This is January
or
Takin' the Tide for a Ride
I have one real complaint about my home. The dryer here sucks. It doesn't dry. It has ONE job, and it fails to do it. It's worse than a weatherman. Well I've had it up to here with the dryer. Actually slightly lower than that, but it annoys me. Today I decided I'd show my stupid dryer a thing or two-- I'd go to a Laundromat. I'd do all my laundry at a place that didn't require multiple dryings.
And you're thinking, ah but the coins and the inconvenience of taking your undergarments out of the house... well, that's the other thing you should know about my dryer. It's coin operated and it's 50 feet from my house in the basement of my neighbors. So, forget that.
I pile my clothes into the car and head to the laundromat. I'm going to defeat my dryer once and for all, at least for a week. This is when the trouble begins. The first address I have for a Coin-op has no coin-ops around. There aren't even businesses around. If this address is correct, I'll be doing laundry in the basement of someone's house, and we already know that's not working out for me. I'll go to the other address I have, it looks like it's only 5 blocks from here. And it is, if each block is a mile. Sonofa!
At least I'd made it to a Laundromat. When I was younger, my parents used to stop on vacations at laundromats. We'd spend a while puttering around a slightly odd little place filled with washers and dryers quietly churning away with an occassional passerby wandering in to launder with us. That's what I was picturing.
This laundromat was a zoo. There were people everywhere. It smelled funny. How does a laundromat smell funny? People are cleaning. There were no seats open and so my dream of reading would've been a standing room only dream.
Why were my dreams ruined? It could have nothing to do with the fact that the laundromats from my memory were in little towns some day during the week and here I was just outside of the District in the middle of a Saturday, could it? No. I didn't think so.
I stared at the washers briefly. I looked at the dryers and I looked at all the people staring at their whirling, twirling rainbow of clothes and I decided that this wasn't worth it. The clothes went back into the car, and I went the 5 mile-blocks back to my home. I'm still debating whether clothes that have been for a Saturday drive can be considered clean. We all know they aren't getting any dryer.
Saturday, January 31, 2004
Baby, it's cold outside
1. I should not be allowed to read about hypothermia and then spend large quantities of time underdressed in the biting cold. I THINK I'VE GOT IT!
2. The best time to see the monuments is on a Friday night when it's frickin' freezin' outside. NO LINES!
3. Ben's Chili Bowl does not mess around when they put onions on your chili or cheese on your fry. THAT'S RIGHT!
4. Maybe it was the snow, maybe the cold had gone to my head, but the Korean War Memorial really hit me hard. Those guys were my age and they're trudging along through the snow and the cold and they're miserable and they're going to die and for what? FOR WHAT?
1. I should not be allowed to read about hypothermia and then spend large quantities of time underdressed in the biting cold. I THINK I'VE GOT IT!
2. The best time to see the monuments is on a Friday night when it's frickin' freezin' outside. NO LINES!
3. Ben's Chili Bowl does not mess around when they put onions on your chili or cheese on your fry. THAT'S RIGHT!
4. Maybe it was the snow, maybe the cold had gone to my head, but the Korean War Memorial really hit me hard. Those guys were my age and they're trudging along through the snow and the cold and they're miserable and they're going to die and for what? FOR WHAT?
Friday, January 30, 2004
A little lonely poem
If you were candy I would eat you.
If you were juice I would drink you.
If you were a hat I would wear you.
But you're not.
If you were mine I would love you.
If you were gone I would miss you.
If you were close I would kiss you.
But you're not.
So here I am eating
and here I am drinking
--all alone.
And there I go loving
And there I go missing
with my hat on my head
and no one for kissing.
If you were candy I would eat you.
If you were juice I would drink you.
If you were a hat I would wear you.
But you're not.
If you were mine I would love you.
If you were gone I would miss you.
If you were close I would kiss you.
But you're not.
So here I am eating
and here I am drinking
--all alone.
