in no particular order, the songs that 2005 attaches memory and meaning to:
Feel Good Inc. (Gorillaz)
a) whoever picks out the iPod commercial background music knows their marketing shit. Because I'm totally their niche. And I'm buying. Shoot, all that long-windedness about resisting materialism... out the window.
b) seriously, a cartoon band? I love the 21st century. My remaining question: do the cartoon band member get to go through angst and rehab and bad relationships, too?
Pump It (Black Eyed Peas)
Another song a commercial (Best Buy) introduced me to, about which I have consequently obsessed. I love the fact that some 60s guitar and mariache thing (think Wipeout) is happening on the background of this song while the Black Eyed Peas (who, yah I know, not indie rock, not even really my style, but I cannot help myself... they make me want to dance) do their thang. Hey, it's a great song to walk the dogs to, run to, work out to. What can I say? I'm only human.
Do You Want To (Franz Ferdinand)
God, I love Franz Ferdinand. I know that most 15-year-olds feel the same way. But that boum-boum-twang guitar thing, that catchy drum riff, the obvious early Beatles influence, that incredibly sexy Scottish accent... you know I cannot resist the BritPop. Guilty pleasures.
Stay (Blue Merle)
OK, guilty pleasures aside (for the time being), let's talk about good songwriting. And an amazing emotional conveyance that sends chills up my arms. I love Luke Reynold's voice. He makes me want to fall in love again and again til it hurts.
It's a Disaster (OK Go)
OK Go is one of my all-time favorite things from Chicago (Nordlund's and Fado being a couple of the other things...) John and I saw OK Go for the first time early this summer when they opened for Kaiser Chiefs. Their music is 100% pop-punk (just the way I like it). But what I really love about these guys: their performances. This band has a quirky, crazy, energy-laden stage presence like nothing duplicated out there (check their website for the crazy dancing skills these boys have perfected). I'd take my grandma to OK Go. I'd take my 2-year-0ld. I'd take anyone who'd allow me to drag them along. Long live OK Go.
Blow it Out (The Features)
Paige and I were driving home from work and day care one day when this song started playing on the radio. My perfect, darling, awesome little girl started dancing in her carseat, banging that blonde little head, looked me straight in the face, and said, "Mama, good song."
I have a 2-year-old rock and roll fan on my hands. Not precisely sure what I did right in life to deserve that perfect little package. But I'll TOTALLY take it.
Dirty Little Secret (All-American Rejects)
I love when friends introduce me to a genre that wasn't even on the radar (you rock, Keith and Sarah). Suddenly, I realize I have about 10 CDs that fall under what I would call pop-punk with a jaded attitude. I love this, the title track to All-American Rejects latest release. It's representative of their music, fun to sing, and the guitar absolutely sings and snarls in turn.
Get Myself Arrested (Gomez)
This particular song, while neither new to 2005 or to my repertoire this year, has an inside loop meaning on several levels and has been played at appropriate funny story, near-miss moments (for friends, not myself... of course...)
That, and I saw Gomez live for the first time this year. Cake headlined the concert, and while I love Cake (Chris and the boys make it on the list a little later, I promise), Gomez transcends genre and tastes to just be an all-star rock band. If you haven't picked up their live release, Out West, from early this year... get on it! The only thing better than Gomez on CD is Gomez live. And since these boys don't have any plans for heading back to the states in the next month or so (that I have seen), the live CD is as close are you are going to get.
An Honest Mistake (The Bravery)
Maybe it's because I am a child of the 1970s. I don't really know why, but something about disco-inspired music makes me involuntarily do that Night at the Roxbury thing with my head.
That leading into my favorite "new band", The Bravery. Yes, I know that they'll probably lose luster as fast as the Killers did for me this year (note: the Killers are the only band who didn't make it on this list in 2005 whose show I went to see this year -- it sucked that bad...) But you know what? Sometimes short-lived crushes are totally the most fun.
Sari (Nellie McKay)
Nellie McKay is no stranger on my best of/favorites list (she was on last year's mix too...), and in fact, she's probably my very favorite female artist at the moment. I got her first CD, Get Away From Me, for my birthday last year... and I've been in love ever since. I have had a whole year to memorize all 18 songs on the 2-disc release, and Sari is hands-down my favorite (as well as often representative of my experiences as a 20-something career woman, mother, wife, alternative-girl, liberal, forward-thinking, intellectual, urban dweller.)
In related years, mark your calendars for the first Tuesday of the new year, when Nellie McKay's next CD, Pretty Little Head, hits stores. To quote a certain blonde I know, "I so 'cited, I scream!"
(I Am) What I Am Not (Idlewild)
Idlewild is my "Crikey, what rock have I been living under?" band of 2005. On a whim (and mostly because I'd rather chill with friends than idol worship a big-named band from afar), I scalped my U2 tickets in September and instead dumped the profits into dinner and the Idlewild show at First Ave. Best decision I made all year. Seriously, Idlewild (by the way, another Scottish band... do you sense a theme here?) put on an amazing show, poked some good-natured fun at "the big show going on next store" and rocked the venue. (I Am) What I Am Not is off an older album, but it's the first album I have, and a great tune.
L.S.F. (Kasabian)
Hey, look, another band I was starting to dig on at the end of last year. Except that I haven't heard anything about Kasabian since about May, which I find a little disheartening. Kasabian's music is unclassifiable (in my world), but is a unique sound that makes me want to dance, drink a beer, and scream lyrics in turn. Their self-titled album gets the "Best album to clean house to" stamp from me. The hardest part of putting Kasabian on this list was choosing just one song.
Filthy/Gorgeous (Scissor Sisters)
OK, OK... I promise I'll find entirely new bands to talk about next year. Honestly, Scissor Sisters is another group that seemed to have one hit (Take Your Mama) and disappear. However, one track from their self-titled debut, Filthy/Gorgeous, singlehandedly takes #1 most played on my iTunes. 23 times. Oh, and I just got my play counter working in September. If I want to go out, get pretty, start a party, dance by myself, feel beautiful, or get into mischief, this is my theme song. Take a listen sometime and see if you can stop yourself from dancing.
Everyday I Love You Less and Less (Kaiser Chiefs)
Kaiser Chiefs hit airwaves this spring (can you guess? They jumped the pond... a bunch of football hooligans from Leeds...) and I fell in love. Surprisingly, when they hit First Ave this spring, not nearly as many people were in love with them as I was, and so I was able to treat John to a first-rate rock concert (his first... imagine that, only being 26 and all... OK Go also played this show... double my pleasure, double my fun!). Now, Everyday I Love You Less and Less isn't their big radio hit, but since I've memorized the CD by now, I feel safe saying that it's my favorite (mostly because it's the cheekiest of the lot.) They are touring Japan and Europe this spring -- but when are they getting back into the studio for a new album???
Carbon Monoxide (Cake)
"Too much carbon monoxide for me to bear..." A single wailed line announces the beginning of this overlooked Cake tune. Maybe best known for The Distance, Cake really isn't at all about racing cars, but about just being plain nonconformist. Gotta love that. And gotta love this song about traffic and expensive cars and urban sprawl. Go on with your bad selves, boys. I love ya.
Hell Yes (Beck)
I didn't manage to go see Beck when he was here (John hates him, and there were approximately 286,000 good shows in town over about 12 days in September), but I really love some of the stuff on Guero, his latest album. Especially Hell Yes. It sort of throws back to Where It's At, but it's got more attitude. Anytime I needed a dose of anti-establishment this year, I turned to this song. Bonus: it's got a decent beat, so it also played double duty when I needed bitterly to nail a deadline at work while still feeling sassy. Did I mention there's harmonica? You know how I feel about the harmonica, right?
Dance, Dance (Fall-Out Boy)
Dance, Dance kind of falls into the Dirty Little Secret/All-American Rejects category... but even angrier. Fall-Out Boy is another fabulous thing to hail from Chicago (someone explain why we haven't packed up our house and moved there yet???...), and has enjoyed a healthy explosion of popularity. As long as they don't turn into pyrotechnic fatheads like another very promising punk band (ahem... Green Day...) I'll be a happy girl.
She's Hearing Voices (Bloc Party)
How do I even begin to describe Bloc Party's sound? Hailing from south London, these boys are positively global. I love their sound; it's the stuff I love about music, generally (tight lyrics, driving drums, dancing guitar riffs, a unique lead vocal), fast-forwarded 15 years. Silent Alarm, their first full-length, released this year, has gotten all sort of critical acclaim... and that's gotta mean something. I can't wait til they get to my town. Sigh...
Busting Up A Starbucks (Mike Doughty)
Most of the world probably recognizes Mike Doughty's gravely vocals from his Soul Coughing years. Well, we all know Soul Coughing is no more (and the world a worse place for it, even if inter-band quibbling ate them alive... I need my quirky experimental music, man!), but Doughty's made a decent stab at solo goodness. Mike Doughty is truly one-of-a-kind (and while generally a big fat jerk, he's beautiful...) and I love the tongue-in-cheek Busting Up a Starbucks. So, experimental quirkiness, live on.
Two Sides of the River (Dar Williams)
Dar Williams, a perennial favorite, FINALLY got a new CD out there this fall (giving her what is due, she did get married and have a baby...) and I just love the soulfulness of Two Sides of the River. It reminds me of the fluid and dicey state of relationships (she reflected on this song following her out of New Orleans when she performed in St. Paul this fall.) I could give or take most folk music, but Dar is enchantment to my ears. Did I mention I got to meet her (squeal!) after her show? For the record, she thinks I'm a good mom. Aww...
Such Great Heights (The Postal Service)
Originally, I heard Such Great Heights as an Iron & Wine song... which in and of itself, was pretty fantastic (if not a little downtempo for my tastes). So when I heard The Postal Service's version, I had to remind myself to breathe. Take a beautifully penned love song, throw indie-rock edge at it, and double the tempo. Perhaps the best all-around song of the year. Unmistakable genius. 'Nuff said.
Let There Be Love (Oasis)
How I love to hate Oasis. They are arrogant, self-righteous, quarrelsome brothers and friends (at the best of times, it seems) who I would otherwise detest. But they make music that... well, you know. Sometimes music speaks about things that words cannot. And my sweet lord, the last song on this year's release, Don't Believe the Truth, is exactly what Oasis is best at: beautiful songs about the good stuff I cherish in human nature. Noel and Liam, quarrel on, but don't stop making music. I have a connection with that artist's deep love/deep rift cycle, too.
22.12.05
21.12.05
We want to hand down our craft, too! (right?...): A call to arms for alterna-crafters everywhere
Every year for the last couple of years, I have resolved to learn a new craft (this is the type of new year's resolution that I can be assured of keeping.)
In 2006, I'm thinking of learning how to weave. So, I'm doing some research with the help of a couple of friends, and I come across a bunch of fabulous local places, including the Weaver's Guild of Minnesota, the textile center, a couple of cool shops offering classes such as Creative Fibers. There's even a national guild for handweaving. Who knew?
A common theme amongst the mission statements of all these organizations is passing down traditional crafts to future generations. Often, because we buy clothes at Old Navy and get our socks from Target (guilty on both counts), we forget that not very long ago (less than 100 years, for most of us), your clothing was handmade. Grandma or mom knitted and darned the family socks. Not long before then, some artisan was hard at work hand-weaving the fabrics the women of the common classes (and tailors where money afforded) worked with to create garments for the entire population. These arts of necessity are not only time-honored traditions but are threads woven into all cultures (we all need clothing to stay warm/dry/clean, depending on your exact pinpoint on the globe) throughout time.
Cool, I think. To think that I am helping to preserve crafts that women have been passing down to their children and grandchildren for probably hundreds of generations...
Then I start to look at the staff at these organizations, the names and pictures of those on advisory boards and membership lists, and I have this creeping sense of dread, because I begin to realize that I could very well be the only person under 30 who has ever seriously considered bothering wht the Textile Center.
Why? The No-Coast craft show earlier this month was a rip-roaring success, and I'm pretty sure there wasn't a single "old-school" crafter in the house.
We've got Bust's Girl Wide Web... Crafty Planet... and this, from a recent University Chronicle article:
"No Coast's target audience was anyone looking for a good time. Parker said she doesn't want anyone to feel excluded based on age."The majority of vendors are in their 20s or 30s, but we have a couple of people that are still in high school and some in their 60s," Parker said. "My vision is crafting as a full circle. It's not just about young people or grandmas. I think it's the neatest thing to have a variety of age ranges come together and be excited about the same thing."
OK... so, here's the rub: if all the closet craft-nerds are coming out, baring our knitting needles and weaving looms, why aren't we joining the ranks of those supporting the propagation and generational continuance of our various craft(s)? My mom and grandma taught me to sew. I learned to quilt from an ancient woman named Millie. I have a big, pulsating soft spot for the old passing on their knowledge to the young... and textile arts/general craftiness certainly should be no exception. Except: nearly everyone on staff at these craft guilds are post-retirement age. Since when do we have to be grannies to lead our trades? Take Crafty Planet's example, get out there, do whatcha love, live the craft, learn from the masters (yes, even if they do remind you of Great-Aunt Tilly) and pass it on to other generations.
Alterna-crafters of today, those (to quote a friend) 20-somethings with scenester haircuts: get involved! Why aren't you, the green, hip, vintage-recycling, innovative, trend-creating, future of our art representing at the official organization level?
Come on, crafty sisters and brothers! Seize the momentum of our handiwork's trendiness and make an impact on future generations!
