week from tomorrow?
(A fact that, surprsing no one, leaves me bouncing up and down like a child just thinking about it.)
All these technicalities, set dates, are all fine and good...but I'm waiting for the actual to arrive. And I'm actually getting more than a little impatient.
See, I've done my part. I have the spring (and summer and fall and until I get sick of them) sunglasses ready. I have the spring wardrobe ready, hanging in the closet, folded in the drawers. I have sneakers, open-toed shoes, sandals lined up and ready. I have my tickets for Fenway (and, come fall, Camden Yards) carefully set aside and the Red Sox calendar pinned to the corkboard behind this computer.
Game dates circled. Heh. Less than three weeks until the first one!
I spent a chunk of the weekend at my parents' house, relaxing and catching up with them outside of Massachusetts - which seems to be the exception to the norm as of late, as all three of us turn to the highway when we have more than a day of free time. Even they got into the spring swing of things. Shopping to make sure my mother actually buys herself the things she says she's been wanting (apparently I'm required to serve as the "bad" (read: good) influence in this area); discussion with my father about the tantalizingly close start to spring golf; the surprise black, white and pink track jacket and pants they'dbought me because they thought it would help my transition into running outside come cooperative weather.
We're all there. We're all waiting for it. We all have spring fever.
Only thing missing? Spring itself.
Any day now...
(A fact that, surprsing no one, leaves me bouncing up and down like a child just thinking about it.)
All these technicalities, set dates, are all fine and good...but I'm waiting for the actual to arrive. And I'm actually getting more than a little impatient.
See, I've done my part. I have the spring (and summer and fall and until I get sick of them) sunglasses ready. I have the spring wardrobe ready, hanging in the closet, folded in the drawers. I have sneakers, open-toed shoes, sandals lined up and ready. I have my tickets for Fenway (and, come fall, Camden Yards) carefully set aside and the Red Sox calendar pinned to the corkboard behind this computer.
Game dates circled. Heh. Less than three weeks until the first one!
I spent a chunk of the weekend at my parents' house, relaxing and catching up with them outside of Massachusetts - which seems to be the exception to the norm as of late, as all three of us turn to the highway when we have more than a day of free time. Even they got into the spring swing of things. Shopping to make sure my mother actually buys herself the things she says she's been wanting (apparently I'm required to serve as the "bad" (read: good) influence in this area); discussion with my father about the tantalizingly close start to spring golf; the surprise black, white and pink track jacket and pants they'dbought me because they thought it would help my transition into running outside come cooperative weather.
We're all there. We're all waiting for it. We all have spring fever.
Only thing missing? Spring itself.
Any day now...
3.25.2006
It was a marvel to behold.
A smile that remained on her face, even when her lips had lost their upward turn. It all started with the eyes, the visible glow that radiated out from her face, her frame as she leaned against the back of the bench on which we were sitting. Irrepressible, even if she'd wanted to downplay her happiness.
Which, we both knew, she didn't.
This isn't the typical "It's great to see you and how happy you are" kind of moment, this was bearing witness to the kind of joy and beauty that leaves those fortunate enough to see it absolutely dazzled by the transformation.
It's almost as if the happiness had reached her formerly jet black hair and lit it up, set it into an auburn blaze.
"I'm so happy for you" did nothing to properly describe what I wanted to say, but she knew what I meant.
"It's about damn time, girl!" or, even, "Thank you for being happy, because it makes me realize that I am going to have that for myself, and I really needed a hopeful reminder."
A smile that remained on her face, even when her lips had lost their upward turn. It all started with the eyes, the visible glow that radiated out from her face, her frame as she leaned against the back of the bench on which we were sitting. Irrepressible, even if she'd wanted to downplay her happiness.
Which, we both knew, she didn't.
This isn't the typical "It's great to see you and how happy you are" kind of moment, this was bearing witness to the kind of joy and beauty that leaves those fortunate enough to see it absolutely dazzled by the transformation.
It's almost as if the happiness had reached her formerly jet black hair and lit it up, set it into an auburn blaze.
"I'm so happy for you" did nothing to properly describe what I wanted to say, but she knew what I meant.
"It's about damn time, girl!" or, even, "Thank you for being happy, because it makes me realize that I am going to have that for myself, and I really needed a hopeful reminder."
3.23.2006
If you head on over to Todd Carey's website and sign up for his mailing list, you'll get the password to "Crazy Fools," a new section with exclusive material...
...INCLUDING a video clip of Todd and Bushwalla's show here in Burlington AND a chance to hear the van-made recording of "Anywhere But Memphis," which was created during the trip up to Burlington. That song, while cool in the demo version, just sizzled beyond belief during the two chances I had to hear it live (thank you again, Burlington and Boston). How I adore me some Todd and B, and how amazing it is when they team up. That song just rocked the venues something fierce...
...but for those who couldn't experience it live, at least you get a chance to hear a hint of it piping through your speakers.
Go check it out! You won't be sorry. And catch Todd at a show, next time he rolls into town. Midwest crowds can soon prepare to be dazzled by Todd AND Ryan Montbleau Band (a lineup I was lucky enough to experience at Higher Ground last year), and I'll be envious of you all.
...INCLUDING a video clip of Todd and Bushwalla's show here in Burlington AND a chance to hear the van-made recording of "Anywhere But Memphis," which was created during the trip up to Burlington. That song, while cool in the demo version, just sizzled beyond belief during the two chances I had to hear it live (thank you again, Burlington and Boston). How I adore me some Todd and B, and how amazing it is when they team up. That song just rocked the venues something fierce...
...but for those who couldn't experience it live, at least you get a chance to hear a hint of it piping through your speakers.
Go check it out! You won't be sorry. And catch Todd at a show, next time he rolls into town. Midwest crowds can soon prepare to be dazzled by Todd AND Ryan Montbleau Band (a lineup I was lucky enough to experience at Higher Ground last year), and I'll be envious of you all.
This one falls under "Sugar, spice, such a freakin' girl":
It wasn't just a dress. To paraphrase a Tom Cruise movie line from an idyllic time, a time before he scared the bejeezus out of me, it was an Audrey Hepburn movie - and I was in the mood for breakfast at Tiffany's.
Black silk, strapless, fitted bodice with a skirt that flared out slightly before falling at the knee. Ribboned waist with slight pleating in the front. The little black dress that not so much screams as quietly demands a string of pearls and a pair of kitten heels.
I have the kitten heels and I'd sure as hell buy the pearls for this number, I thought as I stood, staring wistfully at the dress as it flattered a mannequin behind the shop window. The little black dress to end all little black dresses - and this statement would never ever go out of style.
My mother instilled in me, at a young age, that every woman needs the little black dress. And while I have a dress that is little and black, I've always been on watch for The Dress. And here it was, at the Pru. Simple and elegant and absolutely gorgeous.
Michelle watched me drool and asked if I wanted to try it on. I declined, postponing the moment I either fell completely in love or realized it was actually The Little Black Dress That Doesn't Work On Me. So, instead, I bid it one more wistful glance as we made our way to the T, discussing the little black dress lifestyle.
Now, I'm not so much of a little black dress kind of girl - or at least, I don't appear to be the type. I'm more of the perfect pair of jeans kind of lady. Jeans that fit in with rock shows, a casual day at the office, a latte and conversation or a drive on the way to an adventure. Dress 'em up, sure, but usually, I dress 'em down - in a good kind of way.
The question arose: would either of us want the little black dress life? Of events over get-togethers, dainty heels over heeled boots, up-dos instead of ponytails?
Well, actually, I kind of would. At least, every once in awhile.
The next day, we found the dress at another shop, at another shopping center, and I tried it on. The store employee asked me what event the dress was for as she led me to a changing room, and I replied that every woman needs a little black dress. She nodded knowingly.
It fit, it flared, I felt like Holly Golightly. As I opened the door and twirled, Michelle remarked that it looked great, but it wasn't typical me.
I thought to myself, "You know, that may be just what I need." I haven't bought it, but I'm still thinking about it. Mulling it over.
(Praying it goes on sale sometime soon.)
I'm not talking about giving up Red Stripes for vodka martinis, but I find myself trying to bridge the gap between the jeans lifestyle and its more "sophisticated" silk contemporary. A lean a bit toward my girlier, fashionista side these days. Or at least a step toward it. In fact, I considered recently wearing my favorite pair of jeans with a pair of black stilettos.
Of course, then I remembered I don't own a pair of stilettos because I always thought I'd break an ankle (in fact, my most recent shoe purchase? Chuck Taylors. Ahem.) But then I thought about buying some. Why? Because some of them are pretty and I'd feel particularly pretty in them. Besides, they'd be special occasion shoes, not ones for everyday.
(Ay, there's the rub. Even when feeling flighty and fanciful, practicality rears its sensible head.)
I've started to compile a list of materialistic, clothing-related wants. I always have one, of course, but this time, I'm starting to lust after things I wouldn't have otherwise considered. Still me and my style, of course, but decidedly different facets of it. Surprisingly so.