And there I go loving
And there I go missing
with my hat on my head
and no one for kissing.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
They have ways of looking that up
On the track snow is gone of Hello Starling does Josh Ritter say, "Confectionery ass"?
-If he doesn't, he should, that's a delicious lyric.
-If he does, eww. gross.
Yes, they do
And no he doesn't. He says, "you were beautiful when I first saw your feathers and confectionery airs".
False alarm. Please return to your seats.
On the track snow is gone of Hello Starling does Josh Ritter say, "Confectionery ass"?
-If he doesn't, he should, that's a delicious lyric.
-If he does, eww. gross.
Yes, they do
And no he doesn't. He says, "you were beautiful when I first saw your feathers and confectionery airs".
False alarm. Please return to your seats.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Monday, January 26, 2004
Elbows:sore; Heart:soar
There is something very special about a group of men (in this case it was men, but women would have been special too) who will get together on a frozen lake covered with 4 inches of snow to throw a red light-up disc between 8 glow-stick cones. I tip my frozen hat to those gentleman for making my Monday.
There is something very special about a group of men (in this case it was men, but women would have been special too) who will get together on a frozen lake covered with 4 inches of snow to throw a red light-up disc between 8 glow-stick cones. I tip my frozen hat to those gentleman for making my Monday.
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Passing it on
Good Grief! this is cooler than cool, Charlie Brown.
Dean's Yargh! to music. Lots and lots of music.
End of the World as we know it. (This is actually funnier when The Ranman tells it.)
Thanks to Lenar, PLU, and The Ranman.
Good Grief! this is cooler than cool, Charlie Brown.
Dean's Yargh! to music. Lots and lots of music.
End of the World as we know it. (This is actually funnier when The Ranman tells it.)
Thanks to Lenar, PLU, and The Ranman.
My night at the movies
I was off secretly to Win a date with Tad Hamilton. By going alone, I figured I could get away with seeing this flick, without actually admitting it, if necessary. One review I read said it was like a 90 minute date with Kate Bosworth. I could think of worse fates. The other review said freezing to death was a better way to spend my time. I was going to ignore that review. Halfway to the theater, I ran into some ice covering the side walk. I had just heard a woman slip on the patch and so I eyed it carefully. I picked a spot that I thought I could land on and slide to safety. I leapt, but there was no sliding, for this was not ice. This was slush. And my shoes were now soaked. The woman's scream that I thought had been a slip, now made sense. It now seemed possible that by seeing Tad Hamilton I might both freeze to death and see a bad movie. A fate I was unprepared for.
Upon my arrival at the ticket booth, I figured I'd freeze my feet, but at least I'd see a movie my parents had liked-- Something's Gotta Give. My mother had mentioned that perhaps I wouldn't like it, something about it being geared to an older audience. I'm always a little leary when my parents like a movie, since our cinematic tastes don't seem to converge all that often. In this case, I had nothing to worry about. Jack and Diane go great together. This is such a sweet love story. I ate up. Granted, it could have been the 70 year old woman in me, but I really think this has a broader appeal. It seems to me that if you like the romantic comedy and Jack nor Diane bother you-- this is gravy. It's got jokes. It's got cuteness out the wazoo. It's got emotion. It's got seniors in love. You like seniors in love, don't you? Call me what you like, but there's something about love at that age. It seems like what we're all looking for-- Maybe not Hef, but most of us. A lot of us? Some of us? Me. I'm looking to be in love at that age. I think it's a beautiful thing.
AND, Keanu Reeves nor Amanda Peet are on screen long enough to be too annoying. So don't let that stop you. Also a beautiful thing.
I was off secretly to Win a date with Tad Hamilton. By going alone, I figured I could get away with seeing this flick, without actually admitting it, if necessary. One review I read said it was like a 90 minute date with Kate Bosworth. I could think of worse fates. The other review said freezing to death was a better way to spend my time. I was going to ignore that review. Halfway to the theater, I ran into some ice covering the side walk. I had just heard a woman slip on the patch and so I eyed it carefully. I picked a spot that I thought I could land on and slide to safety. I leapt, but there was no sliding, for this was not ice. This was slush. And my shoes were now soaked. The woman's scream that I thought had been a slip, now made sense. It now seemed possible that by seeing Tad Hamilton I might both freeze to death and see a bad movie. A fate I was unprepared for.