(I admittedly do not belong to any of these organizations, but on my own admonishments will now be looking into memberships... if you craft, do your art the biggest favor you can and please look into supporting an organization of your choosing through membership, attending (or teaching!) classes, volunteering or any other number of forms of involvement.)
In 2006, I'm thinking of learning how to weave. So, I'm doing some research with the help of a couple of friends, and I come across a bunch of fabulous local places, including the Weaver's Guild of Minnesota, the textile center, a couple of cool shops offering classes such as Creative Fibers. There's even a national guild for handweaving. Who knew?
A common theme amongst the mission statements of all these organizations is passing down traditional crafts to future generations. Often, because we buy clothes at Old Navy and get our socks from Target (guilty on both counts), we forget that not very long ago (less than 100 years, for most of us), your clothing was handmade. Grandma or mom knitted and darned the family socks. Not long before then, some artisan was hard at work hand-weaving the fabrics the women of the common classes (and tailors where money afforded) worked with to create garments for the entire population. These arts of necessity are not only time-honored traditions but are threads woven into all cultures (we all need clothing to stay warm/dry/clean, depending on your exact pinpoint on the globe) throughout time.
Cool, I think. To think that I am helping to preserve crafts that women have been passing down to their children and grandchildren for probably hundreds of generations...
Then I start to look at the staff at these organizations, the names and pictures of those on advisory boards and membership lists, and I have this creeping sense of dread, because I begin to realize that I could very well be the only person under 30 who has ever seriously considered bothering wht the Textile Center.
Why? The No-Coast craft show earlier this month was a rip-roaring success, and I'm pretty sure there wasn't a single "old-school" crafter in the house.
We've got Bust's Girl Wide Web... Crafty Planet... and this, from a recent University Chronicle article:
"No Coast's target audience was anyone looking for a good time. Parker said she doesn't want anyone to feel excluded based on age."The majority of vendors are in their 20s or 30s, but we have a couple of people that are still in high school and some in their 60s," Parker said. "My vision is crafting as a full circle. It's not just about young people or grandmas. I think it's the neatest thing to have a variety of age ranges come together and be excited about the same thing."
OK... so, here's the rub: if all the closet craft-nerds are coming out, baring our knitting needles and weaving looms, why aren't we joining the ranks of those supporting the propagation and generational continuance of our various craft(s)? My mom and grandma taught me to sew. I learned to quilt from an ancient woman named Millie. I have a big, pulsating soft spot for the old passing on their knowledge to the young... and textile arts/general craftiness certainly should be no exception. Except: nearly everyone on staff at these craft guilds are post-retirement age. Since when do we have to be grannies to lead our trades? Take Crafty Planet's example, get out there, do whatcha love, live the craft, learn from the masters (yes, even if they do remind you of Great-Aunt Tilly) and pass it on to other generations.
Alterna-crafters of today, those (to quote a friend) 20-somethings with scenester haircuts: get involved! Why aren't you, the green, hip, vintage-recycling, innovative, trend-creating, future of our art representing at the official organization level?
Come on, crafty sisters and brothers! Seize the momentum of our handiwork's trendiness and make an impact on future generations!
(I admittedly do not belong to any of these organizations, but on my own admonishments will now be looking into memberships... if you craft, do your art the biggest favor you can and please look into supporting an organization of your choosing through membership, attending (or teaching!) classes, volunteering or any other number of forms of involvement.)
19.12.05
Santa, Baby?
A couple of saturdays ago, we made our annual trek to the Minneapolis Marshall Field's to see their holiday display and of course, visit santa.
The lines were long, and as we wove through the home department on the 5th floor, you could see the hyperactivity creep into every fiber of Paige's being. Ah well, I tell myself. She's 2 and a half... what can you do?
Finally, we get up to the holiday display line. By this time, Paige's patience has completely worn out. She's tired, hungry, and cranky. Even the pretty sparkly Cinderella display didn't wow her (though two middle-aged women without children who rudely budged through a veritable wall of toddlers to get through the display first just about got a knuckle sandwich from both me and the mom in front of me...). Finally, thankfully, Cinderella's dress enchanted her little girly self into submission and we began enjoying ourselves.
The stars seemed aligned in our favor again when the line to see Santa was half as long as it has been for the past 2 years. Moving quickly, Paige didn't cry - didn't whine - didn't drool down her dress or mess up her pigtails. Soon enough, we're face to face with Santa.
Now, this last fall, Paige has adopted a healthy fear of strangers (which secretly makes me happy. She was just a little to cosmopolitan for this mom's tastes.) So, instead of hopping on Santa's lap, she coyly sits on the little drum "seat" next to him. Then, with all the charm she can muster, she starts the following conversation:
Paige: "Santa, please Santa, please! I want real baby this year, please Santa!"
Santa: (chuckling) "Oh, I see, Paige. You'd like a dollie for Christmas."
Paige: (tsks; draws on every ounce of attitude she has available.) "No, Santa! I want REAL BABY."
Santa: (now audibly laughing) "Well, you'll have to talk with your mommy and daddy about that. Now, how about a candy cane and picture?"
At which point I can feel the blood rush to my face, ears, forehead. Thank God Santa's elf didn't get me in the picture. She couldn't have; she was giggling too hard anyway.
I just hope Paige isn't too diappointed when Santa doesn't leave a newborn under the Christmas tree Sunday morning.
The lines were long, and as we wove through the home department on the 5th floor, you could see the hyperactivity creep into every fiber of Paige's being. Ah well, I tell myself. She's 2 and a half... what can you do?
Finally, we get up to the holiday display line. By this time, Paige's patience has completely worn out. She's tired, hungry, and cranky. Even the pretty sparkly Cinderella display didn't wow her (though two middle-aged women without children who rudely budged through a veritable wall of toddlers to get through the display first just about got a knuckle sandwich from both me and the mom in front of me...). Finally, thankfully, Cinderella's dress enchanted her little girly self into submission and we began enjoying ourselves.
The stars seemed aligned in our favor again when the line to see Santa was half as long as it has been for the past 2 years. Moving quickly, Paige didn't cry - didn't whine - didn't drool down her dress or mess up her pigtails. Soon enough, we're face to face with Santa.
Now, this last fall, Paige has adopted a healthy fear of strangers (which secretly makes me happy. She was just a little to cosmopolitan for this mom's tastes.) So, instead of hopping on Santa's lap, she coyly sits on the little drum "seat" next to him. Then, with all the charm she can muster, she starts the following conversation:
Paige: "Santa, please Santa, please! I want real baby this year, please Santa!"
Santa: (chuckling) "Oh, I see, Paige. You'd like a dollie for Christmas."
Paige: (tsks; draws on every ounce of attitude she has available.) "No, Santa! I want REAL BABY."
Santa: (now audibly laughing) "Well, you'll have to talk with your mommy and daddy about that. Now, how about a candy cane and picture?"
At which point I can feel the blood rush to my face, ears, forehead. Thank God Santa's elf didn't get me in the picture. She couldn't have; she was giggling too hard anyway.
I just hope Paige isn't too diappointed when Santa doesn't leave a newborn under the Christmas tree Sunday morning.
13.12.05
i heart spellcheck
Writing my final paper of the semester (yesss....)
One citation I am using: Gina Hernez-Broome.
Spellcheck suggests calling this, I am sure well-respected theorist in her field:
Gina Herpes-Broom.
One citation I am using: Gina Hernez-Broome.
Spellcheck suggests calling this, I am sure well-respected theorist in her field:
Gina Herpes-Broom.
9.12.05
the quick and dirty list of things that made me happy this week
1) getting the pda in my phone to sync with my computer at work
2) stella
3) wednesday night shows at first ave
4) Paige dancing to Maniac like she's been casted in a Flashdance revival
5) getting christmas cards done
6) Fred Flare
7) seriously, my new job. Best. Career Move. Ever.
8) i heart huckabees
9) size 5 knitting needles
10) 1 of 2 final presentations - done!
2) stella
3) wednesday night shows at first ave
4) Paige dancing to Maniac like she's been casted in a Flashdance revival
5) getting christmas cards done
6) Fred Flare
7) seriously, my new job. Best. Career Move. Ever.
8) i heart huckabees
9) size 5 knitting needles
10) 1 of 2 final presentations - done!
1.12.05
maintenance-free
#1. There's no such thing as a maintenance-free marriage. Unless, of course, you are participating in the popular "practice marriage", "sham marriage" or "disposable marriage" so popular amongst celebrities. Then, feel free to neglect, as you aren't really planning for the long term at any rate
#2. It's a good thing that I bought an 80-something year old house, because its drafty windows and imperfect plaster have taught me an important lesson about life.
Not many people would be as enamored with my house as I am. The thought of leaving it, selling it, abandoning it, having a fire or disaster (I'm just being paranoid because of the fire reported on the news this morning) gets me a little shaky and blurry-eyed. I love every nook and cranny of my vintage shelter: its leaning garage, the sinking stoop, the poorly renovated kitchen (soon to be remedied, mind you), the terracotta-colored walls, the half-story bedrooms, the miniature bathroom.
Why don't other people get my fascination with the old home? Because it's old. It needs love, it needs constant attention and constant maintenance. Which brings me to another conclusion: I'm beginning to notice a trend, that as a culture, we want things maintenance-free.
#2. It's a good thing that I bought an 80-something year old house, because its drafty windows and imperfect plaster have taught me an important lesson about life.
Not many people would be as enamored with my house as I am. The thought of leaving it, selling it, abandoning it, having a fire or disaster (I'm just being paranoid because of the fire reported on the news this morning) gets me a little shaky and blurry-eyed. I love every nook and cranny of my vintage shelter: its leaning garage, the sinking stoop, the poorly renovated kitchen (soon to be remedied, mind you), the terracotta-colored walls, the half-story bedrooms, the miniature bathroom.
Why don't other people get my fascination with the old home? Because it's old. It needs love, it needs constant attention and constant maintenance. Which brings me to another conclusion: I'm beginning to notice a trend, that as a culture, we want things maintenance-free.
- We don't want to paint the exteriors of our homes -- generalizing, I see a lot of people wrapping their suburban (and even -- gasp -- urban) homes in pvc siding and calling it a day.
- We don't want to change the oil in our cars -- hence, the new models that can go several thousand more miles between oil changes (as the daughter of an auto mechanic, I am terrifically skeptic about this...)
- We don't want to work to maintain our relationships. Somewhere along the line, I was fed a line about how relationships are "happily ever after". Now, I know that's not true. And I have for years. But how come we never hear about the ensuing battle when Cinderella cannot balance the checkbook? What about the big argument pursuant to Prince Charming's control issues?
My challenge to myself in all this is, you reap the fruits of your labors. Maintaining that which has staying potential, while more difficult in the short term, will longitudinally create a rich, deep, perserveringly meaningful experience -- in my home, in my Ford, and in my marriage.
18.11.05
having a moment
There is a big corporate express box on my desk.
it's sitting there, staring at me wide open, looking at me like, hey. are you going to pack me full of your desk stuff or not?
I'm going to my good-bye happy hour in 51 minutes.
Monday, we're heading to Bacio for my farewell lunch.
I have to start taking things home or I'll never make it out of here Tuesday afternoon.
I cleaned out my personal drive and sent about a million things home to file this morning.
I'm starting a new job. And it feels so completely surreal, I just don't even feel like I'm in my own body right now.
it's sitting there, staring at me wide open, looking at me like, hey. are you going to pack me full of your desk stuff or not?
I'm going to my good-bye happy hour in 51 minutes.
Monday, we're heading to Bacio for my farewell lunch.
I have to start taking things home or I'll never make it out of here Tuesday afternoon.
I cleaned out my personal drive and sent about a million things home to file this morning.
I'm starting a new job. And it feels so completely surreal, I just don't even feel like I'm in my own body right now.
17.11.05
radio karma saved the morning commute
This morning was the first "ohmigod its so freeking cold why the hell do I live in this godforsaken state" morning of the season. Generally, this makes me a little edgy.
Added to the bitter, shocking cold of the morning:
1) I haven't had the time or forethought to brew coffee. Which means I venture out into the arctic wasteland this morning completely un-caffeinated. frown.
2) My little person refuses to wear her adorable, kid-friendly red polarfleece hat, even though tendrils of white-blonde hair are snapping off as she trudges through the snow-crusted backyard. grrr.
3) I desperately need to finish my last project at work before I am done in this position and move on to my next adventure. And though I know it'll get done, on some emotional level, I feel like the other shoe will drop at some point in time and it will not get done and my name will be marred forever as "the instructional designer who was almost stellar... but not quite." blah.
So, after much wrestling about with the tiny blonde defiant one, giving up and buckling her stuffed cat into the seat next to her so she'll quit screaming, "No no mama, language! Kitty need be buckled!", then shivering behind the wheel of the car, feeling the car idle and whine as it protests the cold and early hour, I sit there grouchily, willing the frost to melt from my windshield so I can get my day started (note to self: stop at Target today for an ice scraper).
After an eternity of watching the frost melt (don't I live a life of utter excitement), we finally lurch into the alley and on to our respective Thursday destinations.
We have previously established the fact that it's cold as a witches' titty in brass bra outside. I have almost forgot about these polar conditions til I get to the highway. Which is stopped dead. Why? No accidents, no stalls. Just this: it's cold, and somehow, this affects the general population's ability to drive more than 25 miles per hour.