Which makes me wonder two things:
1 - How in trouble I'm going to be when my tax refund arrives.
2 - Where I could wear a perfect little black dress.
It wasn't just a dress. To paraphrase a Tom Cruise movie line from an idyllic time, a time before he scared the bejeezus out of me, it was an Audrey Hepburn movie - and I was in the mood for breakfast at Tiffany's.
Black silk, strapless, fitted bodice with a skirt that flared out slightly before falling at the knee. Ribboned waist with slight pleating in the front. The little black dress that not so much screams as quietly demands a string of pearls and a pair of kitten heels.
I have the kitten heels and I'd sure as hell buy the pearls for this number, I thought as I stood, staring wistfully at the dress as it flattered a mannequin behind the shop window. The little black dress to end all little black dresses - and this statement would never ever go out of style.
My mother instilled in me, at a young age, that every woman needs the little black dress. And while I have a dress that is little and black, I've always been on watch for The Dress. And here it was, at the Pru. Simple and elegant and absolutely gorgeous.
Michelle watched me drool and asked if I wanted to try it on. I declined, postponing the moment I either fell completely in love or realized it was actually The Little Black Dress That Doesn't Work On Me. So, instead, I bid it one more wistful glance as we made our way to the T, discussing the little black dress lifestyle.
Now, I'm not so much of a little black dress kind of girl - or at least, I don't appear to be the type. I'm more of the perfect pair of jeans kind of lady. Jeans that fit in with rock shows, a casual day at the office, a latte and conversation or a drive on the way to an adventure. Dress 'em up, sure, but usually, I dress 'em down - in a good kind of way.
The question arose: would either of us want the little black dress life? Of events over get-togethers, dainty heels over heeled boots, up-dos instead of ponytails?
Well, actually, I kind of would. At least, every once in awhile.
The next day, we found the dress at another shop, at another shopping center, and I tried it on. The store employee asked me what event the dress was for as she led me to a changing room, and I replied that every woman needs a little black dress. She nodded knowingly.
It fit, it flared, I felt like Holly Golightly. As I opened the door and twirled, Michelle remarked that it looked great, but it wasn't typical me.
I thought to myself, "You know, that may be just what I need." I haven't bought it, but I'm still thinking about it. Mulling it over.
(Praying it goes on sale sometime soon.)
I'm not talking about giving up Red Stripes for vodka martinis, but I find myself trying to bridge the gap between the jeans lifestyle and its more "sophisticated" silk contemporary. A lean a bit toward my girlier, fashionista side these days. Or at least a step toward it. In fact, I considered recently wearing my favorite pair of jeans with a pair of black stilettos.
Of course, then I remembered I don't own a pair of stilettos because I always thought I'd break an ankle (in fact, my most recent shoe purchase? Chuck Taylors. Ahem.) But then I thought about buying some. Why? Because some of them are pretty and I'd feel particularly pretty in them. Besides, they'd be special occasion shoes, not ones for everyday.
(Ay, there's the rub. Even when feeling flighty and fanciful, practicality rears its sensible head.)
I've started to compile a list of materialistic, clothing-related wants. I always have one, of course, but this time, I'm starting to lust after things I wouldn't have otherwise considered. Still me and my style, of course, but decidedly different facets of it. Surprisingly so.
Which makes me wonder two things:
1 - How in trouble I'm going to be when my tax refund arrives.
2 - Where I could wear a perfect little black dress.
3.22.2006
We interrupt our regular posting for a very important announcement:
- Radiohead. US Summer Tour. I'm determined to finally see them live and am dorkily giddy about the prospect. Dates aren't up yet, so I'm going to have to keep on the lookout...
We now return to our regularly-scheduled Revelry:
Beth mentioned an instance from our senior year of college last night, and as we tried to remember the precise details of that evening, I realized I'd written about it at the time.
The details? Well, it involved a statue within our college's chapel. Keep in mind that we attended Catholic college. We were part of the Catholic tradition, albeit a very liberal interpretation, during years when students are stereotpyically cynical, smart-assed and questioning life and all that comes with it.
This means that students at my college wound up falling into one of three groups: 1) those who creatively (ableit good-naturedly) blasphemed, 2) those who came out of the closet (some not surprising, some an absolutel shock) OR 3) those who graduated more Catholic than when they came onto campus.
We were of that first group.
After finding the particular entry and bursting into laughter on multiple occasions (ah, the glory of having all the details right there), we found ourselves taking a trip down memory lane, laughing at what I'd written at the time. Random stuff we'd all but forgotten, but that rushed back with aid of my younger self.
3.22.2002
in odd coincidences that really make no sense...
driving back from my trip to the printer this morning, i drove past the 300s field and noticed a couple of birds that were startled off the road by my oncoming car. for some reason, i thought about when fabio was hit by a bird while riding a rollercoaster. i have no idea how the thought popped in my head, but there it was.
tonight, i was searching [entertainment news] and found a "celebrity birthday, did you know..." type of thing. and the three-year anniversary of fabio being hit in the face by the bird on the rollercoaster is this weekend.
????????
my thoughts exactly.
References to John Mayer and Howie Day before they were big and during their rises. The ever-necessary-in-college drunk posts, full of bad spelling and references to things I can't for the life of me remember now (and, of course, concluded with "I'm going to delete this in the morning," which means I most certainly wouldn't do any deleting). Crushes and romances, somewhat regular quirky updates and quotes from housemates that made us think of how different things are in retrospect.
V: "Wait. I actually went to the GYM during senior year? When did that happen? That must have been a one-time affair."
Beth: "Two-time affair! Let it be noted! On January 15, 2002, you and I worked out and kicked our asses!"
Beth: (reading out loud) I'm glad I wore the red sneakers. Smiley face. Valentine's Day didn't turn out so badly afterall.
V: HA! That's because I got a drunk dial. From Rhode Island. LAME!
B: HAHAHAHAHA
V: Sad thing? That's still the best Valentine's I've had. Hehehehehe.
Amazing to read that I celebrated my one-year blogging anniversary. That I couldn't picture life beyond college. That I felt old at 21.
Makes me wonder what I'm going to think of what I'm writing now, four years from now...
- Radiohead. US Summer Tour. I'm determined to finally see them live and am dorkily giddy about the prospect. Dates aren't up yet, so I'm going to have to keep on the lookout...
We now return to our regularly-scheduled Revelry:
Beth mentioned an instance from our senior year of college last night, and as we tried to remember the precise details of that evening, I realized I'd written about it at the time.
The details? Well, it involved a statue within our college's chapel. Keep in mind that we attended Catholic college. We were part of the Catholic tradition, albeit a very liberal interpretation, during years when students are stereotpyically cynical, smart-assed and questioning life and all that comes with it.
This means that students at my college wound up falling into one of three groups: 1) those who creatively (ableit good-naturedly) blasphemed, 2) those who came out of the closet (some not surprising, some an absolutel shock) OR 3) those who graduated more Catholic than when they came onto campus.
We were of that first group.
After finding the particular entry and bursting into laughter on multiple occasions (ah, the glory of having all the details right there), we found ourselves taking a trip down memory lane, laughing at what I'd written at the time. Random stuff we'd all but forgotten, but that rushed back with aid of my younger self.
3.22.2002
in odd coincidences that really make no sense...
driving back from my trip to the printer this morning, i drove past the 300s field and noticed a couple of birds that were startled off the road by my oncoming car. for some reason, i thought about when fabio was hit by a bird while riding a rollercoaster. i have no idea how the thought popped in my head, but there it was.
tonight, i was searching [entertainment news] and found a "celebrity birthday, did you know..." type of thing. and the three-year anniversary of fabio being hit in the face by the bird on the rollercoaster is this weekend.
????????
my thoughts exactly.
References to John Mayer and Howie Day before they were big and during their rises. The ever-necessary-in-college drunk posts, full of bad spelling and references to things I can't for the life of me remember now (and, of course, concluded with "I'm going to delete this in the morning," which means I most certainly wouldn't do any deleting). Crushes and romances, somewhat regular quirky updates and quotes from housemates that made us think of how different things are in retrospect.
V: "Wait. I actually went to the GYM during senior year? When did that happen? That must have been a one-time affair."
Beth: "Two-time affair! Let it be noted! On January 15, 2002, you and I worked out and kicked our asses!"
Beth: (reading out loud) I'm glad I wore the red sneakers. Smiley face. Valentine's Day didn't turn out so badly afterall.
V: HA! That's because I got a drunk dial. From Rhode Island. LAME!
B: HAHAHAHAHA
V: Sad thing? That's still the best Valentine's I've had. Hehehehehe.
Amazing to read that I celebrated my one-year blogging anniversary. That I couldn't picture life beyond college. That I felt old at 21.
Makes me wonder what I'm going to think of what I'm writing now, four years from now...
