Alright, alright. We all know that I'm in the flood of information that makes up my thesis research (the light is at the end of the tunnel. I'm down to 4 books left to read. I mean, I did just get two more assigned... but yah. The pile dwindles.)
I am looking through some stuff I am reading today, and I realize that I really needed to revisit the big German words Adler threw around when he was developing Individual Psychology (which is what my counseling psych work is all rooted in, theoretically, as well as the foundation of my philisophical orientation in Organization Development.)
Let's review here, shall we?
Gemeinschaftgefuhl:
Literally translated, Community Feeling. It speaks of being socially embedded, of belonging. Because we are socially embedded in our communities, we form a life style which helps us act either out of social interest (we acknowledge and embrace community feeling) or self interest (we reject and fight against community feeling).
Lesson learned here: Gemeinschaftgefuhl is good. I want to strive toward having it at all times.
Schopferische Kraft:
Creative power. This is the individual power we each have that keeps us from being determined by forces outside ourselves (oftentimes, I think I hear this referred to as external v. internal locus of control). It's also the power inside ourselves we tap when we have to endure hardship, tackle a tough change, make difficult decisions. The philosophy here is: It is not what it IS, it is what we make of it.
Lesson learned here: tap into your Schopferische Kraft (or, if you like, have an internal locus of control.) The only person who makes you happy, gives you strength, defines you, shapes your destiny, is you.
Geltungestreben:
Striving for significance -- our instinctive human desire to matter, to be important and to contribute in some way. Again, there is a spectrum here... you can either strive for significance in a useful or a useless way. We strive for useful significance when we strive for the success of oru community -- the greater good. We strive for useless significance when we chase our own prestige, priveledge and rewards with no regard to its effect on others.
Lesson learned here: We all possess Geltungestreben -- the desire for significance. But that desire is meaningless, empty and counterproductive when it looks at only what you want. Striving for significance must be useul -- humans are only truly usefully significant when making a positive contribution to the greater community.
OK, I'll jump off my soapbox now. I really just wanted to put these here as a personal reminder:
Sarah... this is the philosophy you live by. This is what you believe to be true. It doesn't make it "T" truth, but it is your truth. Don't forget it. Live each day this way.
31.10.06
27.10.06
toasts only 2 people in the world are gonna understand
Let us drink to:
- A year of being on the SBC-free wagon
- Mold-free nether regions
- Being a transformer (more than meets the eye)
- Vodka-lemonade
- Being a member of the Mervyn's Alumni Gold Club
- A satisfying, bullshit-free sex life
- Target "slutty" Friday
- Not being an oompa-loompa
- Ineloquence when trashed
- A teeny-tiny spoon duel
- Deee-lite, baby
- Growth
- Not calling Wisconsin or Nebraska home
26.10.06
KnittinKitten
So, Diana had a brainchild that I'm now on-board with: take a couple of weeknights per month, get a group of knitters together, and feverishly create mittens and other cold-weather gear for the homeless.
Brainchild born. The first official meeting of the KnittinKittens gets underway in a week or so's time. If you knit, are in the Minneapolis general vicinity... please join us!
Brainchild born. The first official meeting of the KnittinKittens gets underway in a week or so's time. If you knit, are in the Minneapolis general vicinity... please join us!
23.10.06
Defining the uncompromisables
Christy and I shared some fantastic time this weekend, over Walgreens and Patina and dinner at the Highland Grill.
I made a small purchase at Patina (I mean, come on... how can I NOT...): a lovely little quadrille notebook done up in a nifty little blue and orange and green color palette and smattered with wildflower drawings. Tres chic. But I bought the notebook for a specific purpose: I feel compelled these days to jot down the qualities I cherish in myself. Why, you say? Why, praytell, oh dear Sarah, would you need to write down the things you like about yourself?
1) Sometimes I forget. One of the things I really like about myself is that I am relationship-centric; my daughter, my family, my friends, my colleagues mean the world to me and I work incredibly hard to make sure those relationships are positive. Sometimes, that hard work means I neglect the Sarah time. I have to balance that. I have to remember to nourish the Sarah as well as nourishing the other people I care about.
2) After traveling on the living alone journey for a few months now, I have come to realize that I am very much not used to having quiet time. I'm just not sure what to do with myself when I finally get me all alone in a room. It's like an awkward first date with your inner self, and it's weird. I gotta get over that, because you know what? I'm not perfect, by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm a pretty fantastic 20something and I'd really like to start digging on the time I have with myself.
That being said, I intend to write a little bit about each of these qualities of the Essential Sarah. The notebook is for me; it's just something I need as part of this process. It's also going to be a reminder that I define me. And that there are many things in life that are adaptable and flexible, and indeed we do change a bit based on who we are with and what we are doing and so on. But I definitely have to remind myself that there are uncompromisables... qualities and traits that make Sarah, Sarah, and that don't get sacrificed. In no particular order, here's my list (special thanks to Christy for being a part of the brainstorm. I am so exquisitely delighted to have a friend who I can always lean on to be introspective, philisophical and spiritual with, even if we come at it from such different places in life):
I made a small purchase at Patina (I mean, come on... how can I NOT...): a lovely little quadrille notebook done up in a nifty little blue and orange and green color palette and smattered with wildflower drawings. Tres chic. But I bought the notebook for a specific purpose: I feel compelled these days to jot down the qualities I cherish in myself. Why, you say? Why, praytell, oh dear Sarah, would you need to write down the things you like about yourself?
1) Sometimes I forget. One of the things I really like about myself is that I am relationship-centric; my daughter, my family, my friends, my colleagues mean the world to me and I work incredibly hard to make sure those relationships are positive. Sometimes, that hard work means I neglect the Sarah time. I have to balance that. I have to remember to nourish the Sarah as well as nourishing the other people I care about.
2) After traveling on the living alone journey for a few months now, I have come to realize that I am very much not used to having quiet time. I'm just not sure what to do with myself when I finally get me all alone in a room. It's like an awkward first date with your inner self, and it's weird. I gotta get over that, because you know what? I'm not perfect, by any stretch of the imagination, but I'm a pretty fantastic 20something and I'd really like to start digging on the time I have with myself.
That being said, I intend to write a little bit about each of these qualities of the Essential Sarah. The notebook is for me; it's just something I need as part of this process. It's also going to be a reminder that I define me. And that there are many things in life that are adaptable and flexible, and indeed we do change a bit based on who we are with and what we are doing and so on. But I definitely have to remind myself that there are uncompromisables... qualities and traits that make Sarah, Sarah, and that don't get sacrificed. In no particular order, here's my list (special thanks to Christy for being a part of the brainstorm. I am so exquisitely delighted to have a friend who I can always lean on to be introspective, philisophical and spiritual with, even if we come at it from such different places in life):
- Realistic
- Candid
- Respectful
- Driven
- Loyal
- Eloquent
- Introspective
- Spontaneous
- Decisive
- Kind
- Expressive
- Adventurous
- Urban
- Intuitive
- Courageous
- Well-rounded
- Diverse
- Accepting
- Persevering
- Domestic
- Unconventional
- Multi-faceted
- Deep
- Observant
- Supportive
- Strong
- Brilliant
- Creative
- Relationship-centered
- Quirky
- Learner
- Curious
- Adaptable
- Passionate
- Artistic
- Funny
- Feminist
- Independent
- Spiritual
- Nurturing
- Subversive
- Self-aware
- Philosophical
- Headstrong
- Progressive
- Quick on my feet
- Holistic
- Involved
- Accomplished
- Collaborative
20.10.06
a poem that means something to me right now: Samurai Song
by Robert Pinsky, from Jersey Rain. © Farrar, Straus and Giroux
When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.