So, there I sit, southbound stalled, frowning menacingly at the sun, which is cheery and fake on the outside and ice cold in reality, just like Brittany or Jessica or Ashley or whatever your high school cheerleading captain was named. And we plod along like we're all waiting to get our driver's liscenses renewed, a giant line to get to somewhere we don't really want to be anyway, and I cannot help but do what I do when I am bored: listen to loud music and peoplewatch.
I see the blonde soccer mom next to me, middle-aged and late to her destination as well, with her mouth in the signature "o" as she applies mascara and talks either to herself, someone I cannot see through the minivan's tinted windows, or a hands-free cell phone unbeknownced to her fellow commuters. In front of me: Grandma and Grandpa in a taupe Buick. Grandpa is wearing a gray fur cap -- the one you see in every Siberian scene in James Bond flicks -- and Grandma has her blue hair covered with one of those plastic hair thingamabobs. I realize there's a generational difference here -- I wouldn't even know where to get one of those plastic hair thingamabobs, even if it meant life or death.
Some suit in a black lexus with the liscense plate "IWIN" cuts me off across three lanes so he doesn't miss his exit. I hit the horn, just because it summarizes traffic this morning. Jerk.
Mama, language!
Sorry, Paige.
We're finally past 55 and moving at speeds worthy of a spedometer. Fast brakes -- likely some other overpaid, self-absorbed jerk needing to cut across three lanes of traffic somewhere ahead of me. After narrowly missing the bumper of the black VW Bug that has since merged in front of me, I sit back and take it all in. I can see down the highway, and it is median to median cars. And then R.E.M's "Finest Worksong" comes on Drive 105, and nothing says, hey, let's make the best of an otherwise rotten commute, than my own personal Michael Stipe sing-a-long. So we crank it up, I say, "Paige, let's jam for a minute, OK?"
"OK, Mama." and she proceeds to headbang. I love being a parent.
So, I'm bellowing like the in-car rockstar I am... and as I look in my rearview mirror, and there's some similar-aged guy in a black Camry doing the exact same thing I am. Freezing his tush off, white-knuckled in stop-and-go traffic, singing at the top of his lungs to an old R.E.M. tune because the radio is the only thing handing out good karma today.
Very nearly simultaneously, we both realize that we are rocking out to the same tune. He smiles; I wave. I get off on Glenwood and the day suddenly has new life breathed into it. Maybe it is because misery loves company; maybe it is because it was so humanizing to realize that there was someone else just like me out there, just trying to get to his neighborhood coffeeshop and office at a reasonable hour. Whatever the case, radio karma saved the morning commute.
Added to the bitter, shocking cold of the morning:
1) I haven't had the time or forethought to brew coffee. Which means I venture out into the arctic wasteland this morning completely un-caffeinated. frown.
2) My little person refuses to wear her adorable, kid-friendly red polarfleece hat, even though tendrils of white-blonde hair are snapping off as she trudges through the snow-crusted backyard. grrr.
3) I desperately need to finish my last project at work before I am done in this position and move on to my next adventure. And though I know it'll get done, on some emotional level, I feel like the other shoe will drop at some point in time and it will not get done and my name will be marred forever as "the instructional designer who was almost stellar... but not quite." blah.
So, after much wrestling about with the tiny blonde defiant one, giving up and buckling her stuffed cat into the seat next to her so she'll quit screaming, "No no mama, language! Kitty need be buckled!", then shivering behind the wheel of the car, feeling the car idle and whine as it protests the cold and early hour, I sit there grouchily, willing the frost to melt from my windshield so I can get my day started (note to self: stop at Target today for an ice scraper).
After an eternity of watching the frost melt (don't I live a life of utter excitement), we finally lurch into the alley and on to our respective Thursday destinations.
We have previously established the fact that it's cold as a witches' titty in brass bra outside. I have almost forgot about these polar conditions til I get to the highway. Which is stopped dead. Why? No accidents, no stalls. Just this: it's cold, and somehow, this affects the general population's ability to drive more than 25 miles per hour.
So, there I sit, southbound stalled, frowning menacingly at the sun, which is cheery and fake on the outside and ice cold in reality, just like Brittany or Jessica or Ashley or whatever your high school cheerleading captain was named. And we plod along like we're all waiting to get our driver's liscenses renewed, a giant line to get to somewhere we don't really want to be anyway, and I cannot help but do what I do when I am bored: listen to loud music and peoplewatch.
I see the blonde soccer mom next to me, middle-aged and late to her destination as well, with her mouth in the signature "o" as she applies mascara and talks either to herself, someone I cannot see through the minivan's tinted windows, or a hands-free cell phone unbeknownced to her fellow commuters. In front of me: Grandma and Grandpa in a taupe Buick. Grandpa is wearing a gray fur cap -- the one you see in every Siberian scene in James Bond flicks -- and Grandma has her blue hair covered with one of those plastic hair thingamabobs. I realize there's a generational difference here -- I wouldn't even know where to get one of those plastic hair thingamabobs, even if it meant life or death.
Some suit in a black lexus with the liscense plate "IWIN" cuts me off across three lanes so he doesn't miss his exit. I hit the horn, just because it summarizes traffic this morning. Jerk.
Mama, language!
Sorry, Paige.
We're finally past 55 and moving at speeds worthy of a spedometer. Fast brakes -- likely some other overpaid, self-absorbed jerk needing to cut across three lanes of traffic somewhere ahead of me. After narrowly missing the bumper of the black VW Bug that has since merged in front of me, I sit back and take it all in. I can see down the highway, and it is median to median cars. And then R.E.M's "Finest Worksong" comes on Drive 105, and nothing says, hey, let's make the best of an otherwise rotten commute, than my own personal Michael Stipe sing-a-long. So we crank it up, I say, "Paige, let's jam for a minute, OK?"
"OK, Mama." and she proceeds to headbang. I love being a parent.
So, I'm bellowing like the in-car rockstar I am... and as I look in my rearview mirror, and there's some similar-aged guy in a black Camry doing the exact same thing I am. Freezing his tush off, white-knuckled in stop-and-go traffic, singing at the top of his lungs to an old R.E.M. tune because the radio is the only thing handing out good karma today.
Very nearly simultaneously, we both realize that we are rocking out to the same tune. He smiles; I wave. I get off on Glenwood and the day suddenly has new life breathed into it. Maybe it is because misery loves company; maybe it is because it was so humanizing to realize that there was someone else just like me out there, just trying to get to his neighborhood coffeeshop and office at a reasonable hour. Whatever the case, radio karma saved the morning commute.
16.11.05
I think I can
it's that time of the year when everything is coming to a crescendo:
- term papers and projects are due.
- the holiday season is just about to ramp up, and of course, do I have a) gifts made b) gifts bought or c) gifts even in mind? No.
- I decide to switch jobs (swear on it, every other year I'm putting down new roots at a new gig over thanksgiving... not that I'm complaining; I'm totally stoked about the new job... it just seems odd to me that this always happens at the same time of the year when I do it.)
- I have some sort of emotional/relationship turmoil, upheaval, whatever happening.
- it gets cold. I go to work when it's dark. I leave work when it's dark. I feel like I will never feel the sweet, sweet love of the sun ever again.
- the small and needy creatures in my life (child and pets) go on the fritz. Paige is suddenly in this defiant "I don't want it" stage with EV-ER-YTHING, and Fred has taken a fancy to peeing on my knitting bag. Great...
I feel like I need a dose of The Little Engine That Could.
Chug chug chug. Puff puff puff. Ding-dong, ding-dong. The little train rumbled over the tracks. She was a happy little train for she had a jolly load to carry. Her cars were filled full of good things for girls and boys.
I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can...
9.11.05
singing the lauds of scandinavia
S: the whole scandinavian block kicks butt. :) I mean, Nokia, IKEA, lefse? I'm in heaven.
B: don't forget h&m, ginger snaps, herring, etc. some day i'll make you a swedish smorgasbord when we live up there again, we have it every christmas eve. last year we were at n's parent's for it and charis convinced me that Jesus wanted me to try homemade potato sausage and a meatball so i did. . . gotta say, didn't like meat and those were honestly like two of my faves.
bread and circus
Question: How will football change if it’s owned by Americans? Has United changed all that much? (courtesy of chris)
Answer: ... as long as the team is winning, no one cares who owns the Club…as long as they keep trying, spending money and beat Chelsea…seriously… (courtesy of dave)
sgh commentary: I guess that proves my point: (in my view, it's flawed...) but as professional sports teams go, it's about winning and making money. nothing else matters.
Answer: ... as long as the team is winning, no one cares who owns the Club…as long as they keep trying, spending money and beat Chelsea…seriously… (courtesy of dave)
sgh commentary: I guess that proves my point: (in my view, it's flawed...) but as professional sports teams go, it's about winning and making money. nothing else matters.
8.11.05
Artists currently reflecting the state of sgh
Nellie McKay new CD due 12/27! Can't wait! Love Nellie! Love her edgy political statements coupled with her musical talent... so makes me want to pack a bag and a wad of money and start over in New York. Sigh.
Dar Williams My Better Self released in October; Dar reflects me in all the goodness and humor that goes into being a parent and a woman and not quite defined as myself just yet.
Rilo Kiley just because they are fabulous, and their songs are about being imperfect. There's not a ton new going on with them that I know...
Scissor Sisters again, not because they have anything new coming out (we can only pray to the music gods for such a blessing) but because they are my latest "whoohoo, I'm going out" addiction these days.
Dar Williams My Better Self released in October; Dar reflects me in all the goodness and humor that goes into being a parent and a woman and not quite defined as myself just yet.
Rilo Kiley just because they are fabulous, and their songs are about being imperfect. There's not a ton new going on with them that I know...
Scissor Sisters again, not because they have anything new coming out (we can only pray to the music gods for such a blessing) but because they are my latest "whoohoo, I'm going out" addiction these days.
this american democratic life
"The great thing about democracy is that it gives every voter a chance to do something stupid."
(art spander, newpaper columnist)
(art spander, newpaper columnist)
7.11.05
steps toward a perfect monday
1) get up on time
2) enough hot water in the shower for me to do everything (including shave)
3) blow drying my hair turns out nicely
4) make up isn't scattered all over the house, so I can put it on in 5 minutes, on one level
5) put nylons on, no runs on the 1st try
6) I look skinny in the mirror
7) set the coffeepot to automatically brew the night before, so fresh java greets me downstairs
8) paige doesn't throw a temper-tantrum when I dress her, put her shoes on, put her coat on, get her cereal out
9) packed my breakfast and lunch
10) cat stays inside when I open the door
11) warm enough that I don't have to scrape frost off my car
12) paige gets in her carseat in a reasonable fashion
13) leave on time
14) traffic is light
15) remembered to pack my medicine in that handy little am/pm case (yup, I'm officially AARP-eligible)
16) got all the iPod accessories in order and am able to listen to a new playlist this morning
17) get paige dropped off without incident
18) get to work without incident
19) still look skinny in the mirror when I go to the bathroom mid-morning
20) office is blissfully slow and quiet this morning, meaning I can listen to music and work diligently and not be disturbed by co-workers to whom I am now for sure a pariah because of my impending resignation
2) enough hot water in the shower for me to do everything (including shave)
3) blow drying my hair turns out nicely
4) make up isn't scattered all over the house, so I can put it on in 5 minutes, on one level
5) put nylons on, no runs on the 1st try
6) I look skinny in the mirror
7) set the coffeepot to automatically brew the night before, so fresh java greets me downstairs
8) paige doesn't throw a temper-tantrum when I dress her, put her shoes on, put her coat on, get her cereal out
9) packed my breakfast and lunch
10) cat stays inside when I open the door
11) warm enough that I don't have to scrape frost off my car
12) paige gets in her carseat in a reasonable fashion
13) leave on time
14) traffic is light
15) remembered to pack my medicine in that handy little am/pm case (yup, I'm officially AARP-eligible)
16) got all the iPod accessories in order and am able to listen to a new playlist this morning
17) get paige dropped off without incident
18) get to work without incident
19) still look skinny in the mirror when I go to the bathroom mid-morning
20) office is blissfully slow and quiet this morning, meaning I can listen to music and work diligently and not be disturbed by co-workers to whom I am now for sure a pariah because of my impending resignation
4.11.05
3.11.05
my very favorite apologetic
Gigantically, whoops.
things are a little cleaned up around here these days. not to say that I am ashamed or denying myself any inner thoughts -- but I did inadvertently advertise them to a world that probably didn't need/want to see them.
and now, to borrow shamelessly from my favorite brit playwright:
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
that we have but slumbered here,
while these visions did appear
And this weak and idle theme,
no more yeilding but a dream
Gentles, do not reprehend,
if you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to scape the serpent's tongue
We shall make amends ere long.
Else the puck a liar call,
and so good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
and Robin shall restore amends.
things are a little cleaned up around here these days. not to say that I am ashamed or denying myself any inner thoughts -- but I did inadvertently advertise them to a world that probably didn't need/want to see them.
and now, to borrow shamelessly from my favorite brit playwright:
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
that we have but slumbered here,
while these visions did appear
And this weak and idle theme,
no more yeilding but a dream
Gentles, do not reprehend,
if you pardon, we will mend.
And, as I am an honest puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to scape the serpent's tongue
We shall make amends ere long.
Else the puck a liar call,
and so good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
and Robin shall restore amends.