3.21.2006
To be filed under either "Perfect Timing," "Wanderlust" or "...and then Everyone Else":
Ryan Montbleau Band will be back at Higher Ground on May 12. Which means a looong Friday night of music and dancing in Vermont.
This just impresses me infinitely. Of course I think the Burlington music scene is important, but it's outstanding to see that Ryan and the guys make such an effort to get to the area on a regular basis. It seems impossible, these days, for three months to go by without a show here. Which means I always manage to get a fix if Boston dates don't line up with my schedule; I always get to experience a different scene, different crowds, at Vermont shows even if I have or will get to a Boston gig.
Take a look at the band's schedule. Crazy. Apparently Ryan and company are incapable of staying in one place for too long (I know the feeling).
The timing works out brilliantly, I also must say. May 12 marks the night before I head down to Massachusetts to feel old and celebrate my brother's college graduation (Emerson dons the academic garb the following Monday). And the show happens to fall on the four-year anniversary of my own graduation.
That's the other part of the feeling old bit. But I'll be too busy dancing to think about it...
Ryan Montbleau Band will be back at Higher Ground on May 12. Which means a looong Friday night of music and dancing in Vermont.
This just impresses me infinitely. Of course I think the Burlington music scene is important, but it's outstanding to see that Ryan and the guys make such an effort to get to the area on a regular basis. It seems impossible, these days, for three months to go by without a show here. Which means I always manage to get a fix if Boston dates don't line up with my schedule; I always get to experience a different scene, different crowds, at Vermont shows even if I have or will get to a Boston gig.
Take a look at the band's schedule. Crazy. Apparently Ryan and company are incapable of staying in one place for too long (I know the feeling).
The timing works out brilliantly, I also must say. May 12 marks the night before I head down to Massachusetts to feel old and celebrate my brother's college graduation (Emerson dons the academic garb the following Monday). And the show happens to fall on the four-year anniversary of my own graduation.
That's the other part of the feeling old bit. But I'll be too busy dancing to think about it...
3.20.2006
V: Hello?
Mom: Hey, good, you picked up.
V: I'd been planning on calling you, too. How surprised were you to hear the news?
M: Of...?
V: You haven't heard?
M: What are you talking about?
V: Bronson Arroyo.
M: What about him?
V: He was traded.
M: WHAT?
V: I KNOW!
M: Where?
V: Cincinnati.
M: Why?
V: For Pena.
M: Why?
V: I know! I don't know!
M: When did this happen.
V: Today. I didn't believe it 'til I saw it in print.
M: Wow. (Calls out, away from phone) They traded Bronson...Bronson...BRONSON. ARROYO. Red Sox.
Dad: (muffled) WHAT?
V: I KNOW!
Mom: Hey, good, you picked up.
V: I'd been planning on calling you, too. How surprised were you to hear the news?
M: Of...?
V: You haven't heard?
M: What are you talking about?
V: Bronson Arroyo.
M: What about him?
V: He was traded.
M: WHAT?
V: I KNOW!
M: Where?
V: Cincinnati.
M: Why?
V: For Pena.
M: Why?
V: I know! I don't know!
M: When did this happen.
V: Today. I didn't believe it 'til I saw it in print.
M: Wow. (Calls out, away from phone) They traded Bronson...Bronson...BRONSON. ARROYO. Red Sox.
Dad: (muffled) WHAT?
V: I KNOW!
It's not that I've never been organized, but that no one else could easily see the method to my madness.
I've always been creatively organized.
So does the neatness and clearly recognizable organization demonstrated these last few weeks signify boring/mundane/lemming organization?
The transition has been relatively smooth, although a few roadblocks have popped up from time to time. The realization that I just can't organize the clothes by where I would wear them because that leaves a random empty half-drawer where the "mostly casual, but perhaps professionally-permissable" is, or I know, Beth, it IS weird, but I just couldn't stand the thought of not getting this laundry taken care of and put away when I have the time to do it, and then I decided to hang up my scarves and reorganize a tiny bit.
But it always comes back to the same thing, whether the organization is creative or not. This morning, I put my "Look, I'm thinking ahead" breakfast/snack yougurt into my backpack, into which I'd placed my running gear the night before. I put my iPod in its proper place. My cell phone tucked away into the new, superbitchin, dark teal messenger-bag-purse-love-child bag I bought myself this weekend.
Coat on. Sunglasses brought along, just in case. Ready to walk out the door.
Where the hell are my keys?
I've always been creatively organized.
So does the neatness and clearly recognizable organization demonstrated these last few weeks signify boring/mundane/lemming organization?
The transition has been relatively smooth, although a few roadblocks have popped up from time to time. The realization that I just can't organize the clothes by where I would wear them because that leaves a random empty half-drawer where the "mostly casual, but perhaps professionally-permissable" is, or I know, Beth, it IS weird, but I just couldn't stand the thought of not getting this laundry taken care of and put away when I have the time to do it, and then I decided to hang up my scarves and reorganize a tiny bit.
But it always comes back to the same thing, whether the organization is creative or not. This morning, I put my "Look, I'm thinking ahead" breakfast/snack yougurt into my backpack, into which I'd placed my running gear the night before. I put my iPod in its proper place. My cell phone tucked away into the new, superbitchin, dark teal messenger-bag-purse-love-child bag I bought myself this weekend.
Coat on. Sunglasses brought along, just in case. Ready to walk out the door.
Where the hell are my keys?
3.19.2006
Snippets from a suspended Saturday
Wanderlust prevails! My day was a giant, meandering pedestrian lap, precisely what I'd hoped for but thought too demanding to request.
It started at the Common; ended there, too. Although I use the term "day" with a loose, artistically licensed hand, as I'm compiling my scrawled snippets in Central Square, aided by a latte during the final business hours at 1369.
(Got a problem with my desire for symetry tweaking with time? It's my story, so suck it. Tee hee.)
I'm sitting on a marble seat at Downtown Crossing, waiting for the Red Line to swoop in and whisk me off to Central Square. I just got my fix of roasted almonds - or the scent of them, anyway, which is all I desired.
I never go out of my way to pass by the vendor, but it's a pleasant turn of each trip to Boston. I think time here would feel a bit incomplete without an intake or two of the smoky sweet air laced with salt.
(This moment, as always, has been sponsored by H&M.)
I've come into the city on my own this morning, having advised Michelle to sleep in and recharged her overworked and exhausted head. But it was a partially selfish move, I have to admit. I enjoy the chance to strike out on my own. Independence provides me the luxury of not worrying about the need to be considerate, no matter how accommodating my companions happen to be; I've the chance to walk playfully within the lines of the red paint road provided by the Freedom Trail and not feel too goofy or juvenile.
I also can let my feet bounce in time the private Counting Crows concert being performed into my ears. I danced a bit as I made my way up Temple Street. Why? Because I could.
***
"And the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings."
- ADuritz
***
Now, my train speeds travelers and I up high above the Charles, the sparkle of blue that keeps Boston and Cambridge at a comfortably cordial distance. The skyline extends behind me, the city working the kinks of a St. Patrick's Day hangover out of its system. I've been smiling knowingly at the lack of typical Saturday crowds, imagining the lines at diners and restaurants, where bleary-eyed patrons seek relief in Bloody Marys and mimosas...
***
"She sees shooting stars and comet tails, she's got heaven in her eyes, she says, 'I don't need to be an angel, but I'm nothing if I'm not this high...'"
- AD
***
My coffee cup is orange. It matches every fourth stripe in my sweater, the sleeves of which are pushed up as I sit with the sun to my back, the barista area stretched out before me, past the counter at which I'm perched.
I never come to this coffeeshop as often as I should. A double injustice, really, as the staff hooks me up. "You don't pay here."
I also don't drink anything less than divinity in a paper cup here, so it seems.
***
I can't tell you how far we walked.
"We're not going anywhere in particular. You know that, right? That's cool?" We left the Middle East and turned onto a side street, our hands both tucked into jacket pockets.
"That's great. Perfect." Cambridge ended back at the Charles. Over the BU bridge, down Commonwealth. We wandered through the open arches I want to investigate each time I drive up this road, Paradise-bound. Through Kenmore. Down some other random series of streets. Hang a right, hook up with Newbury and walk past the shops. Another turn.
Across the street from the convention center, he pointed out The Foggy Goggle, a pub that now occupies space formerly reserved for the Odinero. I'd asked about the Odinero more than a decade earlier, as we stood in line outside Hynes, waiting for All-Star weekend festivities. Think of it this way: two clocks. OdinerO. A blonde moment that became family legend.
Past the Pru. Past Copley. Down to the Common and Arlington, where he hopped onto the T - hours after our adventure began - and I turned back to return to the Pru and my impending Sephora meetup with Michelle.
I know that everyone - or, at least, the fortunate ones - boast about their siblings. Discuss how amazing they are. I would never be one to dispute their claims.
But this has proven, without a doubt, that I am sister to the best of the best, who just happens to be one of my favorite people on the planet.