When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.
When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.
When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.
When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.
When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.
Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.
When I had no roof I made
Audacity my roof. When I had
No supper my eyes dined.
When I had no eyes I listened.
When I had no ears I thought.
When I had no thought I waited.
When I had no father I made
Care my father. When I had
No mother I embraced order.
When I had no friend I made
Quiet my friend. When I had no
Enemy I opposed my body.
When I had no temple I made
My voice my temple. I have
No priest, my tongue is my choir.
When I have no means fortune
Is my means. When I have
Nothing, death will be my fortune.
Need is my tactic, detachment
Is my strategy. When I had
No lover I courted my sleep.
little nuggets
When you look at yourself from a universal standpoint, something inside always reminds or informs you that there are bigger and better things to worry about.
(albert einstein)
I think that somehow, we learn who we really are and then live with that decision.
(eleanor roosevelt)
(albert einstein)
I think that somehow, we learn who we really are and then live with that decision.
(eleanor roosevelt)
19.10.06
rock and roll greens up
18.10.06
the entirely random soundtrack game
1. Open your library
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool...
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool...
(this daily distraction courtesy of my Brighid, the lovely 80GB musicalia sidekick.)
Opening Credits: Sweet Cloud by the Kills (No Wow)
I know no words to fix my killing but I’ll do anything to bring my brother alive
Great, my life is a Quentin Tarantino film. Well, at least it’ll be regarded as artsy.
Waking Up: Bus to Beelzebub by Soul Coughing (Ruby Vroom)
Get on to the bus, that will take you back to Beelzebub...It’s a grind, grind, it’s a grind, it’s a grind, grind…
The beauty part of this is that is has some hellishly circus-type music in the background, which is essentially every morning for me. So, fair enough.
First Day At School: 9th St. by the Soviettes (The Soviettes LP)
... but now I know that I am from a place I hope will never change, 9th St., please stay the same…
Well. Uh, let’s just ignore the drinking references in this song, because it’s otherwise accurate, growing up and attending school right here in this fair city.
Falling In Love: Poses by Rufus Wainwright
All these poses, these beautiful poses, makes any boy feel like picking up roses… life is a game and true love is a trophy.
See? It is my life. Fall in love because it’s like winning a game of Scrabble.
Fight Song: E-Bow The Letter by R.E.M (New Adventures in Hi-Fi)
Will you live til 83? Will you ever welcome me? Will you show me something that nobody else will see?
Uh, OK. I guess I can see it. Sorta. But I have way better fight songs in mind. But aluminum does taste like fear. And I do fear fighting.
Breaking Up: My House by Swayzak (Loops for the Bergerie)
The past is buried under years of strain
And after this, I’ll never talk about it again
I took the view that I would never find what I need
I didn’t think that I would have the courage to leave
I was so young I didn’t know my own mind
It goes on, but do we need to re-hash it? Total breakup song.
Prom: I Want to Sing That Rock and Roll by Gillian Welch (Time (the Revelator))
I want to reach that glory land, I want to shake my savior’s hand. I want to sing that rock and roll, I want electrify my soul, cause everybody been making a shout so big and loud they’ve been drowning me out… I want to sing that rock and roll
Unconventional when you think about prom. But really, let’s consider where I went to school (butt-f*ck Egypt) and the considerable lack of rock and roll I had in my formative years – and how very badly I longed to be back in a city that had rock and roll. So, we can make it work, I think.
Life is Good: I’ve Got Two Legs by Monty Python (Monty Python Sings)
I’ve got two legs from my hips to the ground, and when I move them they walk me around, and when I lift them they climb the stairs, and, when I shave ‘em they ain’t got hairs…
Apparently it’s the simple things in life for me. Like shaved legs.
Mental Breakdown: We Will Become Silhouettes by the Postal Service (Give Up)
I’ve got a cupboard with cans of food, filtered water and pictures of you, and I’m not coming out til this all over…
Awesome. I’m going to become an agoraphobe.
Driving: Stop Don’t Panic by Jamiroquoi (A Funk Odessey)
Stop. Don’t Panic. It’s just a thing I do. It’s not. So tragic. Nothing to hang on to…
Well, anyone who’s been in a care with me knows that. Insanity, and totally appropriate.
Flashback: The Christmas Song by Mel Torme (Traditional Christmas)
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…
Well, huh. I wonder what my flashback’s about.
Getting Back Together: Holdin’ On Together by Phoenix (Alphabetical)
Holdin’ on Together, I try to set the night on fire
Holdin’ on Together, I try to set the night on fire
Holdin’ on Together, I try to set the night on fire
Holdin’ on Together, I try to set the night on fire
Predictable. Make up sex.
Wedding: Vampire/Forest Fire by Arcade Fire (Arcade Fire EP)
I can’t even document the lyrics to this. It’s odd because while Arcade Fire isn’t “romantic” in the way you’d think wedding music should be romantic, I think they are sensual and beautiful and rich and complex and bittersweet yet peaceful and worthwhile, like I’ve always envisioned real, grown-up love to be. So, yah. Yah! I dig it.
Paying the Dues: A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall [Live] by Bob Dylan (No Direction Home)
…I’ve been 10,000 miles in the mouth of a graveyard, and it’s hard, and its’ a hard, and it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, and it’s a haard raaaain’s a-gonna fall.
Come on. Nothing says working man’s blues better than Dylan.
The Night Before The War: Thrills by LCD Soundsystem (LCD Soundsystem)
I still got thrills.
Appropriately enough, it has screaming and a sort-of tribal drumbeat. A little tiny part of me wants to wear a kilt and scream, “Go back to England. Tell them Scotland is Free!”
Final Battle: Fluke by Mates of State (Team Boo)
We lie in so many words
I said I’d take you down to the water’s edge and watch you drown
We lie in so many words
OK. So I am going to drown my victims. Awesome…
Moment of Triumph: Vision of Division by the Strokes (First Impressions of Earth)
All that I do, is wait for you. All that I do, is wait for you.
I can’t get along with all your friends. Don’t know how to act, that’s all there is. Why do I accept the things you say? You know what to change, but not in what way?
How long must I wait, How long must I wait, How long must I wait..
Wait. That’s not so victorious. Though the guitar riffs are sparkly and angry. So maybe it’s a bittersweet triumph or something. I mean, let’s look at the opening credits. It’s getting Tarantino-esque, after all.
Death Scene: The Christians and The Pagans by Dar Williams (Mortal City)
So the Christians and the Pagans sat together at the table
finding faith and common ground the best that they were able
How can this possibly be my death song? It’s about diverse populations getting together and loving each other because they are people. Maybe I die peacefully? Let’s hope. Bizarre.
Funeral Song: Speak to me/Breathe by Pink Floyd (Dark Side of the Moon)
Bah. Well, it’s Floyd.
End Credits: Biological by Air (Talkie Walkie)
Ethereal. And actually, perfect end credits song. Huh.
quote of the day
Rock 'n' roll can lead to some complex moral situations. Let's leave it at that.