2.11.05
press release: sgh to be acquired
MINNEAPOLIS, Minn.--(GOSSIP WIRE)-- NOVEMBER 2, 2005-- Sarah Green Haggerty LTD (sgh) announced today a definitive agreement in which sgh and all related talents, passions, interests and professional endeavors will be acquired by Carlson Marketing Group under the title Consultant, based in the Learning Solutions Group headquartered in Plymouth, Minnesota.
Immediate details of the acquisition were not immediately released; however, the deal is expected to close on Monday, November 28, 2005.
"This recent career development has me completely and utterly stoked," said sgh founder Sarah Green Haggerty. "While I will miss my co-workers, my work and the amazing things I've been able to participate in at Metris, I am also excited for new challenges and adventures with Carlson. I am looking forward to aligning my professional goals with my new team and experiences and to learning a new perspective on the learning and development business."
Operating Data
Sarah Green Haggerty (sgh), based in Minneapolis, Minn., is an established training and development professional, active in her local ASTD and Crafter's Anonymous chapters, and is one of the original members of Three Sara(h)s and a Rachel. In addition to an extensive education and career experience in human resource development, she is also a seasoned quilter, writer, and floral consultant. For more information, visit www.terminallywanderlust.com or sghlifeandtimes.blogspot.com
Immediate details of the acquisition were not immediately released; however, the deal is expected to close on Monday, November 28, 2005.
"This recent career development has me completely and utterly stoked," said sgh founder Sarah Green Haggerty. "While I will miss my co-workers, my work and the amazing things I've been able to participate in at Metris, I am also excited for new challenges and adventures with Carlson. I am looking forward to aligning my professional goals with my new team and experiences and to learning a new perspective on the learning and development business."
Operating Data
Sarah Green Haggerty (sgh), based in Minneapolis, Minn., is an established training and development professional, active in her local ASTD and Crafter's Anonymous chapters, and is one of the original members of Three Sara(h)s and a Rachel. In addition to an extensive education and career experience in human resource development, she is also a seasoned quilter, writer, and floral consultant. For more information, visit www.terminallywanderlust.com or sghlifeandtimes.blogspot.com
1.11.05
lightbulb
it's been therapy I have wanted to do all along.
just not with dissatisfied couples or bipolar, middle-aged women.
Why this dawns on me now, I'll never know. However, I'm reading my articles for tonight's class (we're talking about organization development, which I have a certification in)... and the lightbulb over my head clicks on. OD (organization development) is nothing more than calling in the therapist for an organization ... not an individual, the whole company. I'm going to do therapy on big business!
This pleases the anti-establishment in me, the psychologist in me, the helper in me, and the writer in me.
I heart my career.
just not with dissatisfied couples or bipolar, middle-aged women.
Why this dawns on me now, I'll never know. However, I'm reading my articles for tonight's class (we're talking about organization development, which I have a certification in)... and the lightbulb over my head clicks on. OD (organization development) is nothing more than calling in the therapist for an organization ... not an individual, the whole company. I'm going to do therapy on big business!
This pleases the anti-establishment in me, the psychologist in me, the helper in me, and the writer in me.
I heart my career.
27.10.05
If You Are Reading This
by Lynn Levin, from Imaginarium. © Loonfeather Press, Bemidji, Minnesota.
GIRL WITH DOG IN RAIN! Sweetheart, where are you now? Saw you at 16th and Walnut with your chocolate lab under an awning.It was raining parking lights and car horns. I was the guy double-parked delivering a tray of bagels to a corporate meeting. Nice stuff, 5 flavors, cream cheese and chives, butter daisies. Our eyes met, do you remember? I can't get you out of my mind. [Box 347]
OLD LADY AT QUIK MART. When I weighed your peppers, yousaid I had my thumb on the scale, then you called over the managerwho yelled at me and docked my pay. You: Old bag in a tan overcoat,muffler, purple pocketbook, evil eye. Me: Goatee, geek glasses, facialhardware. Please give me the opportunity to stab you. [Box 1601]
CHAD, LET ME EXPLAIN. That guy you saw me with on R7 local on Columbus Day meant nothing to me. He\'s just a commuter.Your silent treatment is unbearable! I'm beggin' you baby, come back![Box 776]
PENN CENTER ELEVATORS FROM 16th TO 30th FLOOR. Iwant to push your magic buttons. I want to draw Mona Lisas on your beautiful skin. You: Backless red dress, black heels. Me: Bald guy, 35.We rode up together, you got off at 19. I was too shy to talk to you.Now full of regrets. How about sushi or tantric sex? [Box 1446]
GUY ON R7 LOCAL OCT. 10, EVENING COMMUTE. You satnext to me and suddenly it was Valentine's Day. You liked my Offspring button. I told you about med tech school. You let me take your pulse. It was almost like holding hands. You: Hilfiger sweatshirt, laptop, got off at Somerton. Me: Hip chick, red hair, Capri jeans. Let's pick up wherewe left off. [Box 777]
YO! YOU THERE ON DEERPATH DR. I'm the telemarketer you dissed. Wasn't selling you anything, SOB, just giving you a free estimate on kitchen cabinets. I know your number and where you live. Call now to apologize. [Box 961]
OFFICEMAX, FEASTERVILLE, YEAR AND A HALF AGO. You: long black trenchcoat with three-piece suit. Me: Asian girl with blackjacket, wet curly hair, tight black pants, sunglasses on my head. You stared at me a long time waiting at checkout. We looked at each other as you walked out. Will renew until I find you. [Box 1674]
sgh personal commentary: I'm addicted to missed connections, Saw You's, etc... they are so fascinating! A completely legal way to peeping tom into a complete stranger's psyche. Love it!
GIRL WITH DOG IN RAIN! Sweetheart, where are you now? Saw you at 16th and Walnut with your chocolate lab under an awning.It was raining parking lights and car horns. I was the guy double-parked delivering a tray of bagels to a corporate meeting. Nice stuff, 5 flavors, cream cheese and chives, butter daisies. Our eyes met, do you remember? I can't get you out of my mind. [Box 347]
OLD LADY AT QUIK MART. When I weighed your peppers, yousaid I had my thumb on the scale, then you called over the managerwho yelled at me and docked my pay. You: Old bag in a tan overcoat,muffler, purple pocketbook, evil eye. Me: Goatee, geek glasses, facialhardware. Please give me the opportunity to stab you. [Box 1601]
CHAD, LET ME EXPLAIN. That guy you saw me with on R7 local on Columbus Day meant nothing to me. He\'s just a commuter.Your silent treatment is unbearable! I'm beggin' you baby, come back![Box 776]
PENN CENTER ELEVATORS FROM 16th TO 30th FLOOR. Iwant to push your magic buttons. I want to draw Mona Lisas on your beautiful skin. You: Backless red dress, black heels. Me: Bald guy, 35.We rode up together, you got off at 19. I was too shy to talk to you.Now full of regrets. How about sushi or tantric sex? [Box 1446]
GUY ON R7 LOCAL OCT. 10, EVENING COMMUTE. You satnext to me and suddenly it was Valentine's Day. You liked my Offspring button. I told you about med tech school. You let me take your pulse. It was almost like holding hands. You: Hilfiger sweatshirt, laptop, got off at Somerton. Me: Hip chick, red hair, Capri jeans. Let's pick up wherewe left off. [Box 777]
YO! YOU THERE ON DEERPATH DR. I'm the telemarketer you dissed. Wasn't selling you anything, SOB, just giving you a free estimate on kitchen cabinets. I know your number and where you live. Call now to apologize. [Box 961]
OFFICEMAX, FEASTERVILLE, YEAR AND A HALF AGO. You: long black trenchcoat with three-piece suit. Me: Asian girl with blackjacket, wet curly hair, tight black pants, sunglasses on my head. You stared at me a long time waiting at checkout. We looked at each other as you walked out. Will renew until I find you. [Box 1674]
sgh personal commentary: I'm addicted to missed connections, Saw You's, etc... they are so fascinating! A completely legal way to peeping tom into a complete stranger's psyche. Love it!
24.10.05
Friends Thanksgiving: your official notice!
11/19, 7pm. Friends Thanksgiving 2005. Everything and the kitchen sink.
For the last 4 years (really? It's been that many? Yes, yes it has...) John and I have been throwing a massive dinner party before Thanksgiving -- a time for all of our friends to get together, eat (read: showcase John's culinary talents), and make merry all the night long.
This year, the menu includes:
* the turkey (the one that uses about 12 pounds of butta)
* the stuffing (the kind that goes IN the turkey, with the apples and sausage in it? mmmm...)
* the sweet potatoes (my very own, filled with nutty, brown sugary, orange-y goodness.)
* corn with chived sweet cream butter (mmmm... made this earlier in the fall, soo good.)
* holiday rolls (hurray! I found my great-grandma's recipe)
* colcannon (irish mashed potatoes with carrots and cabbage in them)
* cranberry sauce (no, not the stuff that comes can-shaped... eww.)
* potentially, potato dumplings (if there's enough demand)
* that buttery gravy john makes
* a couple of apple pies, a pecan pie, a couple of pumpkin pies with some home-made whipped cream ice cream for dessert
If you're a friend (and you know who you are), you're invited!
Bring:
* yourself, and your significant other, should you be in possession of one
* your own adult beverage to share; milk, water and mulled wine provided (you may also tap into the vast Haggerty liquor reserves)
* if you would like, an appetizer to share with the crowd
Dinner at 7:30; come early to get the best appetizes and seat at the table!
RSVP is greatly appreciated!
For the last 4 years (really? It's been that many? Yes, yes it has...) John and I have been throwing a massive dinner party before Thanksgiving -- a time for all of our friends to get together, eat (read: showcase John's culinary talents), and make merry all the night long.
This year, the menu includes:
* the turkey (the one that uses about 12 pounds of butta)
* the stuffing (the kind that goes IN the turkey, with the apples and sausage in it? mmmm...)
* the sweet potatoes (my very own, filled with nutty, brown sugary, orange-y goodness.)
* corn with chived sweet cream butter (mmmm... made this earlier in the fall, soo good.)
* holiday rolls (hurray! I found my great-grandma's recipe)
* colcannon (irish mashed potatoes with carrots and cabbage in them)
* cranberry sauce (no, not the stuff that comes can-shaped... eww.)
* potentially, potato dumplings (if there's enough demand)
* that buttery gravy john makes
* a couple of apple pies, a pecan pie, a couple of pumpkin pies with some home-made whipped cream ice cream for dessert
If you're a friend (and you know who you are), you're invited!
Bring:
* yourself, and your significant other, should you be in possession of one
* your own adult beverage to share; milk, water and mulled wine provided (you may also tap into the vast Haggerty liquor reserves)
* if you would like, an appetizer to share with the crowd
Dinner at 7:30; come early to get the best appetizes and seat at the table!
RSVP is greatly appreciated!
18.10.05
boyhood
Boyhood, like measles, is one of those complaints which a man should catch young and have done with, for when it comes in middle life it is apt to be serious.
- PG Wodehouse
- PG Wodehouse
17.10.05
Gasp!
Ok, ok... I know I am a ways off from being a real Rollergirl.
But these chicks kick butt! And I sooo want to be one of them.
But these chicks kick butt! And I sooo want to be one of them.
Top 10 reasons I should have lunch with Diana (as quoted by Diana herself)
(1) Because, frankly, Di looks like hell today, and needs some fashion
consultation time, and motivation to stop looking and feeling as if she rolled
directly from bed to the bus.
(2) If you don't have lunch with Di, she will knit and bond with her iPod and
new CD's for an hour and a half. This is dangerous as it will inspire her to
have more music and start new and exciting craft projects. Save her checkbook!
(3) Di's kinda angsty about her family meeting her boy, and could use a good
diversion.
(4) If you don't have direction on what you need to do at work, you therefore
actually have nothing to do. By having a long lunch instead of sitting at your
desk picking your nose, you are performing many valuable services, such as:
sparing your cube-mates the sight of your boogers and making them feel bad as
they are so inefficient that they have work to do, and you are so bloody good
that you do not.
(5) Support locally owned business. Have lunch at Kieran's. It's tasty, yet
economical.
(6) There are new pictures to view, and Di's real excited by them.
(7) Consider it not "lunch" but "exercise" as you will laugh so hard that your
face muscles will actually hurt.
(8) You will be doing me a favor. By having my one allowed lunch out this week
out of the way early, I won't have to worry about it for the rest of the week.
(9) In the grand scheme of things, what's more important? Di's gut, or your
job? :)
(10) C'mon. You know you want to....
well, I don't know about anyone else, but that tears it. I'm in.
consultation time, and motivation to stop looking and feeling as if she rolled
directly from bed to the bus.
(2) If you don't have lunch with Di, she will knit and bond with her iPod and
new CD's for an hour and a half. This is dangerous as it will inspire her to
have more music and start new and exciting craft projects. Save her checkbook!
(3) Di's kinda angsty about her family meeting her boy, and could use a good
diversion.
(4) If you don't have direction on what you need to do at work, you therefore
actually have nothing to do. By having a long lunch instead of sitting at your
desk picking your nose, you are performing many valuable services, such as:
sparing your cube-mates the sight of your boogers and making them feel bad as
they are so inefficient that they have work to do, and you are so bloody good
that you do not.
(5) Support locally owned business. Have lunch at Kieran's. It's tasty, yet
economical.
(6) There are new pictures to view, and Di's real excited by them.
(7) Consider it not "lunch" but "exercise" as you will laugh so hard that your
face muscles will actually hurt.
(8) You will be doing me a favor. By having my one allowed lunch out this week
out of the way early, I won't have to worry about it for the rest of the week.