Upon my arrival at the ticket booth, I figured I'd freeze my feet, but at least I'd see a movie my parents had liked-- Something's Gotta Give. My mother had mentioned that perhaps I wouldn't like it, something about it being geared to an older audience. I'm always a little leary when my parents like a movie, since our cinematic tastes don't seem to converge all that often. In this case, I had nothing to worry about. Jack and Diane go great together. This is such a sweet love story. I ate up. Granted, it could have been the 70 year old woman in me, but I really think this has a broader appeal. It seems to me that if you like the romantic comedy and Jack nor Diane bother you-- this is gravy. It's got jokes. It's got cuteness out the wazoo. It's got emotion. It's got seniors in love. You like seniors in love, don't you? Call me what you like, but there's something about love at that age. It seems like what we're all looking for-- Maybe not Hef, but most of us. A lot of us? Some of us? Me. I'm looking to be in love at that age. I think it's a beautiful thing.
AND, Keanu Reeves nor Amanda Peet are on screen long enough to be too annoying. So don't let that stop you. Also a beautiful thing.
Saturday, January 24, 2004
Every party needs a Poopah
Someone has to sit apart from the group and tear carniverously at the pork ribs, while cornbread crumbs dribble down his beard. Someone who'll wash it all down with lemonade and lick the excess BBQ sauce from his moustache like so many bearded animals. And then with nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing, he'll try to find a way into the conversation when he shouldn't. He'll make the sort of snide remarks he should keep to himself, loud enough to stop the conversation, for a moment, before receiving the shaking head and fluttering eye movements of dismissal. Then our poopah can return to the book he is only halfway perusing or the other conversation he is only one quarterway involved in. This is the awkward exsistence of the Poopah.
As the night wears on, and the laughs around him grow heartier, his strength lessens. At the crossroads of fun and enjoyment, the poopah grabs his coat and bounds offroad to the valley of grump where he can be alone. This particular poopah manages a goodbye, but one that leaves his irksome presence lingering. It is not only the poopah who suffers from this existence, but partygoers everywhere.
Someone has to sit apart from the group and tear carniverously at the pork ribs, while cornbread crumbs dribble down his beard. Someone who'll wash it all down with lemonade and lick the excess BBQ sauce from his moustache like so many bearded animals. And then with nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing, he'll try to find a way into the conversation when he shouldn't. He'll make the sort of snide remarks he should keep to himself, loud enough to stop the conversation, for a moment, before receiving the shaking head and fluttering eye movements of dismissal. Then our poopah can return to the book he is only halfway perusing or the other conversation he is only one quarterway involved in. This is the awkward exsistence of the Poopah.
As the night wears on, and the laughs around him grow heartier, his strength lessens. At the crossroads of fun and enjoyment, the poopah grabs his coat and bounds offroad to the valley of grump where he can be alone. This particular poopah manages a goodbye, but one that leaves his irksome presence lingering. It is not only the poopah who suffers from this existence, but partygoers everywhere.
Friday, January 23, 2004
The illusion of posting
Sometimes you gotta know when to point people elsewhere-
*So if you've missed the sound of Kella's voice: read this. It's like she read it aloud.
*If you're looking for something to cheer. Try Kristin.
*Need a funny dmv story?
* Wonder who answered all of yesterday's questions? It was Rob. But was it fair Rob or was it dark pensive Rob?
Sometimes you gotta know when to point people elsewhere-
*So if you've missed the sound of Kella's voice: read this. It's like she read it aloud.
*If you're looking for something to cheer. Try Kristin.
*Need a funny dmv story?