(Tad Kubler of the Hold Steady)
(Tad Kubler of the Hold Steady)
forward (academic) progress
in case anyone's curious, I've been spending some quality time with my thesis these days. Looking forward to having it complete in November... seems so soon, with so much work yet to be done. If you are at all interested in what gets me going career/academically speaking (yes, I know nothing is more hot than a brainy girl, you don't have to tell me)... you can read all about it on the thesis blog.
Dilbert figures it out
well, duh. I've been surviving corporate america this long thanks to my good friend, the grande skim triple latte.
17.10.06
fill my cup and make me happy: a Gomez show review
A perfect Monday evening, thanks in large part to my favorite musicians: Gomez.
The Fine Line is crowded and steamy, full of beer and energy as we push past college frat boys, aging hipsters, and dreadlocked hippies to catch the last few songs in the Matt Pond PA set. I immediately remember why I always regret bringing in my purse and coat. The Fine Line books decent artists -- and on this particular night, it's Gomez, my favorite -- but Jesus God, could the place use a little traffic reengineering. I think to myself: what I wouldn't give to see Gomez on stage at First Ave. Well, you know what they say about wishes being horses.
It's not often that I show up on time to a show -- intentionally -- to watch the opener. But Matt Pond PA gets that honor, due mostly to the fact that they are so intensely connected to where I am in life. From their blog entry yesterday: We are within this experience so heavily that we don't have an extra second. This is the time of hints of sleep, grasps at cleanliness, and the inability to care about anything that doesn't immediately matter. We are directly connected with how temporary life is -- how perfectly hardcore it can be... hell yah.
Matt Pond PA wraps up and we bob and weave like some sort of shrimpy boxer duo through a packed floor at Fine Line. Packed, I say. The show was sold out -- it was totally no worries to unload my 2 extra tickets at the door (too bad you weren't in town, Sweet Dave). We plant ourselves right of center stage and wait patiently. I remember why it's a blessing and a curse to wear heels to shows: blessing - I get an extra couple inches height; curse - I am in excruciating pain by the time the show's over. Height's on my mind, and a massive giant frat boy (he was 6-8 if he was an inch tall) manages to be right in my line of sight. Thankfully, there are some tiny, shrimpy heckler girls who aren't afraid of a doughy boy giant and harrass him til he moves to the back(ish) area of the floor. Silly tall boy; let's allow the tiny girls to be front and center, shall we?
So, sound checks and roadie work complete, the lights dim and the gentlemen get on stage. They are as consummately understated as ever -- slightly unkempt, booze in hand, a little unshaven, a little unshowered, a little evidence that no one - no one - in this band ever goes to the gym. I love it. Real boys playing real music. They play an intense set -- two-ish hours in total. There's the usual songs, all chock-full of wicked guitar and drum goodness, and I realize that I fall in love a little more everytime I watch these guys play. They are so musically solid - so incredibly tight, meshed, just... ah. Bluesy and lonely and intimate and sensual. And they obviously are having a ton of fun in the meantime, and I realize that Gomez is one of the few bands I follow who has been making beautiful things for 10 or so years and just keeps getting better and better at it. The best part of the night: acoustic solo time with Tom (a heart-wrenching, poignant version of Sweet Virginia), Ian (a lovely little ditty about, ahem, failure...) and Ben (who did the most wickedly amazing acoustic version of Get Miles. He prefaced his performance with the story of how Get Miles was his audition song for the band, which later became a completely different song... but damn if it wasn't equally powerful and perhaps even more beautiful.) Wrapped up in a neat little encore, that as always, ends in Whipping Piccadilly, to which the entire, elbow-to-elbow crowd at Fine Line bounces in time. Yah.
I cannot envision a better way to enjoy a damp and cool October night than in the company of fellow music lovers, listening to a band of true musicians who gel completely each time they step on stage.
The Fine Line is crowded and steamy, full of beer and energy as we push past college frat boys, aging hipsters, and dreadlocked hippies to catch the last few songs in the Matt Pond PA set. I immediately remember why I always regret bringing in my purse and coat. The Fine Line books decent artists -- and on this particular night, it's Gomez, my favorite -- but Jesus God, could the place use a little traffic reengineering. I think to myself: what I wouldn't give to see Gomez on stage at First Ave. Well, you know what they say about wishes being horses.
It's not often that I show up on time to a show -- intentionally -- to watch the opener. But Matt Pond PA gets that honor, due mostly to the fact that they are so intensely connected to where I am in life. From their blog entry yesterday: We are within this experience so heavily that we don't have an extra second. This is the time of hints of sleep, grasps at cleanliness, and the inability to care about anything that doesn't immediately matter. We are directly connected with how temporary life is -- how perfectly hardcore it can be... hell yah.
Matt Pond PA wraps up and we bob and weave like some sort of shrimpy boxer duo through a packed floor at Fine Line. Packed, I say. The show was sold out -- it was totally no worries to unload my 2 extra tickets at the door (too bad you weren't in town, Sweet Dave). We plant ourselves right of center stage and wait patiently. I remember why it's a blessing and a curse to wear heels to shows: blessing - I get an extra couple inches height; curse - I am in excruciating pain by the time the show's over. Height's on my mind, and a massive giant frat boy (he was 6-8 if he was an inch tall) manages to be right in my line of sight. Thankfully, there are some tiny, shrimpy heckler girls who aren't afraid of a doughy boy giant and harrass him til he moves to the back(ish) area of the floor. Silly tall boy; let's allow the tiny girls to be front and center, shall we?
So, sound checks and roadie work complete, the lights dim and the gentlemen get on stage. They are as consummately understated as ever -- slightly unkempt, booze in hand, a little unshaven, a little unshowered, a little evidence that no one - no one - in this band ever goes to the gym. I love it. Real boys playing real music. They play an intense set -- two-ish hours in total. There's the usual songs, all chock-full of wicked guitar and drum goodness, and I realize that I fall in love a little more everytime I watch these guys play. They are so musically solid - so incredibly tight, meshed, just... ah. Bluesy and lonely and intimate and sensual. And they obviously are having a ton of fun in the meantime, and I realize that Gomez is one of the few bands I follow who has been making beautiful things for 10 or so years and just keeps getting better and better at it. The best part of the night: acoustic solo time with Tom (a heart-wrenching, poignant version of Sweet Virginia), Ian (a lovely little ditty about, ahem, failure...) and Ben (who did the most wickedly amazing acoustic version of Get Miles. He prefaced his performance with the story of how Get Miles was his audition song for the band, which later became a completely different song... but damn if it wasn't equally powerful and perhaps even more beautiful.) Wrapped up in a neat little encore, that as always, ends in Whipping Piccadilly, to which the entire, elbow-to-elbow crowd at Fine Line bounces in time. Yah.
I cannot envision a better way to enjoy a damp and cool October night than in the company of fellow music lovers, listening to a band of true musicians who gel completely each time they step on stage.
16.10.06
I remember when I used to listen deeply to my music
I remember when I used to listen deeply to my music. Back when I had the time to do anything I cared about deeply, which was very near the Christmas before I turned 15. My parents, long ago divorced but still immature in every sense of the word, set me up with a wicked sound system any freshman would have envied in the early 90s. For one thing, I had a CD player. A CD player! My mom and stepdad apparently got this great 2 for 1 deal at Sam’s Club, and I was the lucky recipient of the “2”. The receipt of the CD player (which I personally believe to be the first CD player in the greater Grant County area) created two problems: 1) it was JUST a CD player. No speakers, no way to hook it up to my miserable excuse for a boom box and 2) my mom and stepdad had just showed up my dad and stepmom on Christmas. That meant war.