(9) In the grand scheme of things, what's more important? Di's gut, or your
job? :)
(10) C'mon. You know you want to....
well, I don't know about anyone else, but that tears it. I'm in.
more crumbs of musicalia goodness
I've been listening to 22-20s this morning.
And I keep looking over to my iPod in the middle of the song, to see if we've switched to some current-day version of the Doors.
I can't shake that feeling like Brit vocalist Martin Trimble is somehow channeling Jim Morrison's bluesy soul somehow (so jealous -- why can't I channel Jim Morrison's bluesy, sexy soul??)
I don't know enough about this band to make comments as to their flash-in-the-pan status... however, suffice it to say that when handful of modern-day Brits can connect me back to some early, gritty, brassy rock that made me fall in love with music in the first place, it's noteworthy.
And I keep looking over to my iPod in the middle of the song, to see if we've switched to some current-day version of the Doors.
I can't shake that feeling like Brit vocalist Martin Trimble is somehow channeling Jim Morrison's bluesy soul somehow (so jealous -- why can't I channel Jim Morrison's bluesy, sexy soul??)
I don't know enough about this band to make comments as to their flash-in-the-pan status... however, suffice it to say that when handful of modern-day Brits can connect me back to some early, gritty, brassy rock that made me fall in love with music in the first place, it's noteworthy.
12.10.05
ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod
seriously: I had to run out and buy some pants that fit me today. I just bought some, but they are slipping right down around my ankles when I walk (this is good -- refer to my previous postings about body loathing.)
I bought a size today, that I will not announce to the world... but suffice it to say, I haven't worn that size since the fall of 1998. 7 years of fat -- see ya!
I bought a size today, that I will not announce to the world... but suffice it to say, I haven't worn that size since the fall of 1998. 7 years of fat -- see ya!
inherently biased CD review #06332814: Franz Ferdinand - You Could Have It So Much Better
Really, I could have it so much better?
I think this sophomore album is just about as good as britpop gets.
There are 13 solid tracks on Franz Ferdinand's 2nd release of last week, You Could Have It So Much Better.
Top 3 Picks:
Track 4: Walk Away... while this slows the normal top hat cymbol and danceable guitar rifts Franz Ferdinand just a bit, it's a good example of how my Scottish lads (ach, aye!) are not only catchy musicians, but also demonstrate some fundamental songwriting skills. " I love the sound of you, walking away, you walking away." Nicely done.
Track 7: Wait, isn't this a Beatles song? No, that's Eleanor Rigby, not Eleanor Put Your Boots On. Any way you slice it, it's great, it's different, it's refreshing. I love it.
Track 10: I'm Your Villian... This song is everything that made me fall in love with Franz Ferdinand in the first place... the energy-laced guitar, the pounding drum, those cymbals that give me an insatiable urge to to bust and iPod-esque dancing move in my cube when I hear it...
Run, do not walk, to your nearest retailer and purchase/download this CD. Franz Ferdinand is fast becoming one of the new faces of music.
I think this sophomore album is just about as good as britpop gets.
There are 13 solid tracks on Franz Ferdinand's 2nd release of last week, You Could Have It So Much Better.
Top 3 Picks:
Track 4: Walk Away... while this slows the normal top hat cymbol and danceable guitar rifts Franz Ferdinand just a bit, it's a good example of how my Scottish lads (ach, aye!) are not only catchy musicians, but also demonstrate some fundamental songwriting skills. " I love the sound of you, walking away, you walking away." Nicely done.
Track 7: Wait, isn't this a Beatles song? No, that's Eleanor Rigby, not Eleanor Put Your Boots On. Any way you slice it, it's great, it's different, it's refreshing. I love it.
Track 10: I'm Your Villian... This song is everything that made me fall in love with Franz Ferdinand in the first place... the energy-laced guitar, the pounding drum, those cymbals that give me an insatiable urge to to bust and iPod-esque dancing move in my cube when I hear it...
Run, do not walk, to your nearest retailer and purchase/download this CD. Franz Ferdinand is fast becoming one of the new faces of music.
11.10.05
synergy
I was sitting in class tonight, thinking of things I could write other than notes on strategic planning... when I thought about this amazing thing that I have been experiencing.
synergy.
define this fancy-schmancy word, will ya sgh:
[From Greek sunergi, cooperation, from sunergos, working together. See synergism.]
The interaction of two or more agents or forces so that their combined effect is greater than the sum of their individual effects.
This is my life, the zeitgeist of my days this year. More than any other time in my life (and maybe it is just because I'm really feeling well-defined in who this sgh character is), I feel like I know who I am, what I'm after, what I want, where I am going.
My work feeds my education. I apply my weekly learning in professional organizations. I can use all that stuff at home with a husband and 2-year-old and managing the chaos I call home. Then, I go back to work on Monday morning, and it still all works. I can wear funky clothes to work and it's chill -- because I'm a writer, a designer, and they expect a little oddness out of someone creative, right? I have a job where I can write -- WRITE! -- all the livelong day. That also means I can steep myself in music whenever I'm not going to be in meetings (and, frankly, when I just want to hide inside myself).
More than my professional life, though... I am excited about my personal synergy. I have emerged from college and my early career a strong, beautiful and intelligent woman. Looking back, I sort of feel like I am on the last leg of a long and personally painful journey of redefining me. I'm still on tour with this whole, who is sgh business, by the way.... but it's the last (very good, very demanding) leg of the tour. It's learning and knowing and being one with my physical self. And I've found the key to that this month, too. I simply need to integrate it (going nicely, in case you are curious) and, wonder of wonders, I feel sort of "done" in who I am.
I'm all kinds of excited. I cannot wait to sit back and enjoy the me I finally can love completely!
synergy.
define this fancy-schmancy word, will ya sgh:
[From Greek sunergi, cooperation, from sunergos, working together. See synergism.]
The interaction of two or more agents or forces so that their combined effect is greater than the sum of their individual effects.
This is my life, the zeitgeist of my days this year. More than any other time in my life (and maybe it is just because I'm really feeling well-defined in who this sgh character is), I feel like I know who I am, what I'm after, what I want, where I am going.
My work feeds my education. I apply my weekly learning in professional organizations. I can use all that stuff at home with a husband and 2-year-old and managing the chaos I call home. Then, I go back to work on Monday morning, and it still all works. I can wear funky clothes to work and it's chill -- because I'm a writer, a designer, and they expect a little oddness out of someone creative, right? I have a job where I can write -- WRITE! -- all the livelong day. That also means I can steep myself in music whenever I'm not going to be in meetings (and, frankly, when I just want to hide inside myself).
More than my professional life, though... I am excited about my personal synergy. I have emerged from college and my early career a strong, beautiful and intelligent woman. Looking back, I sort of feel like I am on the last leg of a long and personally painful journey of redefining me. I'm still on tour with this whole, who is sgh business, by the way.... but it's the last (very good, very demanding) leg of the tour. It's learning and knowing and being one with my physical self. And I've found the key to that this month, too. I simply need to integrate it (going nicely, in case you are curious) and, wonder of wonders, I feel sort of "done" in who I am.
I'm all kinds of excited. I cannot wait to sit back and enjoy the me I finally can love completely!
10 questions I have asked today:
* Why don't I work downtown?
* Why are people compelled to drive 48 miles an hour when I need to get somewhere in a hurry?
* Whatever did I do to get so ridiculously blessed with people who love me?
* Where in God's name did I put my cell phone?
* Did I forget to eat a real lunch?
* Why do some people fail to return their e-mails?
* Is there an ulterior motive behind that gratitude?
* Does this skirt make me look fat?
* I wonder, could I skip my class tonight?
* What do my friends really think about me?
* Why are people compelled to drive 48 miles an hour when I need to get somewhere in a hurry?
* Whatever did I do to get so ridiculously blessed with people who love me?
* Where in God's name did I put my cell phone?
* Did I forget to eat a real lunch?
* Why do some people fail to return their e-mails?
* Is there an ulterior motive behind that gratitude?
* Does this skirt make me look fat?
* I wonder, could I skip my class tonight?
* What do my friends really think about me?
3.10.05
a Wilde thought
"We were born in an age where only the dull are treated seriously, and I live in terror of not being misunderstood."
-Oscar Wilde
three cheers for being misunderstood!
-Oscar Wilde
three cheers for being misunderstood!
2.10.05
lax
I've been completely lax in my publishing. I've had many good thoughts. And even some hilarious moments. Of course, I cannot think of any just now. So I'm just going to attach a fabulous picture from the weekend and promise myself to not fear the blog. Even if I'm insanely busy. Because frankly, I sort of like reading my own insane ramblings every now and again.
13.9.05
I have a confession to make...
I think this is what it boils down to: I think that parts of me are beautiful. I like my eyes, I like my feet, I think I have nice calves and pretty rounded shoulders. I like the nape of my neck so much that I put a tattoo there for decoration, and I have even grown to like the fact that I have big muscly athletic thighs and I like the way my triceps stick out a little and I think that my face shape is pleasing. I inherited some nice lips, I have grown to love my nose and ears and even am a little thankful that I have to dye my mousy brown hair because its a great way to express my creativity. I have shapely (large) breast which I sometimes complain about, because they do become a nuisance, but I wouldn't change them too much, even if I could. I love that I'm strong in body. I love that I can walk and ride a bike and that I found an exercise program that I like, and that I have the energy to chase after my peanut and that I can play.
But I don't focus on the great parts of me. I focus on what I loathe, and then the loathing consumes me and I loathe the whole package. I've always been amazed by women who, while not ascribing to society's beauty box, manage to pull off looking terrifically confident and sexy.
And I want that. I want to be confident and assured and beautiful and sexy just being me, and not feeling like I have to cower behind society and not feeling like the fat on my consumes my joie de vivre. And right now, because I'm feeling challenged on my weight, and I can blame my weight for the infertility (which may or may not be the problem), and the infertility thing is so volatile right now, I'm hating these extra 60 pounds so much that I'm hating myself.
But I don't focus on the great parts of me. I focus on what I loathe, and then the loathing consumes me and I loathe the whole package. I've always been amazed by women who, while not ascribing to society's beauty box, manage to pull off looking terrifically confident and sexy.
And I want that. I want to be confident and assured and beautiful and sexy just being me, and not feeling like I have to cower behind society and not feeling like the fat on my consumes my joie de vivre. And right now, because I'm feeling challenged on my weight, and I can blame my weight for the infertility (which may or may not be the problem), and the infertility thing is so volatile right now, I'm hating these extra 60 pounds so much that I'm hating myself.
3.9.05
Perfect
Poem: "Perfect," by R.T. Smith, inscribed "For Jerome Ward," from Trespasser © Louisiana State University Press.
Perfect
Preparing the salad,
you said the word perfect in botany denotes a species
bisexual and self-sufficient,
while we cut carrot roots,
inflorescence of broccoli, the ripened ovaries of olive
and the bulb of the red onion.
Every seed, you said, holds an embryo inside.
It's all so simple,
and we call plants primal because they survive
without devouring one another
and often work their
increase alone.
Still, we never envy the spiral of cabbage leaves
or a potato's albino eye,
as perfect comes from the Latin for complete,
and we prefer this process of emerging,
two imperfect men happily whittling dinner for their loved ones,
as windblown pollen dusts the windows,
our bright knives clicking on the board.
Perfect
Preparing the salad,
you said the word perfect in botany denotes a species
bisexual and self-sufficient,
while we cut carrot roots,
inflorescence of broccoli, the ripened ovaries of olive
and the bulb of the red onion.
Every seed, you said, holds an embryo inside.
It's all so simple,
and we call plants primal because they survive
without devouring one another
and often work their
increase alone.
Still, we never envy the spiral of cabbage leaves
or a potato's albino eye,
as perfect comes from the Latin for complete,
and we prefer this process of emerging,
two imperfect men happily whittling dinner for their loved ones,
as windblown pollen dusts the windows,
our bright knives clicking on the board.
26.8.05
The common domesticated cow
Those morons who have no tact, talk incredibly loud on the phone, order a big mac, large fries, and "diet coke" (seriously, as long as you are wishing your veins a fond farewell, toss the sugar in there for good measure -- although on second thought, she may just throw it up later, so who cares, really), who drive Escalades, drive while trying to apply mascara and talk on their cell phones at the same time, while swatting their twin brats off each other, swerving through the southdale parking lot, trying to sip their triple-shot latte from starbucks, get their boobs done at their husbands behest, have no idea how to cook or knit and whose parents paid for the 4-year, private college education only so they could smoke pot and get knocked up halfway through their senior year, marry the dork, divorce him when they caught them in bed with the babysitter, and land some rich executive who did the same thing to his first wife 15 years beforehand, who bred two aforementioned hideous, in dire need of braces and baby boot camp, 12-year-old twin boys who each have their own abercrombie accounts, iPods, cell phones and PSPs.
Those, my dear, are the common domesticated cows of our gender.
Those, my dear, are the common domesticated cows of our gender.
15.7.05
my fortune
my fortune over lunch today:
You're doomed to a life with a green thumb and a Midas touch.
sgh commentary: Aw, shucks. I was sort of hoping to be useless and po' my whole life.
You're doomed to a life with a green thumb and a Midas touch.
sgh commentary: Aw, shucks. I was sort of hoping to be useless and po' my whole life.