Sorry, that's just how it is. Rest of you will have to learn to accept it.
***
To be filed under "Why yes, you do want to kiss me":
My lips now taste and smell like mimosas. Hello.
***
Postscript: To sit down and talk writing - to really talk writing - is rare. So I sipped my latte slowly as Michelle and I sat, open notebooks in front of us, and discussed the writing process.
Get into your head at the same time that you get out of it. Just write it. You'd better read it to me later.
Before I knew it, the chairs were stacked and it was time to return to the car and the journey home.
I cued up some Counting Crows...
Wanderlust prevails! My day was a giant, meandering pedestrian lap, precisely what I'd hoped for but thought too demanding to request.
It started at the Common; ended there, too. Although I use the term "day" with a loose, artistically licensed hand, as I'm compiling my scrawled snippets in Central Square, aided by a latte during the final business hours at 1369.
(Got a problem with my desire for symetry tweaking with time? It's my story, so suck it. Tee hee.)
I'm sitting on a marble seat at Downtown Crossing, waiting for the Red Line to swoop in and whisk me off to Central Square. I just got my fix of roasted almonds - or the scent of them, anyway, which is all I desired.
I never go out of my way to pass by the vendor, but it's a pleasant turn of each trip to Boston. I think time here would feel a bit incomplete without an intake or two of the smoky sweet air laced with salt.
(This moment, as always, has been sponsored by H&M.)
I've come into the city on my own this morning, having advised Michelle to sleep in and recharged her overworked and exhausted head. But it was a partially selfish move, I have to admit. I enjoy the chance to strike out on my own. Independence provides me the luxury of not worrying about the need to be considerate, no matter how accommodating my companions happen to be; I've the chance to walk playfully within the lines of the red paint road provided by the Freedom Trail and not feel too goofy or juvenile.
I also can let my feet bounce in time the private Counting Crows concert being performed into my ears. I danced a bit as I made my way up Temple Street. Why? Because I could.
***
"And the price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings."
- ADuritz
***
Now, my train speeds travelers and I up high above the Charles, the sparkle of blue that keeps Boston and Cambridge at a comfortably cordial distance. The skyline extends behind me, the city working the kinks of a St. Patrick's Day hangover out of its system. I've been smiling knowingly at the lack of typical Saturday crowds, imagining the lines at diners and restaurants, where bleary-eyed patrons seek relief in Bloody Marys and mimosas...
***
"She sees shooting stars and comet tails, she's got heaven in her eyes, she says, 'I don't need to be an angel, but I'm nothing if I'm not this high...'"
- AD
***
My coffee cup is orange. It matches every fourth stripe in my sweater, the sleeves of which are pushed up as I sit with the sun to my back, the barista area stretched out before me, past the counter at which I'm perched.
I never come to this coffeeshop as often as I should. A double injustice, really, as the staff hooks me up. "You don't pay here."
I also don't drink anything less than divinity in a paper cup here, so it seems.
***
I can't tell you how far we walked.
"We're not going anywhere in particular. You know that, right? That's cool?" We left the Middle East and turned onto a side street, our hands both tucked into jacket pockets.
"That's great. Perfect." Cambridge ended back at the Charles. Over the BU bridge, down Commonwealth. We wandered through the open arches I want to investigate each time I drive up this road, Paradise-bound. Through Kenmore. Down some other random series of streets. Hang a right, hook up with Newbury and walk past the shops. Another turn.
Across the street from the convention center, he pointed out The Foggy Goggle, a pub that now occupies space formerly reserved for the Odinero. I'd asked about the Odinero more than a decade earlier, as we stood in line outside Hynes, waiting for All-Star weekend festivities. Think of it this way: two clocks. OdinerO. A blonde moment that became family legend.
Past the Pru. Past Copley. Down to the Common and Arlington, where he hopped onto the T - hours after our adventure began - and I turned back to return to the Pru and my impending Sephora meetup with Michelle.
I know that everyone - or, at least, the fortunate ones - boast about their siblings. Discuss how amazing they are. I would never be one to dispute their claims.
But this has proven, without a doubt, that I am sister to the best of the best, who just happens to be one of my favorite people on the planet.
Sorry, that's just how it is. Rest of you will have to learn to accept it.
***
To be filed under "Why yes, you do want to kiss me":
My lips now taste and smell like mimosas. Hello.
***
Postscript: To sit down and talk writing - to really talk writing - is rare. So I sipped my latte slowly as Michelle and I sat, open notebooks in front of us, and discussed the writing process.
Get into your head at the same time that you get out of it. Just write it. You'd better read it to me later.
Before I knew it, the chairs were stacked and it was time to return to the car and the journey home.
I cued up some Counting Crows...
3.17.2006
Walking through an office building hallway this morning, Beth and I were still singing the chorus to "Since U Been Gone," as it had been playing in the house as we prepared for our days.
Note to self: when rounding a corner, realize one could be approaching in the opposite direction and take in the vocal performance. I got a big smile and, I have a feeling, some chuckles after I passed. Awesome. I didn't care. It was a fun start to the day.
Speaking of days...Happy St. Patrick's! One of my favorite holidays, thanks to the Irish in my blood and a love of the color green.
It was strange, walking up the street this morning and seeing a void of people...my senior year of college's St. Patrick's was ridiculous. Lines down the block by watering holes, full of my classmates (and I - hello, RiRa's) well before doors opened at 9...
...not at all related, the college decided to rearrange schedules the year after I graduated, so spring break just happened to coincide with St. Patrick's. Hmm. Wonder why. Pity.
In honor of the occasion, I'll redirect you to a song a chum wrote a couple of years ago to mark the day. The little ditty is known as "Green Kegs and Spam."
Here's to hoping that you and yours have a wonderful holiday. Be safe and have fun!
Note to self: when rounding a corner, realize one could be approaching in the opposite direction and take in the vocal performance. I got a big smile and, I have a feeling, some chuckles after I passed. Awesome. I didn't care. It was a fun start to the day.
Speaking of days...Happy St. Patrick's! One of my favorite holidays, thanks to the Irish in my blood and a love of the color green.
It was strange, walking up the street this morning and seeing a void of people...my senior year of college's St. Patrick's was ridiculous. Lines down the block by watering holes, full of my classmates (and I - hello, RiRa's) well before doors opened at 9...
...not at all related, the college decided to rearrange schedules the year after I graduated, so spring break just happened to coincide with St. Patrick's. Hmm. Wonder why. Pity.
In honor of the occasion, I'll redirect you to a song a chum wrote a couple of years ago to mark the day. The little ditty is known as "Green Kegs and Spam."
Here's to hoping that you and yours have a wonderful holiday. Be safe and have fun!
3.16.2006
I think I'll go to Boston, I think I'll start a new life, I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name. I think -
"A problem, V." Beth looks over at me from her cross-legged spot on my floor, where she perched when I told her I had to play a song for her (for the sake of accurracy, it should be noted that the request came out something like, "Sookay you reeeeeally have to hear this song already because it's soooooo good, okay, I won't spoil it for you, come here!"). I was stretched on top of my bed, mouthing along to the lyrics.
"'Where no one knows my name' wouldn't exactly work out for you in Boston."
Hmm. My last venture to the city came back to me and I chuckled. Duly noted. "But, um, still. It's a cool song, don't you think..."
We nodded our heads as the piano melody resumed its trickle through the soundsystem speakers.
***
Date, location, time. No words of invitation necessary for either party in the conversation.
I love this sense of informality. We both know I'll do what I can to be there; we also know that if I don't, there will be a next time soon. Because I'm always making my way back into town, I'm as regular a fixture as one can be, considering where I call home. This isn't technically my town, but that's mere technicality. Formality, if you will.
I'm relieved that we see no reason for formalities.
***
The strange sort of dynamic between Boston and myself reared its head yesterday evening. I was figuring out who I should call, with whom I should try to spend some time, what I'd like to do, what I haven't seen or done in awhile.
It proved to be a longer list than I would have realized. Family, friends, restaurants, shops, shows (the question: one or two?), activities. A trip to the gym? Time for the lattes and writing planned for Tthe Mary/Rhoda Summit? Bowling? Brunch with mimosas?
I'm only going to wind up doing half of what I'd like to do. The rest will go back into the shuffle for next time. As is usually the case.
Oh, Boston - you and yours. I never have enough time with you. You're not where I am, but you're filled with pieces of what I am. I'm always trying to touch base, check in, laugh with and otherwise connect with those pieces that go through their daily routines about two hundred miles away from me.
You haven't been a particularly restful destination for awhile now. Instead, you're a sort of second, suspended reality. And one I've wound up neglecting these past several months.
I'm definitely feeling the crunch to catch back up. Fortunately, you know I always wind up getting bored when I'm trying to relax, so I know I'm going to have a good time.