Luckily for my ridiculously competitive sets of parents, my birthday is in mid-January. This allows for an annual celebration of one-upmanship conveniently commemorated on or near the anniversary of my birth. In my adult mind, this seems a little elementary. However, on the cusp of 15, playing mom against dad to score more loot didn’t seem like a half-bad idea. And so, knowing the woe of not having what I needed to use such a thoughtful (and obviously expensive!) gift, my dad passed down his receiver, speakers, and best of all, expensive Sony headphones. The headphones radiated luxury – soft black spongy pads that covered each ear, wrapped in velvety leather that completely enveloped my ears. I remember Dad showing me how to store the headphones: don’t wrap the cord; you don’t want to kink the wires. Make sure you unplug the phones from the jack when you are done; you don’t want to trip over the phones and strip it out of the connection. Put the headphones out of reach; I don’t want to see your little sister using them, they are for your use only.
With my new setup, I was inspired to start a music collection. The idea of a music collection reached critical mass when I realize that while I had the best stereo in the 9th grade, but no one had thought to buy me a single CD to spin on it. In a town of 1100, I couldn’t just head down to the corner record store for a good alternative rock recommendation. 40 minutes away, even the closest discount store didn’t really carry CDs yet – after all, it was still a luxury to have a tape deck in your car. And, let’s get real – I was 15 years old, just starting in driver’s ed, and there wasn’t much hope for me getting to a real city anytime soon under my own powers.
Then, while reading Peanuts one Sunday morning, the answer fluttered out of the Star Tribune advertisements like a direct-mail answer to prayer. BMG music service: 12 CDs for the price of 1, nothing more to buy, ever. Ideal.
Fast-forward through the angst of my selections and the secrecy of getting my initial club membership past my stepmother (the mail nazi) and allowing for an appropriate amount of mailing time. I came home from school one February afternoon to find a large corrugated cardboard package in my name sitting on the dining room table. After facing a litany of scrutinizing inquisitions from the stepmother who so obviously spent a past life as a chaste, angry, repressive elementary-school-teaching Sister, I assumed possession of my very first compact discs.
Prying open that first unmarked package was utter magic. It had been snowing that morning, and I could tell where snowflakes had landed on my box. Little bits of moisture still pock-marked my precious cargo’s packaging, awakening the woody scent of a package left outside to absorb the chilly winter air. Like a puppy with a new rawhide, I dashed to my most secret place, my private indoor treehouse – the 2nd floor of our home, of which I was the sole occupant.
Ignoring the invoice (for that day, at least), I was careful to pull each CD out of the package and smooth the cellophane enveloping them. I studied the artwork, the photography, the tracklists on each disc. It seemed almost sacrilege to open them; though I would never enjoy the sound of my new stereo without a disc in the player, the smooth perfection of an unblemished CD was nearly too much delight for a marooned city girl to bear.
My first selection could not have been anything else but U2’s Achtung Baby. Having committed the entire cassette to memory while push-mowing our triple lot that was now buried outside under the snowbanks, I wanted nothing more than to compare the sound of the cassette emblazoned in my heart, mind and soul to the promise of a vastly improved musical experience on the “new system”.
I flipped on my receiver; the stainless steel front plate lit up and the needles monitoring the treble, bass, and volume jumped to life. Pressed the power button on the black, sleek brush finish of the CD player. A digital readout blinked “NO CD”. Pressed open/close. The tray of the player slowly slid out to greet me: CLIKSSHHHT. I look down at Achtung Baby. Same artwork as the cassette, but somehow clearer, more powerful: just plain cooler. I slid my flimsy fingernail down the spine of the case, splitting the cellophane in two. Round like an apple, I peeled my CD, revealing an unblemished jewelcase as smooth and reflective as a lake before the loons take their morning swim. It took me a moment to discern how to open the case; once mastered, it took a few more moments to understand how to extract the disc from its circular resting place. After several attempts at prying the edges loose, I inadvertently stuck my thumb in the middle of the hole in the case, turned the case upside down, and watched the CD slide down my finger like an absurd crackerjack prize.
Eureka! I took just a breath or two to admire the screen-printing on the face of the CD; similar to the jacket artwork but stunningly enough, printed on the ACTUAL DISC. On the flipside, a silver rainbow contained my 12 favorite songs in an entirely different medium. I nestled my first CD in its tray and gently pressed it in: SSHHHTCLIK. One blink on the CD player: 12 songs, 52:48. How. Cool. I won’t even have to flip from side A to B.
One final decision: speakers or headphones? I consider the speakers facing me: large, paneled in wood-grain, they would certainly make a joyful floor-shaking noise, but this was during business hours, which meant that loud music would almost certainly meant interrupting one of my stepmom’s TV shows. That settled it: headphones. I reached to my keepsake shelf and pulled the buttery black leather to my ears. Plugging them into the receiver, I curled up in the nap of my bedroom’s mossy carpet. Pressed PLAY. Closed my eyes. Waited for the chasm of silence to end as the player read my disc.
Then, suddenly, in the twilight of my unlit bedroom, rough-hewn guitar washed over my eardrums and through my brain. The downbeat traveled down each nerve and into the tip of each ending. My pulse became the pulse of the trap set and my lungs expanded and emptied in time with the bass guitar. Suddenly I couldn’t imagine why any of my friends might want to attend a keg party when I could get drunk on the rock and roll tumbling around in my soul.
Luckily for my ridiculously competitive sets of parents, my birthday is in mid-January. This allows for an annual celebration of one-upmanship conveniently commemorated on or near the anniversary of my birth. In my adult mind, this seems a little elementary. However, on the cusp of 15, playing mom against dad to score more loot didn’t seem like a half-bad idea. And so, knowing the woe of not having what I needed to use such a thoughtful (and obviously expensive!) gift, my dad passed down his receiver, speakers, and best of all, expensive Sony headphones. The headphones radiated luxury – soft black spongy pads that covered each ear, wrapped in velvety leather that completely enveloped my ears. I remember Dad showing me how to store the headphones: don’t wrap the cord; you don’t want to kink the wires. Make sure you unplug the phones from the jack when you are done; you don’t want to trip over the phones and strip it out of the connection. Put the headphones out of reach; I don’t want to see your little sister using them, they are for your use only.
With my new setup, I was inspired to start a music collection. The idea of a music collection reached critical mass when I realize that while I had the best stereo in the 9th grade, but no one had thought to buy me a single CD to spin on it. In a town of 1100, I couldn’t just head down to the corner record store for a good alternative rock recommendation. 40 minutes away, even the closest discount store didn’t really carry CDs yet – after all, it was still a luxury to have a tape deck in your car. And, let’s get real – I was 15 years old, just starting in driver’s ed, and there wasn’t much hope for me getting to a real city anytime soon under my own powers.
Then, while reading Peanuts one Sunday morning, the answer fluttered out of the Star Tribune advertisements like a direct-mail answer to prayer. BMG music service: 12 CDs for the price of 1, nothing more to buy, ever. Ideal.
Fast-forward through the angst of my selections and the secrecy of getting my initial club membership past my stepmother (the mail nazi) and allowing for an appropriate amount of mailing time. I came home from school one February afternoon to find a large corrugated cardboard package in my name sitting on the dining room table. After facing a litany of scrutinizing inquisitions from the stepmother who so obviously spent a past life as a chaste, angry, repressive elementary-school-teaching Sister, I assumed possession of my very first compact discs.