14.7.05
today's universal truths
1) There is nothing wrong with food that either curry or bacon will not fix
2) Raw snap peas make a fine addition to any cold salad item
3) Just when you start thinking the worst of humanity, voila! they surprise you
4) One o-clock meetings should be banned for all eternity
5) Microsoft is, in fact, out to highlight my career with memorable migraine headaches
6) The human race really ought to take Paige's advice and begin calling muffins, "fuffins". It gives the day the right perspective
2) Raw snap peas make a fine addition to any cold salad item
3) Just when you start thinking the worst of humanity, voila! they surprise you
4) One o-clock meetings should be banned for all eternity
5) Microsoft is, in fact, out to highlight my career with memorable migraine headaches
6) The human race really ought to take Paige's advice and begin calling muffins, "fuffins". It gives the day the right perspective
7.7.05
the essential stupidity of sprawl
"Suburbia is where the developer bulldozes out the tress, then names the streets after them."
(Bill Vaughn)
(Bill Vaughn)
1.7.05
the Zen of Workplace Haiku (mixing my cultures here...)
Amidst the paper
she dreams of fruity cocktails
time stands still in cubes
---
the corporate whore
rolls her eyes and sighs loudly
work is such a drag
she dreams of fruity cocktails
time stands still in cubes
---
the corporate whore
rolls her eyes and sighs loudly
work is such a drag
29.6.05
28.6.05
Personal Ads you'll never see
Hi, I'm (insert name here). I'm an average-looking, bland and otherwise nondescript, overweight white woman with too much education and too little real-life experience. I have no realistic goals and prefer to remain mired in the anonymity of middle-class, suburban America. I am a whiny, manipulative and overneedy b*tch who will suck you emotionally dry for the remainder of your days and never again let you have a life outside of our relationship. Let's talk; call me real soon so I can start nagging, mother hen-ing, and caretaking you. I dream of a future where you and I can lose our self-concepts in the throes of our mutually dysfunctional ideologies and relationship!
---
Greetings. I'm (insert name here). From looking at my picture, you might assume that I am an achievable woman. Think again. The sad truth is that I am far too fabulous for you, geek boy. I am actually not even available - I am just here to torture you, and to show you what you could have had if you hadn't been too busy wacking off to Star Trek in your parents basement. Hah Hah!
---
OK boys, let's get down to what is important here:
I'm (insert name here). I'm in my 30s and want to have a baby girl. Right - now. I am otherwise completely happy doing my own thing, but do feel compelled to bring about a child into the world the old-fashioned way.
That's where you come in. My goals require you to:
a) have a set of fully-functioning man equipment (Limpy need not apply)
b) have a steady, reliable source of income on which you can comfortably support me, yourself, and our love child
c) own a home in an urban area
d) be ready to marry me at my bidding and love me unconditionally for who I am for the remainder of our days
e) have no particular longing for me to produce a baby boy, because I will not do it
If you meet the above requirements, are at least 30 years old, 5 feet-10 inches, and don't look like a troll or require significant electrolysis to go to the beach, please email me. Include 2 months of paystubs, your current mortgage statement and pictures of man equipment, teeth and back. Glasses and nerdy computer savvy a plus.
---
Greetings. I'm (insert name here). From looking at my picture, you might assume that I am an achievable woman. Think again. The sad truth is that I am far too fabulous for you, geek boy. I am actually not even available - I am just here to torture you, and to show you what you could have had if you hadn't been too busy wacking off to Star Trek in your parents basement. Hah Hah!
---
OK boys, let's get down to what is important here:
I'm (insert name here). I'm in my 30s and want to have a baby girl. Right - now. I am otherwise completely happy doing my own thing, but do feel compelled to bring about a child into the world the old-fashioned way.
That's where you come in. My goals require you to:
a) have a set of fully-functioning man equipment (Limpy need not apply)
b) have a steady, reliable source of income on which you can comfortably support me, yourself, and our love child
c) own a home in an urban area
d) be ready to marry me at my bidding and love me unconditionally for who I am for the remainder of our days
e) have no particular longing for me to produce a baby boy, because I will not do it
If you meet the above requirements, are at least 30 years old, 5 feet-10 inches, and don't look like a troll or require significant electrolysis to go to the beach, please email me. Include 2 months of paystubs, your current mortgage statement and pictures of man equipment, teeth and back. Glasses and nerdy computer savvy a plus.
Tallulah
I have decided that should the gods let it come to pass that I one day get a female bassett hound pup, I shall name her Tallulah.
So let it be written, so let it be done.
So let it be written, so let it be done.
23.6.05
Primal Scream Time
I am posting this afternoon in hopes (fingers crossed!) that I can alleviate some of my writer's block.
Here's what's buggin' me:
1) There's a loud talker in my office. You know, the blabbermouth who conducts a 40-minute conversation about Star Wars in her cube at the top of her lungs while the rest of us try very hard to write and ignore her. And we (OK, I) fail miserably. While she continues on telling the same oh-so-funny jokes that she's told for the last two weeks.
By the way, she has crazy deadlines like all of us. So, why is she the only one in the department flapping her gums while the rest of us have our heads buried in Microsoft Word and our Rock and Roll antiseptic of choice spinning on portable music players?
2) I have U2's Discotheque in my head. And it won't go away. While I love U2 with all of my heart, and can't wait for their concert in September, I cannot say Discotheque is my very favorite. That, and I only know one word in the song -- Discotheque. So I keep singing.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. over and over until my neurotic self-medicating is rudely interrupted by the loud talker. And the whole cycle repeats.
3) It's 90 degrees outside. In 2 hours, I'll be sitting in a pool. Every time I think about that, it's even harder to concentrate on writing about accessing the Daily Performance Report and how to read it... (WAKE UP! I KNOW, I KNOW.... IT'S REALLY BORING!)
4) I haven't been to the cabin yet this year. I am going next weekend, but I somehow feel like I have neglected my duty as both a member of the Green family, my loyalty to our little strip of heaven near Spooner, and my responsibility as a mother to make every single weekend chock-full of scrapbook-worthy goodness.
5) Every time Dis..co..theque goes through my head, I start thinking about the song Mr. Zdrazil sang in 10th grade Lit class:
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
(Trust me, it's a lot more powerful when you hear your tall, tortoise-shell glasses English Teacher/One-Act-Play-Director/Closest thing to a hero you'll have in a town of 1200 sing it a capella in the middle of 5th hour.)
Then I get all distracted when my mind wanders to my High School career, and this is a black hole that only plunges me further into the writer's block I'm trying with all my might to avoid facing.
Here's what's buggin' me:
1) There's a loud talker in my office. You know, the blabbermouth who conducts a 40-minute conversation about Star Wars in her cube at the top of her lungs while the rest of us try very hard to write and ignore her. And we (OK, I) fail miserably. While she continues on telling the same oh-so-funny jokes that she's told for the last two weeks.
By the way, she has crazy deadlines like all of us. So, why is she the only one in the department flapping her gums while the rest of us have our heads buried in Microsoft Word and our Rock and Roll antiseptic of choice spinning on portable music players?
2) I have U2's Discotheque in my head. And it won't go away. While I love U2 with all of my heart, and can't wait for their concert in September, I cannot say Discotheque is my very favorite. That, and I only know one word in the song -- Discotheque. So I keep singing.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. over and over until my neurotic self-medicating is rudely interrupted by the loud talker. And the whole cycle repeats.
3) It's 90 degrees outside. In 2 hours, I'll be sitting in a pool. Every time I think about that, it's even harder to concentrate on writing about accessing the Daily Performance Report and how to read it... (WAKE UP! I KNOW, I KNOW.... IT'S REALLY BORING!)
4) I haven't been to the cabin yet this year. I am going next weekend, but I somehow feel like I have neglected my duty as both a member of the Green family, my loyalty to our little strip of heaven near Spooner, and my responsibility as a mother to make every single weekend chock-full of scrapbook-worthy goodness.
5) Every time Dis..co..theque goes through my head, I start thinking about the song Mr. Zdrazil sang in 10th grade Lit class:
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
(Trust me, it's a lot more powerful when you hear your tall, tortoise-shell glasses English Teacher/One-Act-Play-Director/Closest thing to a hero you'll have in a town of 1200 sing it a capella in the middle of 5th hour.)
Then I get all distracted when my mind wanders to my High School career, and this is a black hole that only plunges me further into the writer's block I'm trying with all my might to avoid facing.
20.6.05
I know it takes a village, but come on!
From this week's News of the Weird
Julie Atkins, 38, of Derby, England, featured in a May BBC TV documentary on childbirth because her three daughters gave birth last year at, respectively, ages 12, 14 and 16, told the Sunday Mercury newspaper: "I don't care what people say about me. I blame the schools. Sex education for young girls should be better."
15.6.05
Down with Big South!
Three (more) reasons I'm not a big fan of the south:
(1) Big Tobacco. OK, we've all seen the commericals. And yes, I chain-smoked in high school (until my boyfriend threatened to dump me unless I stopped... thanks, John.)
However, I have been hacking up unpleasantness all week because I spent 2 hours in a smoky bar in St. Paul. No more smoke for me, man. Tobacco is way too gross.
(2) Big Cotton. Is this a real problem? It is for quilters who wish to purchase calicos as less than 9.99 a yard. Come on -- it's cotton!
I vote for cheap cotton. Cheap quilting materials, actually. Help a poor girl out by letting me have some inexpensive crafting tools and supplies!
(3) Big Sugar. Sugar has been real, real mean. She's a catty b1tch who'll stab you in the back(side) as soon as you don't pay close attention. She's manipulative -- so sweet, so harmless... and then she goes in and ruins your love life, your self-esteem, your blood pressure.
Then, there's the whole Wal-Mart phenom... and, I mean, I don't really like the south all that much anyhow, what with all the heat and bugs and mold and such...
But that's another blog entry.
Down with Big South!
(1) Big Tobacco. OK, we've all seen the commericals. And yes, I chain-smoked in high school (until my boyfriend threatened to dump me unless I stopped... thanks, John.)
However, I have been hacking up unpleasantness all week because I spent 2 hours in a smoky bar in St. Paul. No more smoke for me, man. Tobacco is way too gross.
(2) Big Cotton. Is this a real problem? It is for quilters who wish to purchase calicos as less than 9.99 a yard. Come on -- it's cotton!
I vote for cheap cotton. Cheap quilting materials, actually. Help a poor girl out by letting me have some inexpensive crafting tools and supplies!
(3) Big Sugar. Sugar has been real, real mean. She's a catty b1tch who'll stab you in the back(side) as soon as you don't pay close attention. She's manipulative -- so sweet, so harmless... and then she goes in and ruins your love life, your self-esteem, your blood pressure.
Then, there's the whole Wal-Mart phenom... and, I mean, I don't really like the south all that much anyhow, what with all the heat and bugs and mold and such...
But that's another blog entry.
Down with Big South!
14.6.05
10.6.05
So, I've been a parent for 2 years now, and...
Anyone who tells you that having children isn't the greatest sacrifice you'll ever choose to make hasn't actually been with children for more than 2 days.
However, even though I've had to completely redefine myself since motherhood, I would never change my decision.
Having a child (or children) is the most rude interruption you'll never regret having.
However, even though I've had to completely redefine myself since motherhood, I would never change my decision.
Having a child (or children) is the most rude interruption you'll never regret having.
7.6.05
the root of my punkadelic soul
(poem courtesy of Di)
S - Sensational
A - Alive
R - Reader
A - Artsy
H - Heroic
E - Eloquent
L - Laughing
I - Intelligent
Z - Zanny
A - And then some
B - Beautiful inside and out
T - Truthful
H - Helpful
G - Gorgeous
R - Rita Hayworth's Friend :)
E - Easy on the Eyes
E - Easterner at Heart
N - Nice
H - Hot Mama
A - A Good and True Friend
G - Green-Conscious
G - Green Party Supporter
E - Earth Friendly
R - Really, Really Cool
T - Truly OutSTANDing
Y - You are Loved!
6.6.05
Another dream-nugget from the archives of my imagination
so, Diana and I are driving in my Gina Ehlers (a friend from high school who I haven't talked to in probably 5 years...) 1990-ish Cadillac. It's lemon yellow exterior and maroon crushed velvet interior, and I have extensive small-town high school memories about it, if you'd like to ask sometime.
We're driving through downtown Chicago, and Diana whips out an open bottle of Chianti (and I'm talking the dirt-cheap, jug of Italian table wine. The one with the wicker glued to the bottom.) And starts chugging. Diana's behind the wheel, and I freak out.
S: "What the hell are you doing? You can't have an open bottle in the car!"
D: "Who are you - my mother?"
and we go on like that for a bit. Meanwhile, Diana is trying very hard to empty the bottle of Chianti between expletives, and neither of us notice that we're a) heading out of downtown due south and into a rather seedy neighborhood b) are being followed by a pretty white-and-black vehicle adorned with lights, not yet turned on.
After trying to reason with Diana, I decide that only brute physical force will ensure our safety. So I jump on her and wrestle her (while driving, mind you) for the now-empty bottle of Chianti. After some gentle persuasion (which includes biting Diana's feet), she relents and in the force of taking the bottle of Chianti from her, I lose it out the window of the car.
Thankfully for us, the empty jug-and-wicker projectile flies out of my hand in incredible slow motion, and as I scream, "Nooooooooooooooooooo!" it smashes headlong into the cop car behind us. Which is suddenly glaringly apparent.
Now, I say thankfully because of course, the cherries flash on, the sirens whoo--oooes us to a stop, and Diana and I are all like, "shh. Calm down now. We don't want the cops to think we're drunk or anything."