"A problem, V." Beth looks over at me from her cross-legged spot on my floor, where she perched when I told her I had to play a song for her (for the sake of accurracy, it should be noted that the request came out something like, "Sookay you reeeeeally have to hear this song already because it's soooooo good, okay, I won't spoil it for you, come here!"). I was stretched on top of my bed, mouthing along to the lyrics.
"'Where no one knows my name' wouldn't exactly work out for you in Boston."
Hmm. My last venture to the city came back to me and I chuckled. Duly noted. "But, um, still. It's a cool song, don't you think..."
We nodded our heads as the piano melody resumed its trickle through the soundsystem speakers.
***
Date, location, time. No words of invitation necessary for either party in the conversation.
I love this sense of informality. We both know I'll do what I can to be there; we also know that if I don't, there will be a next time soon. Because I'm always making my way back into town, I'm as regular a fixture as one can be, considering where I call home. This isn't technically my town, but that's mere technicality. Formality, if you will.
I'm relieved that we see no reason for formalities.
***
The strange sort of dynamic between Boston and myself reared its head yesterday evening. I was figuring out who I should call, with whom I should try to spend some time, what I'd like to do, what I haven't seen or done in awhile.
It proved to be a longer list than I would have realized. Family, friends, restaurants, shops, shows (the question: one or two?), activities. A trip to the gym? Time for the lattes and writing planned for Tthe Mary/Rhoda Summit? Bowling? Brunch with mimosas?
I'm only going to wind up doing half of what I'd like to do. The rest will go back into the shuffle for next time. As is usually the case.
Oh, Boston - you and yours. I never have enough time with you. You're not where I am, but you're filled with pieces of what I am. I'm always trying to touch base, check in, laugh with and otherwise connect with those pieces that go through their daily routines about two hundred miles away from me.
You haven't been a particularly restful destination for awhile now. Instead, you're a sort of second, suspended reality. And one I've wound up neglecting these past several months.
I'm definitely feeling the crunch to catch back up. Fortunately, you know I always wind up getting bored when I'm trying to relax, so I know I'm going to have a good time.
3.15.2006
A Request:
I'm looking for new music. After the success that was a friend's recommendation to check out Augustana (hello, I'm hooked. If you haven't taken a listen, check out "All the Stars and Boulevards." I am particularly - and predictably, I suppose - infatuated with "Boston."), I realized it was time to again load up the iPod with a playlist of "New People To Listen To."
(Yes, I've had such a playlist in the past. The results were appropriately mixed between big hits and big misses.)
As I'll be traveling to the land of my favorite music store (Newbury Comics) this weekend, I'll have the opportunity to pick up some new things.
So what should those things be? I'm thinking both in the box - the tastes I've documented ad nauseum here - and outside...I think some new styles would be much appreciated.
In related news, a couple of shows to bring to people's attention for this weekend, while I'm off taking in Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins (tickets are still available, last I heard - Somerville Theatre, Friday night):
- Burlington: Ben Lee, Friday night, Higher Ground.
- Boston: Tides, Saturday night, Bill's Bar, Lansdowne Street.
I'm looking for new music. After the success that was a friend's recommendation to check out Augustana (hello, I'm hooked. If you haven't taken a listen, check out "All the Stars and Boulevards." I am particularly - and predictably, I suppose - infatuated with "Boston."), I realized it was time to again load up the iPod with a playlist of "New People To Listen To."
(Yes, I've had such a playlist in the past. The results were appropriately mixed between big hits and big misses.)
As I'll be traveling to the land of my favorite music store (Newbury Comics) this weekend, I'll have the opportunity to pick up some new things.
So what should those things be? I'm thinking both in the box - the tastes I've documented ad nauseum here - and outside...I think some new styles would be much appreciated.
In related news, a couple of shows to bring to people's attention for this weekend, while I'm off taking in Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins (tickets are still available, last I heard - Somerville Theatre, Friday night):
- Burlington: Ben Lee, Friday night, Higher Ground.
- Boston: Tides, Saturday night, Bill's Bar, Lansdowne Street.
3.14.2006
I think the hints of spring are starting to get to me.
Despite knowing that the temperature is taking a nosedive as I write this, despite being completely aware of the fact that winter has at least one, probably more like two, punches waiting to deliver onto my face or into my stomach (because winter certainly likes a sucker punch), I'm feeling giddy. Grand. Groovy.
Just great.
I'm trying to leave things behind me, to blossom anew in time with the trees and the flowers. I know this metamorphosis is only a few weeks away, and I'm counting down the days - nay, I'll actually go with the minutes - until I get the chance to do so.
In the meantime? I'm just feeling great.
I realized yesterday that April is going to flash by with lightning tempo, as I took a look at the schedule and tentative calendar of approaching events and noted just how packed things are going to be. This city-town in which I live continues to surprise me with the lineup of people gracing local stages - April is boasting Charlotte Martin, Bushwalla, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!, Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers with Pat McGee Band, and Matt Nathanson (we'll ignore that whole "opening for Lifehouse" bit).
I'm a month and a day away from my first Red Sox game of the season. Augustana's playing in Montreal, and I think I want to make the trip for the show. I'll be continuing the running I've become a big fan of (and resumed this week, as the lingering effects of The Winter Cold v2.0 have finally rid themselves from me), and I'll be able to resume treadmill time with a NESN Red Sox soundtrack. I'll feel more compelled to wander around places when it's warmer.
It's all so close I can nearly taste it. And it tastes like iced caramel lattes and Great Harvest's hot cross buns.
So tantalizingly close...
OK. So. Rock for a Remedy. You've read about it before, and perhaps you've seen RFAR volunteers' smiling faces at food drives pimped out by the artists the organizations knows and loves so dearly. You know that I helped out with a few of the drives last year, during the short Guster run, and you might know that I got a little hooked on the amazing rush that comes with seeing how much people can do when everyone helps out, even just a little.
As Guster preps for the Campus Consciousness Tour, RFAR is also preparing - as the organization is going to be rocking food drives at most of the tour dates.
KJ, RFAR extraordinaire and good friend to yours truly, is seeking the assistance of some dedicated, energetic, committed volunteers willing to step up to the plate and help out with drives. I can tell you that it's fun and more than just a little rewarding to participate in these events - and Guster is a great band with which to get that first taste of grand concert karma.
Not to mention that Guster fans totally rocked the drives during the fall shows. Generous and so damn impressive.
That said. Interested in helping out? Volunteers are needed for the following dates:
4/13 Thursday @ St Lawrence in Canton, NY
4/30 Sunday @ Trinity in Hartford, CT
5/2 Tuesday @ Holy Cross in Worcester, MA
5/4 Thursday @ Fitchburg State in Fitchburg, MA
If you're game, contact KJ at iwill@rockforaremedy.org. Tell her I sent you. And then be ready for some feel-good rock vibes.
You won't be sorry!
Despite knowing that the temperature is taking a nosedive as I write this, despite being completely aware of the fact that winter has at least one, probably more like two, punches waiting to deliver onto my face or into my stomach (because winter certainly likes a sucker punch), I'm feeling giddy. Grand. Groovy.
Just great.
I'm trying to leave things behind me, to blossom anew in time with the trees and the flowers. I know this metamorphosis is only a few weeks away, and I'm counting down the days - nay, I'll actually go with the minutes - until I get the chance to do so.
In the meantime? I'm just feeling great.
I realized yesterday that April is going to flash by with lightning tempo, as I took a look at the schedule and tentative calendar of approaching events and noted just how packed things are going to be. This city-town in which I live continues to surprise me with the lineup of people gracing local stages - April is boasting Charlotte Martin, Bushwalla, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!, Stephen Kellogg & the Sixers with Pat McGee Band, and Matt Nathanson (we'll ignore that whole "opening for Lifehouse" bit).
I'm a month and a day away from my first Red Sox game of the season. Augustana's playing in Montreal, and I think I want to make the trip for the show. I'll be continuing the running I've become a big fan of (and resumed this week, as the lingering effects of The Winter Cold v2.0 have finally rid themselves from me), and I'll be able to resume treadmill time with a NESN Red Sox soundtrack. I'll feel more compelled to wander around places when it's warmer.
It's all so close I can nearly taste it. And it tastes like iced caramel lattes and Great Harvest's hot cross buns.
So tantalizingly close...
OK. So. Rock for a Remedy. You've read about it before, and perhaps you've seen RFAR volunteers' smiling faces at food drives pimped out by the artists the organizations knows and loves so dearly. You know that I helped out with a few of the drives last year, during the short Guster run, and you might know that I got a little hooked on the amazing rush that comes with seeing how much people can do when everyone helps out, even just a little.
As Guster preps for the Campus Consciousness Tour, RFAR is also preparing - as the organization is going to be rocking food drives at most of the tour dates.
KJ, RFAR extraordinaire and good friend to yours truly, is seeking the assistance of some dedicated, energetic, committed volunteers willing to step up to the plate and help out with drives. I can tell you that it's fun and more than just a little rewarding to participate in these events - and Guster is a great band with which to get that first taste of grand concert karma.