* Wonder who answered all of yesterday's questions? It was Rob. But was it fair Rob or was it dark pensive Rob?
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Some questions for you
*Why do Thank-you notes come in packages of 8 and buns in packages of 10?
*Why doesn't Tupperware tout its burping abilities anymore?
*If a stitch in time saves nine, what saves 6 and 1/2?
*How can you feel so alone in a big city and so not-alone in a cabin in the woods?
*Why do the people you love drive you so freaking crazy?
*Who did those stupid Hallmark ads (for the kissing dolls)? And worse who let them?
*Who titles a good book "The Secret History" and expects people to buy it? (Someone wiser than me perhaps, since it was a bestseller.)
*Is there any significance to the fact that my questions involve marketing, relationships, and ridiculousness?
*Where have all the cowboys gone? Deh doo Deh doo dehdoo dehdo
*Why do Thank-you notes come in packages of 8 and buns in packages of 10?
*Why doesn't Tupperware tout its burping abilities anymore?
*If a stitch in time saves nine, what saves 6 and 1/2?
*How can you feel so alone in a big city and so not-alone in a cabin in the woods?
*Why do the people you love drive you so freaking crazy?
*Who did those stupid Hallmark ads (for the kissing dolls)? And worse who let them?
*Who titles a good book "The Secret History" and expects people to buy it? (Someone wiser than me perhaps, since it was a bestseller.)
*Is there any significance to the fact that my questions involve marketing, relationships, and ridiculousness?
*Where have all the cowboys gone? Deh doo Deh doo dehdoo dehdo
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
The best part about the trip
One might argue that the Perfect Pancake Pyramid was the pinnacle of this excursion, but I am going to have to argue for location. Never before have I been able to roll out of bed, layer my clothing, throw my board on my back, and walk to the hill. It was a long half mile up hill, but I found it very satisfying to be heading up just as the sun climbed into the sky. I seemed to be alone, save an SUV or two passing by. I may never board in the backcountry. I'm not even convinced that's something I want to do, but to be able to walk to the snow, snap in, and "shred" was something special. The fact that I had my shoes lashed to my back in my bag and I was able to walk back home that evening after a long day of ripping up that little hill was just icing.
Now, this sounds like a ski trip. And makes my heart pound.
One might argue that the Perfect Pancake Pyramid was the pinnacle of this excursion, but I am going to have to argue for location. Never before have I been able to roll out of bed, layer my clothing, throw my board on my back, and walk to the hill. It was a long half mile up hill, but I found it very satisfying to be heading up just as the sun climbed into the sky. I seemed to be alone, save an SUV or two passing by. I may never board in the backcountry. I'm not even convinced that's something I want to do, but to be able to walk to the snow, snap in, and "shred" was something special. The fact that I had my shoes lashed to my back in my bag and I was able to walk back home that evening after a long day of ripping up that little hill was just icing.
Now, this sounds like a ski trip. And makes my heart pound.
Don’t call it a ski trip
It seems I now take a new breed of vacations. These vacations involve cabins, geographic entertainment, and larger quantities of friends. I am not sure when vacation came to be defined this way. Since I’ve been taking vacations sans parents, vacation roughly translated into piling into a car, driving for 6 or 8 hours and staying in a seedy motel or with friends. If it was a ski trip, we would then drive an hour or more to go skiing. And we would ski. We wouldn’t discuss the possiblity of skiing; we might grumble about the price, but we would pay it and we would be as close to the front of the lift line as we could manage in our already exhausted state.