Christ. The whole backseat of Gina's cadillac smells like a dirty old Italian man.
So, the two cops walk up to the windows (one on each side). And they couldn't possibly be police officers, because I'm watching them, and they are grinning and chuckling and something doesn't seem right.
I'm thinking:
1) these guys are way too hot to be eating donuts all night long
2) why are their pants so tight?
3) is that cops chest glistening?
So, Diana is asked to step out of the car. Me too. They make her do the sobriety walk (which she fails miserably). She fails her breathalyzer (as you and I both would after downing a jug of chianti.)
And then, Cop A by her door says, miss, I'm going to have to issue you a citation.
D: "Dammit! What for?"
Cop A: "For being too sexy." (Grins laviciously.)
Cob B: (to me) "You too, sweetheart."
And then the alarm goes off.
We're driving through downtown Chicago, and Diana whips out an open bottle of Chianti (and I'm talking the dirt-cheap, jug of Italian table wine. The one with the wicker glued to the bottom.) And starts chugging. Diana's behind the wheel, and I freak out.
S: "What the hell are you doing? You can't have an open bottle in the car!"
D: "Who are you - my mother?"
and we go on like that for a bit. Meanwhile, Diana is trying very hard to empty the bottle of Chianti between expletives, and neither of us notice that we're a) heading out of downtown due south and into a rather seedy neighborhood b) are being followed by a pretty white-and-black vehicle adorned with lights, not yet turned on.
After trying to reason with Diana, I decide that only brute physical force will ensure our safety. So I jump on her and wrestle her (while driving, mind you) for the now-empty bottle of Chianti. After some gentle persuasion (which includes biting Diana's feet), she relents and in the force of taking the bottle of Chianti from her, I lose it out the window of the car.
Thankfully for us, the empty jug-and-wicker projectile flies out of my hand in incredible slow motion, and as I scream, "Nooooooooooooooooooo!" it smashes headlong into the cop car behind us. Which is suddenly glaringly apparent.
Now, I say thankfully because of course, the cherries flash on, the sirens whoo--oooes us to a stop, and Diana and I are all like, "shh. Calm down now. We don't want the cops to think we're drunk or anything."
Christ. The whole backseat of Gina's cadillac smells like a dirty old Italian man.
So, the two cops walk up to the windows (one on each side). And they couldn't possibly be police officers, because I'm watching them, and they are grinning and chuckling and something doesn't seem right.
I'm thinking:
1) these guys are way too hot to be eating donuts all night long
2) why are their pants so tight?
3) is that cops chest glistening?
So, Diana is asked to step out of the car. Me too. They make her do the sobriety walk (which she fails miserably). She fails her breathalyzer (as you and I both would after downing a jug of chianti.)
And then, Cop A by her door says, miss, I'm going to have to issue you a citation.
D: "Dammit! What for?"
Cop A: "For being too sexy." (Grins laviciously.)
Cob B: (to me) "You too, sweetheart."
And then the alarm goes off.
2.6.05
Super-Sugar Feedback Puffs
Delicious!
Goes Down Easy!
Now, with super-fluffy marshmallow compliments!
Eat these and have absolutely zero potential for growth and enrichment!
Yah, so today, I've been thinking a little bit (OK, a lot bit) about giving and receiving feedback. Especially at work. The last couple of weeks, the MBTI (Myers-Briggs for those of you who haven't spent the last 8 years studying psychology) has reared it's ugly little pinhead here at work. We all took the MBTI and are now aware of our team's personality differences, styles, blah blah blah. Group hug, right?
Dead wrong. Now we're all labeling each other, walking on eggshells, and tiptoeing around our own thoughts and feelings. Gross. Growing up in a tumultous family full of conflict (and a bunch of hodge-podge alcoholic genes that make for a no-holds-barred, get it out on the table ruckus every time there was a disagreement), I'm not one for Minnesota nice (funny, I'm even a native.) If I don't like something, if I think that something should be fixed, different, scrapped, or exalted, you're going to know about it. I know, I know -- sometimes that gets me into trouble. But its trouble worth having, because at least everyone knows where they stand at all times, and there's no guessing as to what I'm thinking/feeling/processing.
Well, in that vein, I'm a stranger in a strange land at work. Some of my team, while having many great qualities, is very, well, Hotdish. We don't talk about stuff. We don't acknowledge when people's feelings are hurt, when there's a mistake, when we need to just vent. Bad team. Bad team!
Instead, we feed each other Super-Sugar Feedback Puffs. Say something nice, make yourself look and sound stupid, self-depricate, and above all, play nice. No bruised egos here (you know, except the ones seething under the smile.)
Well, you know what? I'm not sorry about my feelings. I won't write an apology for my thoughts, and I don't think that I should have to tone down my own brain. I'm not rude, I'm not mean. I just say what I think. And sometimes that's really not an easy pill for my fellow Midwestern-ers to swallow (by the way, this is reason #086594 I belong on the East Coast.)
To quote a great songwriter:
... I'm sorry for my views,
I must have been confused
but did you know that really
I'm sorry for you ...
(nellie mckay)
26.5.05
John's Blog
Check out my beloved's blog: http://donegaljohn.blogspot.com
He's fabulous (mostly, because I'm his most admired person. Can you feel the love?)
He's fabulous (mostly, because I'm his most admired person. Can you feel the love?)
Moving My Danish
So, Diana and Kristy and I (why do all my Blogger entries start with these two girls?) have decided that we'd prefer to resemble someone other than Jabba the Hutt. (you know, maybe Princess Leia?) And so, we're making some changes. Time to move the Danish from the belly to the hair. Or something.
Generally, that means I want to get rid of my college-beer-and-pizza belly, my late-night-retail-work thighs, and my office job rear end.
Check out our very own weight loss blog and help us along our journey: http://mnjiggle.blogspot.com/
Generally, that means I want to get rid of my college-beer-and-pizza belly, my late-night-retail-work thighs, and my office job rear end.
Check out our very own weight loss blog and help us along our journey: http://mnjiggle.blogspot.com/
9.5.05
Happy F---ing Mother's Day...
Let me tell you: I was LESS-THAN-PLEASED about a couple of phone calls yesterday.
Situation #1: I owed my dad 25 bucks for the saw he brought down to help us with the basement. I was out of stamps, week before last, and just ordered the stamps online because, frankly, the post office isn't really open when I need it to be (and my Dad, of course, doesn't understand why I work in the first place, I should be at home barefoot and pregnant, so he's irritated that I can't just swing by the post office during all my free time to get stamps...) So I get my stamps in the mail last Monday. and then I just stuck the check in with Dorene's mother's day card when I did get stamps; why send two envelopes? I mail all my mother's day cards on Wednesday. He calls me on Thursday to ask where his check is. He calls me on Friday to ask where his check is. He calls me and leaves 6, SIX! %*&!ing messages on Saturday threatening me because the check and the mother's day card didn't come.
I get all these messages on Sunday, of course. Then he calls all nicey poo to wish me a happy mother's day? F___ off.
Situation #2: About an hour later the phone rings. It's Ruth, and she says, I know you guys probably already have plans for the day, but could Deek and I stop over to see Paige?
Uh, no. Hell No. WTF?? Who in God's name do you think you are? Remember two years ago, signed the papers and gave the kid up for adoption? Go the F--- away and, by the way, thanks for ruining my Mother's Day.
I'm about ready to place an ad:
WANTED: Extended family, preferably of Irish/English descent, to adopt intelligent dual-income couple and adorable 2-year-old daughter for holidays, family functions and gatherings. You should enjoy good food, funny stories, travelling, arts, European football, and Finding Nemo. Must be open-minded, loving and supportive. Ability to see beyond your own selfish needs a plus. Will relocate. Please e-mail qualifications to sarahgh@gmail.com. No dysfunctional alcoholic co-dependents, please.
Situation #1: I owed my dad 25 bucks for the saw he brought down to help us with the basement. I was out of stamps, week before last, and just ordered the stamps online because, frankly, the post office isn't really open when I need it to be (and my Dad, of course, doesn't understand why I work in the first place, I should be at home barefoot and pregnant, so he's irritated that I can't just swing by the post office during all my free time to get stamps...) So I get my stamps in the mail last Monday. and then I just stuck the check in with Dorene's mother's day card when I did get stamps; why send two envelopes? I mail all my mother's day cards on Wednesday. He calls me on Thursday to ask where his check is. He calls me on Friday to ask where his check is. He calls me and leaves 6, SIX! %*&!ing messages on Saturday threatening me because the check and the mother's day card didn't come.
I get all these messages on Sunday, of course. Then he calls all nicey poo to wish me a happy mother's day? F___ off.
Situation #2: About an hour later the phone rings. It's Ruth, and she says, I know you guys probably already have plans for the day, but could Deek and I stop over to see Paige?
Uh, no. Hell No. WTF?? Who in God's name do you think you are? Remember two years ago, signed the papers and gave the kid up for adoption? Go the F--- away and, by the way, thanks for ruining my Mother's Day.
I'm about ready to place an ad:
WANTED: Extended family, preferably of Irish/English descent, to adopt intelligent dual-income couple and adorable 2-year-old daughter for holidays, family functions and gatherings. You should enjoy good food, funny stories, travelling, arts, European football, and Finding Nemo. Must be open-minded, loving and supportive. Ability to see beyond your own selfish needs a plus. Will relocate. Please e-mail qualifications to sarahgh@gmail.com. No dysfunctional alcoholic co-dependents, please.
30.4.05
5.4.05
Militant Millie Mondays
So Diana calls and asks if I want to scab for this quilting class she and another friends signed up for in exoburbia Eagan. Turns out other friend has babysitting and monetary issues which interfere, blah blah blah... not to diminish her situation, but it's my story and none of that stuff is funny anyhow.
Sure, why not, I say. I have tons of bad crafting habits that a formal class will only further indemnify into my persona.
Class is Mondays. It starts at 6. In Eagan. Now, I'm by no means a workaholic. I love my job and I dedicate a lot of time and energy to it. But I put in my 40-ish hours and go home. I leave work around 4:30 most days, I'm home by 5, even if I putz picking up Paige and John and dinner. So, 6 sounds reasonable.
However, let it now be known that even if I LIKED exoburbian track homes the color of diaper-rash ointment and constructed from cardboard and pvc tubing (and if you haven't already picked up on it, I don't), the drive to and from exoburbia alone would kill me. I have twice attempted to leave my little slice of 120x44 foot city lot heaven in the afternoon to get to Eagan for said class, and I have now decided that there is no way (short of airborne transportation) that any reasonable, non-politically pivotal human with can traverse the 20 miles from Minneapolis to Eagan in less than an hour, unless they have a secret service detachment assigned to their motorcade.
Di and I are less fortunate. Our political aspirations fall just short of voting for Nader a 3rd time, we don't get secret service. Maybe Burger King's secret sauce on my khakis, but that's about as close as we get. Anyway, we tried the freeway. No dice, we're 20 minutes late. We tried city streets. We moved, but still 15 minutes late.
All that travelling is greeted by our wonderful teacher - militant millie.
Millie, our quilting instructor, is about 180. She's hunched in half because she's spent her whole life finger-pressing flying geese seams or some such quilting crap I don't really care about. Millie is a quilting PURIST. Wait, scratch that. PURITAN. The woman has one way of doing things. Her way. Deviate from it - and you're humiliated in front of the class. Honest to God. I've never attended Catholic school, but this is as close as I ever want to come to being taught something by a ruler-carrying old woman who definitely hasn't seen the sweet sweet love of a good man in a while.
Case in point: I'm big on not wasting fabric. I've got a house and kid and car and dogs and shoes to buy and I just can't be wasting money on fabric I cut to shreds, right? So, color crayons do the trick. A company PAYS me to envision things and get them right, and generally speaking, I do. So what's the problem?
I'm not doing it Militant Millie's way, is the problem.
Sure, why not, I say. I have tons of bad crafting habits that a formal class will only further indemnify into my persona.
Class is Mondays. It starts at 6. In Eagan. Now, I'm by no means a workaholic. I love my job and I dedicate a lot of time and energy to it. But I put in my 40-ish hours and go home. I leave work around 4:30 most days, I'm home by 5, even if I putz picking up Paige and John and dinner. So, 6 sounds reasonable.
However, let it now be known that even if I LIKED exoburbian track homes the color of diaper-rash ointment and constructed from cardboard and pvc tubing (and if you haven't already picked up on it, I don't), the drive to and from exoburbia alone would kill me. I have twice attempted to leave my little slice of 120x44 foot city lot heaven in the afternoon to get to Eagan for said class, and I have now decided that there is no way (short of airborne transportation) that any reasonable, non-politically pivotal human with can traverse the 20 miles from Minneapolis to Eagan in less than an hour, unless they have a secret service detachment assigned to their motorcade.
Di and I are less fortunate. Our political aspirations fall just short of voting for Nader a 3rd time, we don't get secret service. Maybe Burger King's secret sauce on my khakis, but that's about as close as we get. Anyway, we tried the freeway. No dice, we're 20 minutes late. We tried city streets. We moved, but still 15 minutes late.
All that travelling is greeted by our wonderful teacher - militant millie.
Millie, our quilting instructor, is about 180. She's hunched in half because she's spent her whole life finger-pressing flying geese seams or some such quilting crap I don't really care about. Millie is a quilting PURIST. Wait, scratch that. PURITAN. The woman has one way of doing things. Her way. Deviate from it - and you're humiliated in front of the class. Honest to God. I've never attended Catholic school, but this is as close as I ever want to come to being taught something by a ruler-carrying old woman who definitely hasn't seen the sweet sweet love of a good man in a while.