Prying open that first unmarked package was utter magic. It had been snowing that morning, and I could tell where snowflakes had landed on my box. Little bits of moisture still pock-marked my precious cargo’s packaging, awakening the woody scent of a package left outside to absorb the chilly winter air. Like a puppy with a new rawhide, I dashed to my most secret place, my private indoor treehouse – the 2nd floor of our home, of which I was the sole occupant.
Ignoring the invoice (for that day, at least), I was careful to pull each CD out of the package and smooth the cellophane enveloping them. I studied the artwork, the photography, the tracklists on each disc. It seemed almost sacrilege to open them; though I would never enjoy the sound of my new stereo without a disc in the player, the smooth perfection of an unblemished CD was nearly too much delight for a marooned city girl to bear.
My first selection could not have been anything else but U2’s Achtung Baby. Having committed the entire cassette to memory while push-mowing our triple lot that was now buried outside under the snowbanks, I wanted nothing more than to compare the sound of the cassette emblazoned in my heart, mind and soul to the promise of a vastly improved musical experience on the “new system”.
I flipped on my receiver; the stainless steel front plate lit up and the needles monitoring the treble, bass, and volume jumped to life. Pressed the power button on the black, sleek brush finish of the CD player. A digital readout blinked “NO CD”. Pressed open/close. The tray of the player slowly slid out to greet me: CLIKSSHHHT. I look down at Achtung Baby. Same artwork as the cassette, but somehow clearer, more powerful: just plain cooler. I slid my flimsy fingernail down the spine of the case, splitting the cellophane in two. Round like an apple, I peeled my CD, revealing an unblemished jewelcase as smooth and reflective as a lake before the loons take their morning swim. It took me a moment to discern how to open the case; once mastered, it took a few more moments to understand how to extract the disc from its circular resting place. After several attempts at prying the edges loose, I inadvertently stuck my thumb in the middle of the hole in the case, turned the case upside down, and watched the CD slide down my finger like an absurd crackerjack prize.
Eureka! I took just a breath or two to admire the screen-printing on the face of the CD; similar to the jacket artwork but stunningly enough, printed on the ACTUAL DISC. On the flipside, a silver rainbow contained my 12 favorite songs in an entirely different medium. I nestled my first CD in its tray and gently pressed it in: SSHHHTCLIK. One blink on the CD player: 12 songs, 52:48. How. Cool. I won’t even have to flip from side A to B.
One final decision: speakers or headphones? I consider the speakers facing me: large, paneled in wood-grain, they would certainly make a joyful floor-shaking noise, but this was during business hours, which meant that loud music would almost certainly meant interrupting one of my stepmom’s TV shows. That settled it: headphones. I reached to my keepsake shelf and pulled the buttery black leather to my ears. Plugging them into the receiver, I curled up in the nap of my bedroom’s mossy carpet. Pressed PLAY. Closed my eyes. Waited for the chasm of silence to end as the player read my disc.
Then, suddenly, in the twilight of my unlit bedroom, rough-hewn guitar washed over my eardrums and through my brain. The downbeat traveled down each nerve and into the tip of each ending. My pulse became the pulse of the trap set and my lungs expanded and emptied in time with the bass guitar. Suddenly I couldn’t imagine why any of my friends might want to attend a keg party when I could get drunk on the rock and roll tumbling around in my soul.
12.10.06
i see good things in my life
TV on the Radio
Music is like a rash. All you need, really, is a tiny start... just something that itches enough to make you notice it. So you scratch. And it spreads. And pretty soon, you itch all over. And you're compelled to give in to the music rash, because it just feels so bloody good.
And so it was with TV on the Radio. I like both the discs these fellows have put out -- their music is lovely and rich and brilliant, like a piece of chocolate ganache that is hearty. But the show... the show. It's always about the show.
My review of this has been rattling around in my head for nearly a week now, and I can't quite spit it out. Here's why: as a kid, I had a poster that said, Music speaks of that which cannot be put into words, and that which also cannot remain silent. And that says it. That's what happened at TV on the Radio. Their music is rich, and passionate, and says so much, but not in lyrics. I have never felt more like music actually entered my body and intermingled with each of my senses than I did at this show. It was an amazing fusion of music and passion and an awareness of physical being. Extraordinarily cool.
The Last King of Scotland
Saw it last night. Since it was based on a true story, it's not as if the plot was anything mind-shattering (though, to think about the Ugandan culture, all it had been through, and what happened in the 70s... its like a bad teenage rebellion gone hellishly wrong)... anyway, it was a solid movie. What most impressed me was the cinemetography. I had talked a bit this weekend with friends about perspective in photography -- I have always wanted to do a "glasses" series of photos, in which the object in the photo is half-obscured like it would be if I were to look out sideways when wearing glasses. This movie was a great example of perspective in cinematography. Nicholas, the main character, is spending his first moments away from Scotland in Uganda. And scenes transition in this film using such lovely perspective: a mosquito on flesh. Insects in the night sky. Those small, unnoticable things that, when you are away from home, are burned into the archives of your memory. I had the same experience in Ireland this summer... and I think some of my photography reflects that: the thistles, the ruins, the abandoned fence and the empty pint glass. Well done, and it spoke to something I find artful. So yah. Time well spent.
Harry's Carribean
Ate roti for the first time last night. Yum. I mean. YUM. I had a pork curry roti. Allow me to decribe: imagine warm flatbread, softer and more moist than pita, but about the same concept. Now, fill that flatbread with a mixture of tender pork, almost mushy potatoes, spices, veggies, and curry that's obviously curry, but not like an asian curry... spicy and warm and complex and like no other curry you'll eat. Then, wrap it all up, get your fork and knife, and consume.
It was cold as, well, Minnesota in October, last night... and this steaming, gently spicy culinary masterpiece was total comfort food. I am not sure how it was birthed in Trinidad and Tobago... but whatever. I have a new favorite place for winter comfort food.
Love Graffiti
Diana and I have been spotting (or maybe just noticing, now that our eyes are open to it) a bunch of graffiti around town, all centered around love. It is adorable.. all these little anti-establishment love notes on cement. There needs to be more public displays of art, of happiness, of good uses for a can of spraypaint. A recent, very cool, example, as found by Diana herself:
Surly
Tried Surly (local brewery) for the first time over the weekend. A couple things of note: 1) I am fast becoming a beer snob (much like I am already a coffee snob). But that's OK. I'm beginning to recognize the ingredients in beer -- when brews have too much hops, when ales finish at the perfect moment of smoothness, that while I don't overall enjoy stout, I can find one every now and again that hits the spot. (in fact, there was a coffee beer that I thought was brilliant. But again -- love the coffee.) Anyway, I am yet again delighted to live in an urban area with a thriving local community of something else I'm into -- beer. (damnit, Ireland. I didn't love beer so much before I spent 10 days swilling it as my life's blood.) Yay beer!
Sparkling Apple Cider and Cheddar
OK, I don't really have a link for this. But I do feel compelled to mention that I found the combination of drinking sparkling cider (from the bottle) and aged cheddar (from the block) while doing the fall-leaf drive, pretty damn cool.