Not to mention that Guster fans totally rocked the drives during the fall shows. Generous and so damn impressive.
That said. Interested in helping out? Volunteers are needed for the following dates:
4/13 Thursday @ St Lawrence in Canton, NY
4/30 Sunday @ Trinity in Hartford, CT
5/2 Tuesday @ Holy Cross in Worcester, MA
5/4 Thursday @ Fitchburg State in Fitchburg, MA
If you're game, contact KJ at iwill@rockforaremedy.org. Tell her I sent you. And then be ready for some feel-good rock vibes.
You won't be sorry!
3.13.2006
I prowled around the racks and tables, eyes sharp. I don't believe either of my flatmates had ever partaken in - or witnessed, at least - this experience before.
"I want college-ruled lines. Or thinner. Maximium writing space. I can't stand journals with all of those empty borders. It's a waste of a page.
"I don't like bound volumes. I'll write a book, someday, but this is a journal. I don't want to worry about making a mistake, having to cross something out, and feeling as if I've ruined the book for all time. That's why the velvet-cover journal from college didn't work out.
"Anyway, those kinds of jouranls aren't comfortable. If it's book-bound, it cramps your right hand as you're trying to write on the left-side pages. You can't write as much because your hand gets tired. Spiral-bound makes much more sense.
"This one's promising - thanks! Cute cover, spiral binding. Lines are a little wide, but I think it'll suit its purpose.
"But, that said, is it too cute? It's just going to hold some really bad poetry, and it would be a little cruel of me to do that to a journal worthy of more..."
I bought three tiny journals, shrinkwrapped together in plastic. Eighty pages each, thinnest of thin lines. No spirals, but a bendable cover. Plain black. Sturdy, but nondescript.
It's also the brand Hemingway used, I suppose I should note. The labels boast about the great works that have been written in similar volumes.
But I'm not overly fond of Hemingway. I like that I can bind them in a hairtie after I'm done, store it away in a bookshelf and know it's there. And others won't even notice the sliver of black...
***
I went shopping.
I bought yarn for a knit-free scarf (because I haven't re-learned to knit - yet), and wound up pawing through tangled strangs of yellow-orange, blue-green and magenta-purple for what felt like hours (no wonder cats are so fascinated).
I bought journals. I wrote. A lot.
I bought Converse canvas sneakers - low-top - because I'd been wanting a pair for ages and finally decided making myself smile was reason enough to buy them (first pair I've owned since junior high). I spent a chunk of Sunday gazing deligtedly at my feet.
I went to a bakery that offers free slices of thick bread.
I came up with a list (short) of the things I want to do when I go to Boston this weekend, when I actually have time to SPEND in Boston (unlike last month's whirlwind venture). I'm trying to figure out which makes me more nervous: the idea of braving IKEA on a Saturday (I might nix this one) or walking into Sephora determined to only buy one item (she says now...).
I ran for the first time in two weeks (thank you, cold) and, while I didn't run particularly far, had a huge grin on my face as I started to feel the endorphins kick in.
I got into long conversations about how boys are stupid and we girls are bright, savvy, brilliant, knowing creatures that prove intimidating to cowardly fellows.
I walked around in messy pigtails and oversized sunglasses, sipping an iced latte through a bright orange straw.
I fell in love with a relatively-new-band-to-me band and was finally able to play something other than the Ani that has been dominating my iPod.
I watched Josh and Donna kiss on The West Wing and hooted and hollered in delight. This was followed about 49 minutes later by grouping Josh into the "stupid boys" category.
I wrote poetry, which I've never ever written before...
"I want college-ruled lines. Or thinner. Maximium writing space. I can't stand journals with all of those empty borders. It's a waste of a page.
"I don't like bound volumes. I'll write a book, someday, but this is a journal. I don't want to worry about making a mistake, having to cross something out, and feeling as if I've ruined the book for all time. That's why the velvet-cover journal from college didn't work out.
"Anyway, those kinds of jouranls aren't comfortable. If it's book-bound, it cramps your right hand as you're trying to write on the left-side pages. You can't write as much because your hand gets tired. Spiral-bound makes much more sense.
"This one's promising - thanks! Cute cover, spiral binding. Lines are a little wide, but I think it'll suit its purpose.
"But, that said, is it too cute? It's just going to hold some really bad poetry, and it would be a little cruel of me to do that to a journal worthy of more..."
I bought three tiny journals, shrinkwrapped together in plastic. Eighty pages each, thinnest of thin lines. No spirals, but a bendable cover. Plain black. Sturdy, but nondescript.
It's also the brand Hemingway used, I suppose I should note. The labels boast about the great works that have been written in similar volumes.
But I'm not overly fond of Hemingway. I like that I can bind them in a hairtie after I'm done, store it away in a bookshelf and know it's there. And others won't even notice the sliver of black...
***
I went shopping.
I bought yarn for a knit-free scarf (because I haven't re-learned to knit - yet), and wound up pawing through tangled strangs of yellow-orange, blue-green and magenta-purple for what felt like hours (no wonder cats are so fascinated).
I bought journals. I wrote. A lot.
I bought Converse canvas sneakers - low-top - because I'd been wanting a pair for ages and finally decided making myself smile was reason enough to buy them (first pair I've owned since junior high). I spent a chunk of Sunday gazing deligtedly at my feet.
I went to a bakery that offers free slices of thick bread.
I came up with a list (short) of the things I want to do when I go to Boston this weekend, when I actually have time to SPEND in Boston (unlike last month's whirlwind venture). I'm trying to figure out which makes me more nervous: the idea of braving IKEA on a Saturday (I might nix this one) or walking into Sephora determined to only buy one item (she says now...).
I ran for the first time in two weeks (thank you, cold) and, while I didn't run particularly far, had a huge grin on my face as I started to feel the endorphins kick in.
I got into long conversations about how boys are stupid and we girls are bright, savvy, brilliant, knowing creatures that prove intimidating to cowardly fellows.
I walked around in messy pigtails and oversized sunglasses, sipping an iced latte through a bright orange straw.
I fell in love with a relatively-new-band-to-me band and was finally able to play something other than the Ani that has been dominating my iPod.
I watched Josh and Donna kiss on The West Wing and hooted and hollered in delight. This was followed about 49 minutes later by grouping Josh into the "stupid boys" category.
I wrote poetry, which I've never ever written before...
3.09.2006
Early January plans finally unfolded in March. Only late. And different.
The setting had changed to my home turf and it was a couple of months after the fact. Cocktails instead of coffee. And, blessedly, no reference to Narnia.
I have fun, it's good to see him. I hope to again at some point, sooner rather than later. But I realize that all it took to rid myself of years' (embarrassed as I am to admit it) worth of a crush was an hour and a vodka cranberry.
And I think the outcome would have been the same with a latte months ago.
Better late than never?
I found myself bounding up a deserted cobblestone street, gracing the sparkling gold street lights (remnants of the holiday season, so it works) with a "Napoleon" reprise. Although, thinking of it now, perhaps I should have belted out "Good, Bad, Ugly" instead.
'Cause baby, I was feeling awfully fancy free.
I get home and write into a notebook before I turn off the light and drift off to sleep with a smile:
You can ask how I am. How work has been. To whom I've been listening. The next reason I'm going to be making the ever-so-frequent trip to Boston. What has been new and exciting in my life.
If you ask, I might just wind up believing that you care about the response I give. I might just feel inclined to share with you, and I might just hope you provide responses to the inquiries I plan to make.
But you decide to go with "How are things?"
And I realize there is no decent answer I can give, because well, busy, frustrated, groovy or fine don't give you any sense of where I am. I realize you either don't care about whatever I decide to include in my response, or you don't know how to ask me anything better or more specific. You might think that that kind of question is going to make me feel special that you asked anything of me at all - and, well, that's not so much the case.
My response is friendly, but vague. I don't follow through with my inquiries.
Because that's the moment I realized that this crush I've had for years has just ended. As much as it can. I mean, there's a Laugh and a Grin and a Smirk named after you. And you - or at least, the crush on you - has become kind of engrained in me.
But you have one opportunity to ask about me, and you decide to go with "How are things?"
I realize that I'm suddenly much, much better, so much that I almost want to thank you...
The setting had changed to my home turf and it was a couple of months after the fact. Cocktails instead of coffee. And, blessedly, no reference to Narnia.
I have fun, it's good to see him. I hope to again at some point, sooner rather than later. But I realize that all it took to rid myself of years' (embarrassed as I am to admit it) worth of a crush was an hour and a vodka cranberry.
And I think the outcome would have been the same with a latte months ago.
Better late than never?
I found myself bounding up a deserted cobblestone street, gracing the sparkling gold street lights (remnants of the holiday season, so it works) with a "Napoleon" reprise. Although, thinking of it now, perhaps I should have belted out "Good, Bad, Ugly" instead.