Case in point: I'm big on not wasting fabric. I've got a house and kid and car and dogs and shoes to buy and I just can't be wasting money on fabric I cut to shreds, right? So, color crayons do the trick. A company PAYS me to envision things and get them right, and generally speaking, I do. So what's the problem?
I'm not doing it Militant Millie's way, is the problem.
WHAP!
Now, I've got my fabric in shreds, I'm being chided for not having the right sewing machine and not having the right kind of focal fabric and wearing a tshirt and not being 70 and why isn't my machine computerized and why don't I want to pay 80 more dollars for different fabric and AAAAAIIIIIHHHHHH! It's primal scream time because I have 12 more militant millie mondays and I can't even sit next to di and snicker for most of them because we have to drive through the vast expanse of urban sprawl to get there and for god's sake, some of us have to work for a living to feed our expensive quilt habit!
I can't wait til my quilt is done so I can give it away and never again think about it.
8.3.05
the continuing adventures of hairspray diva and germophobe lass
you may or may not know this, but I have a growing hatred for public restrooms.
I'm not safe, even at work.
Let me begin by explaining that I work on the 6th floor of a 9-floor office building. There is 1 ladies' room per floor, and most of the time, when I venture over there, it's not just for the sake of taking a walk -- I need to use the ladies' room. However, I am growing increasingly irritated by two other women on my floor who frequent the ladies' room.
First, and perhaps foremost, is the hairspray diva. This fine specimen still rats her bangs with aquanet. In the ladies' room at work. At least twice a day. If I have to go, and she's in there, I can almost guarantee that I'll walk out of there with a CFC high. Yuck. Oh, and she obsesses about brushing her teeth and smelling good, because she's always squirting Jovan White Musk on herself and everything else in the bathroom. And she brushes her teeth for like 10 minutes at a time in there. Please, I mean, does anyone like to be assaulted with a stranger's bathroom routine? N-O.
So, yesterday, I was harassed by yet another specimen, Germophobe Lass. She confronted me after I washed my hands with hot water and soap, by saying: " you realize that you are just spreading germs all over the company by turning off the faucet with your bare hands, don't you? You should really use a towel."
OK, so my question is: a) what business is it of hers? What is she, the germ police? b) my hands are clean. As are everyone else's who washes their hands and then turns off the faucet. c) I don't care about the germs. Really, I don't. I touch baby poop every day. I clean up dog puke on a regular basis. I pet my cat every day. My clean hands at work are the LEAST of my concerns. I sorta wanted to explain that to her, but instead I just smiled and walked out.
Actually, what I really wanted to do was lick the door handle and then see how she managed to get OUT of the bathroom, but that, my friends, would have been cruel.
7.3.05
Whatever I ate last night...
I'm walking down this dark street in downtown chicago. I'm going to this highly exclusive nightspot with Dave; we're going to see an unadvertised, invitation-only performance of David Sedaris.
So, we have to climb up this fire escape scaffold up the side of an old brownstone to get to this big, red painted door with a silver 37 in a circle (the club's called circle 37). I am in a white skirt and blue silk chemise and about 4 inch heeled sandals. Needless to say, I'm lovely, but not in any garb that's suitable for shimmying up a rusty fire escape. Well, I managed (thanks to some chivalrous help), and we're at the door, we get in, we walk in to this amazing club that's all high-income, NPR supporter-types. We sit in this sunken area in front of a stage. The whole club is done up in red and silver and black. The stage is black with red curtains. We sit at tables for two with silver chairs, silver tableclothes, the drinks are served in silver goblets. It's freeking cool; I'm all pumped about how cool I am to be at this show, which, by the way, I'm really excited just to be at.
So the show starts and we're listening and laughing and all of a sudden I notice that to my left, there's this big glassed-in area that is like the "room for token invalids". I point it out to Dave, who looks and then says, Hey, isn't that your father-in-law? I look, and lo and behold, there's John Haggerty Sr, in a wheelchair and hospital slippers, a hospital gown and a blanket, peering confusededly through the glass at the show. Dave insists that we go into the token invalid room and sit with my father-in-law. I'd much rather sit at my cool silver table and hang out with all the other beautiful people, but Dave is adamant, so we go. I spend the rest of the show trying to explain David Sedaris' humor to my vietnam-vet, card-carrying republican, PTSD, homophobe father-in-law. I can barely hear anything without my father-in-law guffawing about something or asking me to explain again why this guy isn't wearing a wedding ring... Dave of course, flanking my father in law on the other side, not listening to my plight, but enjoying the humor of the show (and likely of the entire situation.)
So, we have to climb up this fire escape scaffold up the side of an old brownstone to get to this big, red painted door with a silver 37 in a circle (the club's called circle 37). I am in a white skirt and blue silk chemise and about 4 inch heeled sandals. Needless to say, I'm lovely, but not in any garb that's suitable for shimmying up a rusty fire escape. Well, I managed (thanks to some chivalrous help), and we're at the door, we get in, we walk in to this amazing club that's all high-income, NPR supporter-types. We sit in this sunken area in front of a stage. The whole club is done up in red and silver and black. The stage is black with red curtains. We sit at tables for two with silver chairs, silver tableclothes, the drinks are served in silver goblets. It's freeking cool; I'm all pumped about how cool I am to be at this show, which, by the way, I'm really excited just to be at.
So the show starts and we're listening and laughing and all of a sudden I notice that to my left, there's this big glassed-in area that is like the "room for token invalids". I point it out to Dave, who looks and then says, Hey, isn't that your father-in-law? I look, and lo and behold, there's John Haggerty Sr, in a wheelchair and hospital slippers, a hospital gown and a blanket, peering confusededly through the glass at the show. Dave insists that we go into the token invalid room and sit with my father-in-law. I'd much rather sit at my cool silver table and hang out with all the other beautiful people, but Dave is adamant, so we go. I spend the rest of the show trying to explain David Sedaris' humor to my vietnam-vet, card-carrying republican, PTSD, homophobe father-in-law. I can barely hear anything without my father-in-law guffawing about something or asking me to explain again why this guy isn't wearing a wedding ring... Dave of course, flanking my father in law on the other side, not listening to my plight, but enjoying the humor of the show (and likely of the entire situation.)
21.2.05
the best 10 minutes in which you'll be inspired to create
My beloved gave me a unique valentine last week: a playlist of classical music for my iPod. I purchased each song he recommended on the premise that each song had a specific element of my personality within.
I want to say, before I forget to mention it, that my beloved is an amazing man who knows me better than I know myself. I am delighted by his uncanny ability to discern my nuances far better than this silly introvert could ever manage. One of the songs on my list was Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, which delights my ears and my soul each time I listen.
That being said, I want to comment on how beautifully creative, complex and perfect Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is. This has long been my very favorite piece of music, sifting above any modern-day creation, for its beauty, its symmetry and asymmetry and triad of complexity. I have also long clung to the notion that those of us who regularly listen to classical music tend toward the intelligent and creative side of life (I mean, after all, if it's true for me, its true for the rest of the world, right?)
At any rate, I am working on some graphic art design today, and after listening to Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, I am creatively infused. To anyone who isn't familiar with the piece, it's a work for pipe organ, which gives the piece its three-part complexity -- a part for left hand, a part for right hand, and the organ, or foot, part. In a minor key, it is dark and shadowy in every corner, but also beautiful as it revels in intricacy, answering itself in humming, slow and fast and fast and slow, pausing only where you as a listener need to take a breath, bliss. The sheer feat the performer completes by playing this piece, 10 minutes long in it's entirety, is reason enough to laud this creation to its end. About 3 minutes into the piece, I begin to realize why I wanted this to be my wedding processional (at the risk of sounding a bit Goth.)
If you don't already have an appreciation for this song (or just want to know about which particular Bach organ piece I rave), visit http://www.classiccat.net/bach_js/913.htm to download this music for free.
My recommendation: sit in a dark, quiet area, find yourself some headphones, close your eyes, listen to the song and allow your ears and mind to be washed with the complex and complete beauty of one pipe organ and one fantastic piece of creative genius.
Wishing growth and beauty today!
14.2.05
26 questions I've always wanted the answer to
1) What's the best gift you've ever received, and why?
2) What one class would you like to re-attend (from grade school all the way up?)
3) What's the earliest phone number you've had that you can remember?
4) Describe your mood today by telling me which album you know that would most closely match it.
5) What made you pick the institution of higher education that you attended (or did not attend)?
6) Which of the following common ailments do you find most annoying, and for what reason? Chapped lips, paper cuts, blemishes.
7) Why would you / did you befriend a disorganized, melodramatic, neurotic brainiac like me?
8) Tell me the nicest compliment you can remember getting.
9) What's the world's best scent, and why?
10) Why is garlic in all the dishes that are served in "romantic" restaraunts?
11) What's the best part about the job you have right now?
12) Why did women decide to toss aside their dresses and shoes for pants and workboots? How come we don't dress like ladies anymore?
13) What do you imagine is said about you most often when you leave a room?
14) Who do you most miss in your life right now?
15) What do you think Mona Lisa is smiling at?
16) Of what ancestral heritage are you most proud to claim, and why?
17) What holiday do you most dread, and why?
18) Why, oh why, does Microsoft make god-forsaken counterintuitive products that still manage to get used in every organization I have ever worked for?
19) What do you think MY job entails (I know what I do, but I don't know what other people think...)
20) What ARE all the words to "It's the End of the World As We Know It?"
21) Tell me about a secret indulgence in which you love to partake, but not very many others know about.
22) What's the best "family name" you've got a claim to (IE, your uncle Egebert...)?
23) Quick - you're invited to a dinner party. What's the most tempting menu you hope to be offered?
24) When is the last time you hand-wrote and mailed (with postage) a paper letter?
25) Think way back: what was the best art project you ever did while in school? What made it so fantastic?
26) You're very, very late to something incredibly important one morning, and you are also wickedly hung over. You have to choose to do only one of the following: you either get to shower or drink caffeine. You can't do both; which do you pick, and why?
24.1.05
Re: Reason #001896574 to listen to public radio
Waahooooo! I told you it would be the bestest thing ever! I heart MPR!
Sara
PS.....thank you, Sarah, for the bday dedication this morning....Jim Ed and Dale were quite cute with it....SAAARRRAAAA......tee hee hee.....the perfect song as well! I also heart Dar Williams! :)
| Sarah Haggerty/Minneapolis/Metris 01/24/2005 09:35 AM |
|
MPR debuts a new station today: 89.3, the Current... another choice in alternative radio stations here in the twin cities.
though I'm only 31 minutes into the new station, it is decidedly wonderful, and I don't know anyone who is going to object to listening to some of today's finest artists without the unwelcome interruption of Corporate America.
(you can also tune in to streaming audio on your pc ... check out 89.3 the current on http://minnesota.publicradio.org/)
If you do not already, tune your radio/PC to the goodness, write a check to MPR, and enjoy one of life's most delicious little pleasures.
(jumping off the soapbox)
sgh
18.1.05
31 things I love today
Bananas that are perfectly ripe, but not OVERripe
Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper
my ergonomic footrest
co-writing plays with friends
Junior Boys
Aveeno lotion
my iPod
Red Velvet cake
Beads
birthday parties
U2's Achtung Baby CD
Paige's good-bye kisses
artisan bread
orange highlighters
knee-high boots
magnets
Patina
Burt's Bees lip gloss
Rilo Kiley
The pen with the pig on top of it
Excel spreadsheets
Clementines
McV's Digestives
Manchester United
Canned Air
Van Gogh's Starry Night
Chicago
Sterling Silver
Good aim
Dark curly hair
Flair Pen on quadrille paper
12.1.05
Barbara and Nathan's Squirrel
(Quoting Nathan Nordlund. Basically, this was the funniest thing I've read so far this year.)
our squirrel is a bastard, though. he energetically removes the insulation from the space in the roof where the insulation goes, making our bedroom cold, and then tirelessly scratches on the thin membrane of cracking plaster that we call our bedroom ceiling. and then, if his wanting to be warm when it's freezing out isn't obnoxious enough, he goes on and eats the poisoned peanut butter and dies in a remote location of the rafters. The odor, however, is not so remote. Then, because there is a hole in our apartment roof that our landlord will not fix, his bastard friend finds his way into our ceiling and picks up where bastard #1 left off.*
* this whole story is actually an allegory for me (the squirrel) wanting to live within the comforts of the indoors and destroying resources and creating inconveniences for others. All of it is true, except the poisoning part. let this be a lesson to everyone.
11.1.05
Microsoft Moment # 0546857
so, I'm sitting here, doing edits today. I'm editing a document called
"peer today, boss tomorrow" (not my title, so refrain from snickering)...
anyway, you know how Windows abbreviates everything? So, yah. When I go between documents and have to look for this document I'm editing, I keep getting thrown off.
Do you think it's because, instead of saying "peer today" or something reasonable, it's because the document name is abbreviated, "pee" ... ???
"peer today, boss tomorrow" (not my title, so refrain from snickering)...
anyway, you know how Windows abbreviates everything? So, yah. When I go between documents and have to look for this document I'm editing, I keep getting thrown off.
Do you think it's because, instead of saying "peer today" or something reasonable, it's because the document name is abbreviated, "pee" ... ???
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