This revised version of a vacation isn’t like that at all. In this version we all have separate rooms, with our own beds and a kitchen more equipped than our own, or at least my own. There are people, my friends, who don’t plan to ski at all. And some who may or may not ski depending on their mood. This cabin has a view and watermelon knick knacks. I didn’t used to stay in places that had knick knacks, I stayed in places that might or might not have rats. On this vacation the inability to move due to a hard day on the slopes is not our main plan for the evening. It seems that most cabin dwellers plan to be well rested and refreshed all weekend long. We’ll play games, the old-fashioned kind, we’ll read, or we’ll sing loud off-key songs. Even this new version of vacation has its abrasive moments, though fewer than I expected. On this vacation, we’ll cook meals, actual meals like pasta and garlic bread or hot dogs with mac ‘n cheese--not elaborate meals, but meals that did not come from South of the Border or require a lay-away plan. And when the meals are over, people will clean up, not “people”, like housekeepers, or elves, but people who made the meal or who ate the meal.
It’s quite impressive really, but to call it a ski trip doesn’t convey an accurate picture of the experience. We’ll call it a cabin trip, or that “Trip near the hill that had fake snow.” Maybe we’ll just call it fun and relaxing. That seems fairly accurate.
It seems I now take a new breed of vacations. These vacations involve cabins, geographic entertainment, and larger quantities of friends. I am not sure when vacation came to be defined this way. Since I’ve been taking vacations sans parents, vacation roughly translated into piling into a car, driving for 6 or 8 hours and staying in a seedy motel or with friends. If it was a ski trip, we would then drive an hour or more to go skiing. And we would ski. We wouldn’t discuss the possiblity of skiing; we might grumble about the price, but we would pay it and we would be as close to the front of the lift line as we could manage in our already exhausted state.
This revised version of a vacation isn’t like that at all. In this version we all have separate rooms, with our own beds and a kitchen more equipped than our own, or at least my own. There are people, my friends, who don’t plan to ski at all. And some who may or may not ski depending on their mood. This cabin has a view and watermelon knick knacks. I didn’t used to stay in places that had knick knacks, I stayed in places that might or might not have rats. On this vacation the inability to move due to a hard day on the slopes is not our main plan for the evening. It seems that most cabin dwellers plan to be well rested and refreshed all weekend long. We’ll play games, the old-fashioned kind, we’ll read, or we’ll sing loud off-key songs. Even this new version of vacation has its abrasive moments, though fewer than I expected. On this vacation, we’ll cook meals, actual meals like pasta and garlic bread or hot dogs with mac ‘n cheese--not elaborate meals, but meals that did not come from South of the Border or require a lay-away plan. And when the meals are over, people will clean up, not “people”, like housekeepers, or elves, but people who made the meal or who ate the meal.
It’s quite impressive really, but to call it a ski trip doesn’t convey an accurate picture of the experience. We’ll call it a cabin trip, or that “Trip near the hill that had fake snow.” Maybe we’ll just call it fun and relaxing. That seems fairly accurate.
Friday, January 16, 2004
It's a whole new outlook
I've decided to stop living my life for me. From now on, it's all about the blog. If I'm in traffic and I get cut off, I'm going to think, will it make a better post if I shout dirty words or just go ahead and ram the sucker? Instead of doing things for me, I'm going to do them for you. Or at least for your entertainment. Think of me as the "Real World" online. I've dropped the pretense, see. I'm Real with a capital "r", a capital R followed by two small rr's. To Rrreally get things Rrrolling. I think the extra r's add zest, don't you? When I'm faced with the truly tough decisions--I'm going to serve them up like Comment Pie. Haven't tasted Comment Pie? It's a little like jello, but jigglier.
Then, you my readers, can guide me on the right path. I know you're up for it. I can see it in your eyes.
Where are my glasses?
I've decided to stop living my life for me. From now on, it's all about the blog. If I'm in traffic and I get cut off, I'm going to think, will it make a better post if I shout dirty words or just go ahead and ram the sucker? Instead of doing things for me, I'm going to do them for you. Or at least for your entertainment. Think of me as the "Real World" online. I've dropped the pretense, see. I'm Real with a capital "r", a capital R followed by two small rr's. To Rrreally get things Rrrolling. I think the extra r's add zest, don't you? When I'm faced with the truly tough decisions--I'm going to serve them up like Comment Pie. Haven't tasted Comment Pie? It's a little like jello, but jigglier.