'Cause baby, I was feeling awfully fancy free.
I get home and write into a notebook before I turn off the light and drift off to sleep with a smile:
You can ask how I am. How work has been. To whom I've been listening. The next reason I'm going to be making the ever-so-frequent trip to Boston. What has been new and exciting in my life.
If you ask, I might just wind up believing that you care about the response I give. I might just feel inclined to share with you, and I might just hope you provide responses to the inquiries I plan to make.
But you decide to go with "How are things?"
And I realize there is no decent answer I can give, because well, busy, frustrated, groovy or fine don't give you any sense of where I am. I realize you either don't care about whatever I decide to include in my response, or you don't know how to ask me anything better or more specific. You might think that that kind of question is going to make me feel special that you asked anything of me at all - and, well, that's not so much the case.
My response is friendly, but vague. I don't follow through with my inquiries.
Because that's the moment I realized that this crush I've had for years has just ended. As much as it can. I mean, there's a Laugh and a Grin and a Smirk named after you. And you - or at least, the crush on you - has become kind of engrained in me.
But you have one opportunity to ask about me, and you decide to go with "How are things?"
I realize that I'm suddenly much, much better, so much that I almost want to thank you...
3.08.2006
Ani's "Napoleon" has been in my head
all
day
long.
Granted, that might have something to do with the fact that I blared the song and sang along as I prepared for my day today.
But I also blared Nathanson songs. And Bushwalla's "White Girl." And Rilo Kiley's "Portions For Foxes." And "Peace Frog."
For some funny reason - heheahem - it's "Napoleon" that stuck.
***
The sun is shining gloriously, and the air is crisp and comforting. For the first time in a little while, it actually feels as if the sun is warming the world around me. Makes me want to linger outside and drink my lattes iced.
all
day
long.
Granted, that might have something to do with the fact that I blared the song and sang along as I prepared for my day today.
But I also blared Nathanson songs. And Bushwalla's "White Girl." And Rilo Kiley's "Portions For Foxes." And "Peace Frog."
For some funny reason - heheahem - it's "Napoleon" that stuck.
***
The sun is shining gloriously, and the air is crisp and comforting. For the first time in a little while, it actually feels as if the sun is warming the world around me. Makes me want to linger outside and drink my lattes iced.
"Hey, come here for a minute."
Beth walked into my bedroom and turned to see the photograph I was pointing to, part of a collage I'd made years ago to depict our junior year of college.
She looked at the photo, then looked back at me and the yellow shirt I was wearing. Three-quarter sleeves, two buttons at the top, sunshine lemon yellow. She started laughing as she realized that I was pointing at a picture of my happy, yellow-clad self standing next to an incredibly tall singer-songwriter wearing maroon.
"This shirt met John Mayer." I sighed with over-the-top, sarcastic flair and started to laugh. It had been part of the grand unearthing that came with my mass reorganization, and I'd been delighted to find that it still fit and was still the shade of bottled sunrays.
See, this wasn't just a shirt. This was a pivotal part of V concert history, friends. It started a year-long trend of Yello Concert Wear, that led to the purchase of numerous yellow band shirts and my bright presence at shows.
This was The Original Yellow Concert Shirt. I'd worn it to some random show and had a great time, so I decided it was lucky. I'd worn it to my first show at Paradise (the epic VaCo/Howie Day/Pat McGee Band benefit) and others that I can't pinpoint right now. Because I'd wanted the Mayer experience to be a great one, I wore it during a February scramble to kick snow out from behind the car of the friend who drove us to Higher Ground. I wore it as Michelle and I laughed with John about the philosophical merits of Count Chocula, and I wore it as I whirled around with surprise to face the stage when I heard the first notes of the "Babylon" cover he played during soundcheck; the shirt's color must have paled a bit in comparison to the blindingly bright smile on my face as I joyously blew his laughing form a kiss. He was playing the song because I'd mentioned it was my then-favorite and I'd been delighted to hear that he'd been known to occasionally perform it.
I stopped wearing it sometime junior year, but always held onto it because of the memories attached. I wound up putting it away and only unpacked it this weekend.
Beth laughed as I talked about The Shirt and then cued up "Your Body is a Wonderland" on the iPod and began to dance and sing about.
Funny, thinking of what I did and didn't know the last time I'd worn it. I couldn't entertain the notion of life after graduation at that point; I didn't know so many of the people that are regular characters in my current days. I had no way of knowing who would come into my life and which of those would leave, or stick around - whether I wanted them to or not (or a little of both - ahem). I had no idea of what role Washington would play in my life or how I'd find my way back to Vermont, with whom I would settle into a pleasant little domestic space, even what music I'd come to enjoy.
I sure as hell didn't know Mayer would wind up winning Grammys, or that Howie Day would actually make it big (we'll ignore the whole legal thing, for the sake of nostalgia).
My concert gear has turned darker over the years that have passed - reflecting the change in color choices in the rest of my life, actually. Black. Dark.
But maybe I'll take a walk on the brighter side for a little bit. I think yellow's going to have to make an appearance at the venues a bit more often.
But not that shirt. I'm going to keep that one to myself - and hum a little bit of "Sucker" each time I happen to take it off the hanger...
Beth walked into my bedroom and turned to see the photograph I was pointing to, part of a collage I'd made years ago to depict our junior year of college.
She looked at the photo, then looked back at me and the yellow shirt I was wearing. Three-quarter sleeves, two buttons at the top, sunshine lemon yellow. She started laughing as she realized that I was pointing at a picture of my happy, yellow-clad self standing next to an incredibly tall singer-songwriter wearing maroon.
"This shirt met John Mayer." I sighed with over-the-top, sarcastic flair and started to laugh. It had been part of the grand unearthing that came with my mass reorganization, and I'd been delighted to find that it still fit and was still the shade of bottled sunrays.
See, this wasn't just a shirt. This was a pivotal part of V concert history, friends. It started a year-long trend of Yello Concert Wear, that led to the purchase of numerous yellow band shirts and my bright presence at shows.
This was The Original Yellow Concert Shirt. I'd worn it to some random show and had a great time, so I decided it was lucky. I'd worn it to my first show at Paradise (the epic VaCo/Howie Day/Pat McGee Band benefit) and others that I can't pinpoint right now. Because I'd wanted the Mayer experience to be a great one, I wore it during a February scramble to kick snow out from behind the car of the friend who drove us to Higher Ground. I wore it as Michelle and I laughed with John about the philosophical merits of Count Chocula, and I wore it as I whirled around with surprise to face the stage when I heard the first notes of the "Babylon" cover he played during soundcheck; the shirt's color must have paled a bit in comparison to the blindingly bright smile on my face as I joyously blew his laughing form a kiss. He was playing the song because I'd mentioned it was my then-favorite and I'd been delighted to hear that he'd been known to occasionally perform it.
I stopped wearing it sometime junior year, but always held onto it because of the memories attached. I wound up putting it away and only unpacked it this weekend.
Beth laughed as I talked about The Shirt and then cued up "Your Body is a Wonderland" on the iPod and began to dance and sing about.
Funny, thinking of what I did and didn't know the last time I'd worn it. I couldn't entertain the notion of life after graduation at that point; I didn't know so many of the people that are regular characters in my current days. I had no way of knowing who would come into my life and which of those would leave, or stick around - whether I wanted them to or not (or a little of both - ahem). I had no idea of what role Washington would play in my life or how I'd find my way back to Vermont, with whom I would settle into a pleasant little domestic space, even what music I'd come to enjoy.
I sure as hell didn't know Mayer would wind up winning Grammys, or that Howie Day would actually make it big (we'll ignore the whole legal thing, for the sake of nostalgia).
My concert gear has turned darker over the years that have passed - reflecting the change in color choices in the rest of my life, actually. Black. Dark.
But maybe I'll take a walk on the brighter side for a little bit. I think yellow's going to have to make an appearance at the venues a bit more often.
But not that shirt. I'm going to keep that one to myself - and hum a little bit of "Sucker" each time I happen to take it off the hanger...
3.06.2006
A weekend of self-imposed reclusive behavior (intented to - and mostly successful in the attempts to - eradicate this cold) led to the decision to embark on an epic adventure of discovery and danger.
That's right. The First Annual Spring(ish)* Cleaning. The scene: my bedroom and closet. The timeframe: All - and I mean all of Saturday and a good chunk of Sunday (that which was not spent going to see Match Point** in the theater or watching the Oscars***).
Among the items unearthed during this process:
- One (1) bike helmet
- One (1) college graduation dress, previously believed to have been at parents' home
- Approximately forty-five dollars ($45 USD) in loose change
- Copies of the following books: The Natural, The Grapes of Wrath, The House of Seven Gables and a collection of Christopher Durang plays, all yet to be read by yours truly
- Ticket stubs from the following: Rufus Wainwright/Ben Folds (with special guest Ben Lee), circa last summer; Averi Paradise-headlining performance, circa 2004; Red Sox game, circa April 2005; MFA Art Deco exhibit, circa December 2004; Ryan Montbleau Band Higher Ground performance, dated March 17, 2005 (unused, as show was postponed until May 20, the date I was attending the Bushwalla double-header in Massachusetts); Melissa Ferrick, circa January 2005; Mason Jennings Black Cat-headlining performance, circa Spring 2003 (I am forever cursed by that Butterfly song. Ugh.)