Music is like a rash. All you need, really, is a tiny start... just something that itches enough to make you notice it. So you scratch. And it spreads. And pretty soon, you itch all over. And you're compelled to give in to the music rash, because it just feels so bloody good.
And so it was with TV on the Radio. I like both the discs these fellows have put out -- their music is lovely and rich and brilliant, like a piece of chocolate ganache that is hearty. But the show... the show. It's always about the show.
My review of this has been rattling around in my head for nearly a week now, and I can't quite spit it out. Here's why: as a kid, I had a poster that said, Music speaks of that which cannot be put into words, and that which also cannot remain silent. And that says it. That's what happened at TV on the Radio. Their music is rich, and passionate, and says so much, but not in lyrics. I have never felt more like music actually entered my body and intermingled with each of my senses than I did at this show. It was an amazing fusion of music and passion and an awareness of physical being. Extraordinarily cool.
The Last King of Scotland
Saw it last night. Since it was based on a true story, it's not as if the plot was anything mind-shattering (though, to think about the Ugandan culture, all it had been through, and what happened in the 70s... its like a bad teenage rebellion gone hellishly wrong)... anyway, it was a solid movie. What most impressed me was the cinemetography. I had talked a bit this weekend with friends about perspective in photography -- I have always wanted to do a "glasses" series of photos, in which the object in the photo is half-obscured like it would be if I were to look out sideways when wearing glasses. This movie was a great example of perspective in cinematography. Nicholas, the main character, is spending his first moments away from Scotland in Uganda. And scenes transition in this film using such lovely perspective: a mosquito on flesh. Insects in the night sky. Those small, unnoticable things that, when you are away from home, are burned into the archives of your memory. I had the same experience in Ireland this summer... and I think some of my photography reflects that: the thistles, the ruins, the abandoned fence and the empty pint glass. Well done, and it spoke to something I find artful. So yah. Time well spent.
Harry's Carribean
Ate roti for the first time last night. Yum. I mean. YUM. I had a pork curry roti. Allow me to decribe: imagine warm flatbread, softer and more moist than pita, but about the same concept. Now, fill that flatbread with a mixture of tender pork, almost mushy potatoes, spices, veggies, and curry that's obviously curry, but not like an asian curry... spicy and warm and complex and like no other curry you'll eat. Then, wrap it all up, get your fork and knife, and consume.
It was cold as, well, Minnesota in October, last night... and this steaming, gently spicy culinary masterpiece was total comfort food. I am not sure how it was birthed in Trinidad and Tobago... but whatever. I have a new favorite place for winter comfort food.
Love Graffiti
Diana and I have been spotting (or maybe just noticing, now that our eyes are open to it) a bunch of graffiti around town, all centered around love. It is adorable.. all these little anti-establishment love notes on cement. There needs to be more public displays of art, of happiness, of good uses for a can of spraypaint. A recent, very cool, example, as found by Diana herself:
Surly
Tried Surly (local brewery) for the first time over the weekend. A couple things of note: 1) I am fast becoming a beer snob (much like I am already a coffee snob). But that's OK. I'm beginning to recognize the ingredients in beer -- when brews have too much hops, when ales finish at the perfect moment of smoothness, that while I don't overall enjoy stout, I can find one every now and again that hits the spot. (in fact, there was a coffee beer that I thought was brilliant. But again -- love the coffee.) Anyway, I am yet again delighted to live in an urban area with a thriving local community of something else I'm into -- beer. (damnit, Ireland. I didn't love beer so much before I spent 10 days swilling it as my life's blood.) Yay beer!
Sparkling Apple Cider and Cheddar
OK, I don't really have a link for this. But I do feel compelled to mention that I found the combination of drinking sparkling cider (from the bottle) and aged cheddar (from the block) while doing the fall-leaf drive, pretty damn cool.
United, Villa, Southhampton... are the Hammers next?
BBC reports an Icelandic interest in bidding on West Ham.
(oh yah, there's some Iranian interest as well...)
Well, I mean... it isn't Malcom Glazer, but huh. Obviously, there's big money to be made in professional sports... not only here in the states, but abroad. Probably moreso in football than in most other professional sporting arenas... the whole damn world watches it.
I'm torn, though. Because I get it: it's a business. But like Glazer's United purchase, I just wonder how (if at all) the foreign influence bastardizes a club with a rich history. Eh, maybe the Icelanders aren't so bad. Or are they? I mean, EPL is watched internationally, to be sure. Is it a good thing or a bad thing that international stakeholders are running these clubs?
I don't know... my jury's still out.
(oh yah, there's some Iranian interest as well...)
Well, I mean... it isn't Malcom Glazer, but huh. Obviously, there's big money to be made in professional sports... not only here in the states, but abroad. Probably moreso in football than in most other professional sporting arenas... the whole damn world watches it.
I'm torn, though. Because I get it: it's a business. But like Glazer's United purchase, I just wonder how (if at all) the foreign influence bastardizes a club with a rich history. Eh, maybe the Icelanders aren't so bad. Or are they? I mean, EPL is watched internationally, to be sure. Is it a good thing or a bad thing that international stakeholders are running these clubs?
I don't know... my jury's still out.
11.10.06
your basic midweek rant
I'm going to preface myself here: I am so very happy right now. I really, truly am. There is a good deal in my life to be thankful for (as aforementioned).
But a couple of things are rattling around in my brain this afternoon, and I want to get them out. Then, I promise I'll return you to your regularly scheduled happy Sarah.
1) I do not like being verbally abused over the phone. Especially at work. Especially when the abuser in question insults my intelligence. I am smart and capable and do good work. I don't like being told I am too stupid to do my own job. Because I'm not. Stop saying these things. They make me angry and hurt my feelings and generally suck my will to live.
2) I just can't deal with the conflict-avoidant. I don't want to fight. Really. REALLY. But for heaven's sake. If something is amiss, just say something. And do it right away, so it doesn't fester. (caveat: I have done the ignore it, it'll go away thing... it ends in ugly. so I don't do it anymore. I just don't like it when it's not my place to say something's rotten in the state of Denmark, but the person who ought to say something doesnt. Grr.)
3) Sometimes I open my mouth, and stupid stuff comes out. I hate that. I have to figure out how to not process all my thoughts out loud.
4) It is too early in the fall/winter season to be so bloody cold. I am a bit distressed.
5) I had to give myself a reality check this morning. Everything is always changing. I had a moment of, why can't it all just be the way I think it should be?, mid-morning. But that's silly, really. Change is what makes the world interesting; I like change, I want change and growth and different things. I do this constant tug-of-war with change; it's not quite love-hate, but more this equilibrium where one end is resisting change (human nature, we all do it)... and the other end is being the catalyst for change, and somewhere in the middle, where I needed to get back to, is a place of just being at peace with change, that place of faith that all is as it was meant to be.
Ah. That feels better. The balance returns. You may now resume your normally scheduled happy.
But a couple of things are rattling around in my brain this afternoon, and I want to get them out. Then, I promise I'll return you to your regularly scheduled happy Sarah.
1) I do not like being verbally abused over the phone. Especially at work. Especially when the abuser in question insults my intelligence. I am smart and capable and do good work. I don't like being told I am too stupid to do my own job. Because I'm not. Stop saying these things. They make me angry and hurt my feelings and generally suck my will to live.