Then, you my readers, can guide me on the right path. I know you're up for it. I can see it in your eyes.
Where are my glasses?
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Desolation Row, this isn't
Rue de la Hyperactivite it just might be. It's arts night at the carriage house. Besides finishing a book and posting more than you wanted to know, I have also: sketched a pair of jeans, introduced myself to a new banjo technique (melodic style), tested out my acting ability in preparation for a Murder Mystery Game (Should I be a high-pitched squeaky marginally British old woman or a breathy deep voiced old woman? Neither was particularly good looking.), made myself lunch complete with love note (Dear David, Have a good lunch. Love, David) and managed to find time to dance, sometimes with my banjo and sometimes by myself.
Rue de la Hyperactivite it just might be. It's arts night at the carriage house. Besides finishing a book and posting more than you wanted to know, I have also: sketched a pair of jeans, introduced myself to a new banjo technique (melodic style), tested out my acting ability in preparation for a Murder Mystery Game (Should I be a high-pitched squeaky marginally British old woman or a breathy deep voiced old woman? Neither was particularly good looking.), made myself lunch complete with love note (Dear David, Have a good lunch. Love, David) and managed to find time to dance, sometimes with my banjo and sometimes by myself.
Answer:Question
Last week I read the answer: 42
This week I read the quetion: Why are girls weird? from Why Girls are Weird by Pamela Ribon. The only thing this book lacked was an editorial assistant struggling to be a writer in New York. Pamela did an incredible job of creating a brand new cliche- struggling blogger turned author. (Or online diarist turned author, what's the dif, eh?) It left me feeling much like a stack of Cosmos would-- slight headache, slight case of vapidity creeping into my brain.
I can't fault her for trying. And you'd think that blogs, quarterlife crisises, and boy-girl drama would be right up my alley, but it seems you'd be wrong. There were a few moments of nicely written prose. The ailing father pulled at me a bit and the sisterly banter was good for a laugh.
Still, while I dig blogs, I figure some things are better left unbooked.
Last week I read the answer: 42
This week I read the quetion: Why are girls weird? from Why Girls are Weird by Pamela Ribon. The only thing this book lacked was an editorial assistant struggling to be a writer in New York. Pamela did an incredible job of creating a brand new cliche- struggling blogger turned author. (Or online diarist turned author, what's the dif, eh?) It left me feeling much like a stack of Cosmos would-- slight headache, slight case of vapidity creeping into my brain.
I can't fault her for trying. And you'd think that blogs, quarterlife crisises, and boy-girl drama would be right up my alley, but it seems you'd be wrong. There were a few moments of nicely written prose. The ailing father pulled at me a bit and the sisterly banter was good for a laugh.
Still, while I dig blogs, I figure some things are better left unbooked.
Think warm thoughts
When I feel the cold wind blow through my shoes and thin black socks, I smile and think, "Somewhere in Virginia they are making snow. right now."
Ignore past thoughts
When I feel the cold wind blow through my shoes and thin black socks, I try not to think, "Somewhere west of here, Mother Nature is making snow and she's dumping it on a giant slope."
When I feel the cold wind blow through my shoes and thin black socks, I smile and think, "Somewhere in Virginia they are making snow. right now."
Ignore past thoughts
When I feel the cold wind blow through my shoes and thin black socks, I try not to think, "Somewhere west of here, Mother Nature is making snow and she's dumping it on a giant slope."
Sometimes I feel lonely
Sometimes I don't. Tonight it's the latter. Why? Because I have no clue what I'm going to eat for dinner, but when I decide- I'll have it. No one will argue. No one will complain. No one will say, "Come on, we just had that" or "I don't like that." It will be dinner and it will be mine.
Sometimes I don't. Tonight it's the latter. Why? Because I have no clue what I'm going to eat for dinner, but when I decide- I'll have it. No one will argue. No one will complain. No one will say, "Come on, we just had that" or "I don't like that." It will be dinner and it will be mine.
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