- CDs
- Six (6) lip balms/glosses, four (4) of which are some shade of red
- Three (3) sweaters, completely forgotten
- Enough clothing to nearly double my wardrobe
- Two (2) large bags of clothing to be donated to the Salvation Army
- One (1) pair of slippers
- Five (5) belts
- One (1) jump rope
- One (1) softball, neon yellow
- Two (2) scarves
- Approximately thirty (30) pens, of which approximately twenty-eight (28) have blue ink
- One (1) journal, circa 1994 (eighth grade)
- One (1) brown loafer shoe, thought disappeared but joyously reunited with partner
- One (1) new, unopened jar of Vicks VapoRub, an item I had intended to actually purchase and a product I had not, as of Saturday, used since I was perhaps eight (8) years old
- One (1) vial of Pink Sugar by Aquolina perfume
It staggers the mind, I know.
But, in related news, the weekend proved to be just what I needed. I created order out of the chaos that had become my life. I found a way to be active that didn't involve running, as I'm still not allowed to partake in that outlet. I freaked out my roommates by announcing that I was going out to buy home organization tools, and I amused them with audible-behind-a-closed-door, cold-raspy renditions of musical singalongs (and one open-door dancefest to Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone").
Also question whether Reese Witherspoon deserved an Oscar, after viewing "Just Like Heaven" and was dazzled by the cinematography of "The Constant Gardener."
Getting better is feeling pretty awesome.
* I ignored the fact that there was about a foot of new-fallen snow on the ground when I began this task. March = Springish.
** I do not recommend this film, which is disappointing, as I was so anticipating the opportunity to view it on the big screen. I do, however, emphatically restate my belief that Jonathan Rhys Myers is an incredibly beautiful man.
*** How do I love Jon Stewart? Let me count the ways. I thought he did a brilliant job and should not be criticized for the fact that Hollywood proved itself to be slightly less intelligent - nay, strike that, a whole lot dumber - than it likes to give itself credit for. Also: George Clooney gives the best asides - and best speeches - in Hollywood.
That's right. The First Annual Spring(ish)* Cleaning. The scene: my bedroom and closet. The timeframe: All - and I mean all of Saturday and a good chunk of Sunday (that which was not spent going to see Match Point** in the theater or watching the Oscars***).
Among the items unearthed during this process:
- One (1) bike helmet
- One (1) college graduation dress, previously believed to have been at parents' home
- Approximately forty-five dollars ($45 USD) in loose change
- Copies of the following books: The Natural, The Grapes of Wrath, The House of Seven Gables and a collection of Christopher Durang plays, all yet to be read by yours truly
- Ticket stubs from the following: Rufus Wainwright/Ben Folds (with special guest Ben Lee), circa last summer; Averi Paradise-headlining performance, circa 2004; Red Sox game, circa April 2005; MFA Art Deco exhibit, circa December 2004; Ryan Montbleau Band Higher Ground performance, dated March 17, 2005 (unused, as show was postponed until May 20, the date I was attending the Bushwalla double-header in Massachusetts); Melissa Ferrick, circa January 2005; Mason Jennings Black Cat-headlining performance, circa Spring 2003 (I am forever cursed by that Butterfly song. Ugh.)
- CDs
- Six (6) lip balms/glosses, four (4) of which are some shade of red
- Three (3) sweaters, completely forgotten
- Enough clothing to nearly double my wardrobe
- Two (2) large bags of clothing to be donated to the Salvation Army
- One (1) pair of slippers
- Five (5) belts
- One (1) jump rope
- One (1) softball, neon yellow
- Two (2) scarves
- Approximately thirty (30) pens, of which approximately twenty-eight (28) have blue ink
- One (1) journal, circa 1994 (eighth grade)
- One (1) brown loafer shoe, thought disappeared but joyously reunited with partner
- One (1) new, unopened jar of Vicks VapoRub, an item I had intended to actually purchase and a product I had not, as of Saturday, used since I was perhaps eight (8) years old
- One (1) vial of Pink Sugar by Aquolina perfume
It staggers the mind, I know.
But, in related news, the weekend proved to be just what I needed. I created order out of the chaos that had become my life. I found a way to be active that didn't involve running, as I'm still not allowed to partake in that outlet. I freaked out my roommates by announcing that I was going out to buy home organization tools, and I amused them with audible-behind-a-closed-door, cold-raspy renditions of musical singalongs (and one open-door dancefest to Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone").
Also question whether Reese Witherspoon deserved an Oscar, after viewing "Just Like Heaven" and was dazzled by the cinematography of "The Constant Gardener."
Getting better is feeling pretty awesome.
* I ignored the fact that there was about a foot of new-fallen snow on the ground when I began this task. March = Springish.
** I do not recommend this film, which is disappointing, as I was so anticipating the opportunity to view it on the big screen. I do, however, emphatically restate my belief that Jonathan Rhys Myers is an incredibly beautiful man.
*** How do I love Jon Stewart? Let me count the ways. I thought he did a brilliant job and should not be criticized for the fact that Hollywood proved itself to be slightly less intelligent - nay, strike that, a whole lot dumber - than it likes to give itself credit for. Also: George Clooney gives the best asides - and best speeches - in Hollywood.
3.01.2006
Dispatches from my beautiful disaster piece:
I hope you can't overdose on Vitamin C, although I wonder what would happen if one did. I've been sucking on Vitamin C drops like candy, in an effort to combat the cold demons that wait to attack me until I wake up each morning and lift my head into the grogginess.
I don't want to be sick. I'm taking my medicine. I'm drinking my orange juice. And I'm sucking on Robitussin Sunnor Orange Vitamin C Supplement Drops. I like to imagine that my potential Vitamin C overload is making my blood glow bright and amber as it runs through my veins.
Amber seems warm and healthy.
I am feeling warmer, and for once these days, I'm not speaking of the temporary feverish bouts that leave me agitated and uncomfortable. I like to think that feeling warmer can be equated to feeling better, so I'll soon be able to happily resume my independent ways, without the longing for someone to swoop into my life to rub my back, make me soup or otherwise coddle me.
***
I meet up with a familiar face and bid a temporary adieu to another. We travel a short distance to our familiar place where I intend to order my usual, my favorite. An unexpected reunion takes place when I realize a friend is sitting at the next table. Familiar laughter, spices, tastes and conversation before meeting with those whose car we'd seen pass down the street from our high dining perch. We walk into a club that has also managed to grow familiar, and I give a quick tour after responding to the familiar waves from the friends on stage. Hugs and a toast from our red velvet alcove after I order the beer I know is in stock and recommend to others the specialty cocktail I know would be enjoyed. We sing and groove to the songs I know well until I see another familiar face and run over for a hug and conversation. I come to unnecessarily, as it turns out, introduce myself to faces I know and, somewhat surprisingly, know me as well.
All of this familiarity is, somehow, entirely unfamiliar. Not that I'm complaining.
I hope you can't overdose on Vitamin C, although I wonder what would happen if one did. I've been sucking on Vitamin C drops like candy, in an effort to combat the cold demons that wait to attack me until I wake up each morning and lift my head into the grogginess.
I don't want to be sick. I'm taking my medicine. I'm drinking my orange juice. And I'm sucking on Robitussin Sunnor Orange Vitamin C Supplement Drops. I like to imagine that my potential Vitamin C overload is making my blood glow bright and amber as it runs through my veins.
Amber seems warm and healthy.
I am feeling warmer, and for once these days, I'm not speaking of the temporary feverish bouts that leave me agitated and uncomfortable. I like to think that feeling warmer can be equated to feeling better, so I'll soon be able to happily resume my independent ways, without the longing for someone to swoop into my life to rub my back, make me soup or otherwise coddle me.
***
I meet up with a familiar face and bid a temporary adieu to another. We travel a short distance to our familiar place where I intend to order my usual, my favorite. An unexpected reunion takes place when I realize a friend is sitting at the next table. Familiar laughter, spices, tastes and conversation before meeting with those whose car we'd seen pass down the street from our high dining perch. We walk into a club that has also managed to grow familiar, and I give a quick tour after responding to the familiar waves from the friends on stage. Hugs and a toast from our red velvet alcove after I order the beer I know is in stock and recommend to others the specialty cocktail I know would be enjoyed. We sing and groove to the songs I know well until I see another familiar face and run over for a hug and conversation. I come to unnecessarily, as it turns out, introduce myself to faces I know and, somewhat surprisingly, know me as well.
All of this familiarity is, somehow, entirely unfamiliar. Not that I'm complaining.
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