2) I just can't deal with the conflict-avoidant. I don't want to fight. Really. REALLY. But for heaven's sake. If something is amiss, just say something. And do it right away, so it doesn't fester. (caveat: I have done the ignore it, it'll go away thing... it ends in ugly. so I don't do it anymore. I just don't like it when it's not my place to say something's rotten in the state of Denmark, but the person who ought to say something doesnt. Grr.)
3) Sometimes I open my mouth, and stupid stuff comes out. I hate that. I have to figure out how to not process all my thoughts out loud.
4) It is too early in the fall/winter season to be so bloody cold. I am a bit distressed.
5) I had to give myself a reality check this morning. Everything is always changing. I had a moment of, why can't it all just be the way I think it should be?, mid-morning. But that's silly, really. Change is what makes the world interesting; I like change, I want change and growth and different things. I do this constant tug-of-war with change; it's not quite love-hate, but more this equilibrium where one end is resisting change (human nature, we all do it)... and the other end is being the catalyst for change, and somewhere in the middle, where I needed to get back to, is a place of just being at peace with change, that place of faith that all is as it was meant to be.
Ah. That feels better. The balance returns. You may now resume your normally scheduled happy.
10.10.06
hibernation
More acutely than any other time in my life, this October has been a lesson in preparing to hibernate.
As we all know, I am a native Minnesotan. I know how the seasons work here... we all find excuses to leave work or school early on fridays between May 15th and September 15th. We spend as much time outside as possible, soaking up every ray of sun and every glorious moment of outdoor recreation this beautiful city offers (and dude. There's so much to do, I can never get it all in in one summer anyway.) And then, we collectively get in our cars for 3-4 weeks between September and October and scatter all over the state to look at leaves, pick apples, run through a corn maze, buy pumpkins... you know.
And then we get to hunkering down. You notice the days getting significantly shorter. You start yawning and reaching for the sweatshirt and lounge pants as 8:15. For me, I start paying more attention to my Netflix queue and less attention to my running shoes. I start eating way more potatoes and forget that there's still goodness from the farmer's market.
And I slow down. I stop feeling so frenzied and that summer sense of urgency wanes just like the temperatures moderate.
Today it became official. I wore my long scarf and coat in today. I'll wear it through, off and on, now. It takes me through the last remains of fall, through the gray rest of November, through the candlelit soirees of December. It will usher in my 28th birthday in January and will wrap me in comfort as I face the long brevity of February. It will walk with me as I crunch through March's old snow and bravely take out those running shoes again.
It's meant to rain and snow tonight, and that's OK. I cannot stop the seasons; I cannot stop the change, and I wouldn't really want to anyway. But I get all kinds of quiet when I think about it. It's time for one little part of me -- the part that's a sunbathing goddess, a queen of the garden, the barefooted, lake-dwelling, bike-riding, porch-swinging girl -- to hibernate.
Good night, summer Sarah.
As we all know, I am a native Minnesotan. I know how the seasons work here... we all find excuses to leave work or school early on fridays between May 15th and September 15th. We spend as much time outside as possible, soaking up every ray of sun and every glorious moment of outdoor recreation this beautiful city offers (and dude. There's so much to do, I can never get it all in in one summer anyway.) And then, we collectively get in our cars for 3-4 weeks between September and October and scatter all over the state to look at leaves, pick apples, run through a corn maze, buy pumpkins... you know.
And then we get to hunkering down. You notice the days getting significantly shorter. You start yawning and reaching for the sweatshirt and lounge pants as 8:15. For me, I start paying more attention to my Netflix queue and less attention to my running shoes. I start eating way more potatoes and forget that there's still goodness from the farmer's market.
And I slow down. I stop feeling so frenzied and that summer sense of urgency wanes just like the temperatures moderate.
Today it became official. I wore my long scarf and coat in today. I'll wear it through, off and on, now. It takes me through the last remains of fall, through the gray rest of November, through the candlelit soirees of December. It will usher in my 28th birthday in January and will wrap me in comfort as I face the long brevity of February. It will walk with me as I crunch through March's old snow and bravely take out those running shoes again.
It's meant to rain and snow tonight, and that's OK. I cannot stop the seasons; I cannot stop the change, and I wouldn't really want to anyway. But I get all kinds of quiet when I think about it. It's time for one little part of me -- the part that's a sunbathing goddess, a queen of the garden, the barefooted, lake-dwelling, bike-riding, porch-swinging girl -- to hibernate.
Good night, summer Sarah.
time keeps slipping slipping slipping, into the future...
As I begin to reflect on my own daughter's transformation from infant to toddler, and now watch her as she takes those first few bold steps into childhood (at 3 and change, she's far more kid than she is baby), Gary Kamiya's article in Salon today was a homerun.
My favorite line:
You go to bed and your kids are fungal life forms; you wake up and they're reading Faulkner.
Well, yah, folks. That about sums it up for me.
My favorite line:
You go to bed and your kids are fungal life forms; you wake up and they're reading Faulkner.
Well, yah, folks. That about sums it up for me.
9.10.06
a million ways...
...or, at least 100 things about me (per Diana's challenge.)
1. I believe the color orange is not only the most beautiful color on the planet, but also the color that most closely represents my personality.
2. I started drinking coffee with my dad when I was about 14; he’d make a pot of truck-stop coffee Saturday mornings in the fall before he went out duck-hunting. I started drinking it with him, and never really stopped.
3. I want to watch 100 movies this winter (I have some catching up to do.)
4. I’m really afraid I’ll end up all alone.
5. Thinking about going to the post office gives me a bit of an upset stomach.
6. My eyes turn more green when I’m really mad, or really passionate. They are most green when I’m acting on-stage.
7. I’m dying to join a church choir.
8. My grandma Sharon is my biggest hero. She raised 3 boys, found love again after her first husband died tragically, leaving her alone with a 4-month-old son. She gave everything she had to raise 3 strong, funny, kind, wonderful men. She worries too much, just like Dad, and just like me. She loves books and the peace of the lake. And she’s so, so smart in ways I can never hope to be.
9. I am a paper and pen snob. I only like to write on quadrille paper, and prefer pens in this order: a) ultra-fine point sharpie, in any color b) fountain pen with blue ink c)flair pen in green or blue.
10. I lose, and find, and lose myself again, in almost all forms of music.
11. I think my ability to see relationships within a greater system of relationships, and having the intuition to sense how the entire system is balanced (the fantastically verbose Germans call this Gemeinschaftsgefuhl, or community feeling), is the best thing I bring to my relationships.
12. I am utterly reliant on my cell phone and iPod. I have no idea what I’d do without gadgets.
13. My hips are not perfect, in a Western-fashion sort of way. But I think they are lovely anyway.
14. I was always super-jealous of how beautiful my Aunt Eileen (Muffi) is. I so very badly wanted to be her most of my formative years.
15. Balance is probably the single biggest driving goal (and challenge) in my life.
16. I cannot eat lemon drops.
17. I love wearing dresses and skirts.
18. Most days, I feel like I am one of the few people in the world who wake up, Monday-Friday, and have at least some sort of happiness about going to work. I mean, sometimes work does suck… but I love the work I do.
19. I have one rule in life: create something beautiful every day.
20. When I was little, I wanted to be the first female artist-astronaut. I was going to paint fantastic modern art in space and then sell these masterpieces back on earth for exorbitant wads of cash.
21. I love it when I get my hair done, and the stylist washes my hair. It’s one of the most relaxing things on the planet.
22. One of my most treasured possessions is the cookbook my mom compiled for me with all the family recipes in it, back in 1999. I would run back into a burning house to save it.
23. I don’t drink enough water, but I surely try.
24. I am notoriously bad at remembering to take pills, but I can memorize phone numbers in about 6 seconds.
25. I desperately want people to like me.
26. Pickles are my favorite food. I have been known to take down a half-jar of Clausens for dinner at regular intervals.
27. I would go to school forever if I didn’t have to pay for it.
28. When I was a 6th grader, I got a snail from school. I kept it in my closet in a mayonnaise jar, til it died and started stinking. I didn’t want my mom to know I had killed a snail, so I just threw the jar, stinky snail and all, out my 2nd-story window. My step dad was so confused as to how a mayonnaise jar got in the gutters that fall. I never told them.
29. I fell in love with rock and roll when I was 10 years old. I heard the bass guitar line to With or Without You. Rock and roll is my longest-running love affair.
30. Dishonesty, selfishness, and manipulation are very likely the only 3 things that would make me turn my back on someone I loved.
31. A little part of me still wants to be Cinderella.
32. I think graffiti is one of the most beautiful art forms on the planet. I love the subversive, the urban, and the art all rolled into one.
33. I do not believe in carpet. I simply find it unnecessary.
34. I used to think I didn’t want kids. Then, I thought I wasn’t ever going to be able to have kids. Now, I think I want several of them… someday, when I grow up.
35. I am all over a good, respectful debate, but would rather not fight. Ever.
36. Every moment I spend with myself, I find me being more and more proud of being a native Minneapolitan.
37. I’ve lost over 70 pounds and most times, I still only see the fat.
38. If I did it all over again, I’d apply to Julliard.
39. I am convinced that there are no coincidences.
40. Every morning, I wake up with a song in my head. It’s almost never the same song twice.
41. Many of the things I’m really good at – baking, sewing, crafting, writing – I started out totally sucking at.
42. I never thought being a mom would be so cool. I thought it would be this hard. But not so rewarding. I totally underestimated the good in it.
43. Sometimes I look at my family, and my friends, and the people around me, and I feel completely undeserving of how fabulously great I have it.
44. I am organized, but only in fits and starts. I get spurts of organization, a few times per year, and then I generally erode away the organizational system until I cannot stand the chaos any longer and reorganize.
45. I can totally tie a cherry stem in a knot with just my tongue.
46. I get along better with men than women.
47. I’d never wash a dish again, if I had the option.
48. But I like the repetition of folding laundry.
49. I give older people way less credit than I should. They have a ton of wisdom, especially about people and relationships, and are much stronger than I think they are.
50. Part of me still wants to get my nose pierced and come to work with blue hair.
51. My deepest longing is for my mom and dad to be friends.
52. I worry way too much.
53. This summer, I learned how to be friends with myself. I’m still perfecting how to be alone. But it’s coming along nicely.
54. I have a hard time with regret. Because generally, I do not regret. And I have a hard time understanding people who wallow in the whatifs of life.
55. I adore driving fast.
56. Good writing turns me on.
57. Good songwriting, strong drums and hard guitar is just about the most sensual thing I can think of.
58. My upstairs neighbor is a real big jerk.
59. I hate it when women over-perfume to go out. It’s a) really rude; not everyone likes your perfume, and b) it gives the rest of us a bad name. Not all women are obsessed with smelling like the inside of a Bloomingdale’s cosmetics garbage can.
60. I get tired at about 2:30 every day. It’s the worst time of the day to have a meeting.
61. One of my new year’s resolutions in 2007 will be to learn how to relax.
62. I’m a tiny bit frightened of what I’ll do once I graduate from my master’s program.
63. A couple of years ago, I wrote up my guiding competencies, which are the principles I try to live by. I look at them every single day and I measure myself against them as often as I can.
64. The worst insult anyone can throw at me is to insult my intelligence.
65. I miss my garden.
66. I wonder about old friends sometimes. And then I wonder if they wonder about me.
67. I get sad every January, right after my birthday, until the crocuses peek out sometime in March.
68. I loved shopping for school supplies every fall as a kid.
69. I always wanted a brother.
70. I love vintage things – clothes, furniture, housing, art, music… it’s all good.
71. I’m an indie-yuppie. And I’m not ashamed.
72. As soon as I can, I’m getting another dog.
73. I consider myself an early blog-adopter. But this blog still doesn’t have a theme. Or much readership.
74. My grandpa had a zit on his face when he died. I think I inherited his skin.
75. I think diamond rings are gross. I would never, ever want to own one.
76. More often than not, when I think about my life, I feel like a 19-year-old trapped in my body, going, “What? Wait. When the hell did this all happen? Where was I?”
77. I’m not sure hell isn’t empty.
78. No one gets to steal my energy anymore.
79. Bedtime with Paige is my favorite time of the day.
80. I miss going to a church home, and I am looking forward to finding one again.
81. I do not think I will ever move outside a major city. Ever.
82. Once, I scared off the cops because I had underwear in my jacket pocket.
83. I love to write poetry under the big trees in an old cemetery.
84. I think rivers are one of nature’s most powerful metaphors.
85. I still believe in Santa Claus.
86. I think love is the answer to most problems.
87. If love doesn’t cure it, then I’m pretty sure bacon or brownies will.
88. I used to think I did best under pressure. But I’m sorta getting tired of that life already.
89. I love admiring the diversity in people.
90. I am procrastinating on finishing my thesis.
91. I have no idea what I will do when I lose my grandparents.
92. I used to have nightmares of the Incredible Hulk when I was little. I still won’t watch that movie.
93. I’ve had a tiny-little crush on a kid from high school for at least the last 10 years.
94. I don’t find anything redeeming about Detroit. I have tried, but I come up empty every time.
95. I totally love it when you get out your winter and/or spring coat and find either ticket stubs or money in the pockets.
96. When I’m really lost and directionless, I sometimes ask my Grandpa Randy (who has been dead since my dad was an infant) for guidance.
97. I still listen to the safety directions every time I get on a plane.
98. I wonder what my friends in Ireland are doing right now.
99. Often, I wonder if I’m a good enough friend.
100. I love the inherent wisdom in the journals I kept from my teenage years. They are so perfectly raw and unbridled and burdened with emotion but not yet responsibility. It’s beautiful.
3.10.06
beat to the punch.
Well, I was going to review the new Hold Steady -- Boys and Girls in America -- which I've subversively had since the weekend (yah, baby... bootlegs).
But this just sorta says it all, anyway.
Go support your (semi) local music scene and get this right. now.
But this just sorta says it all, anyway.
Go support your (semi) local music scene and get this right. now.
2.10.06
God Bless You, Bat-Girl.
My sweet, sweet Minnesota Twins pulled it out at the last minute -- with a little bit of help from our friends in Kansas City.
(going to further prove my theory that aside from Mo-town, there isn't much that has come out of Detroit that I can't live without...)
Bat-Girl says it best, so I'm gonna let her do the talking. But My. God. I love baseball, and I love pennant races, and I love the playoffs.
Now, back to rummaging for my Homer Hanky...
(going to further prove my theory that aside from Mo-town, there isn't much that has come out of Detroit that I can't live without...)
Bat-Girl says it best, so I'm gonna let her do the talking. But My. God. I love baseball, and I love pennant races, and I love the playoffs.
Now, back to rummaging for my Homer Hanky...
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