Stevie Wanderlust

You Don't Need A Weatherman To Know Which Way The Wind Blows.

2010-08-08T12:19:00.001-05:00

Brother and I went to see Bob Dylan in Austin last Wednesday.

The concert was at The Backyard at Bee's Cave.
Trees were scattered across the hill.
The hill which was scattered with picnic blankets and barefoot listeners.

He was a stone's throw away.
And he sang Like A Rolling Stone.
Coincidence?
I think not.

Brother rolling a doobie.

Brother smoking the doobie.

I kid.
Doobie doobie doo.

The wind whipped the curtains behind him.
His shadow stretched across those curtains.
Making his flat-topped hat sway back and forth.

And we listened as he leaned back on his harmonica.

Get Happy

2010-07-22T06:00:00.000-05:00

A little happiness for your day!

It's That Time Of Year Again...

2010-07-14T21:38:00.001-05:00

Just bought this swimsuit.

Well.

Let me start from the beginning.

I love the beach.

Love the sun.

Love to lay on my back in the water and squint at the sun.

Unfortunately.

I am not a bathing beauty.

Not even for 1950's standards.

Apparently.

Because I bought a cute, high waisted two piece vintage swimsuit a couple of weeks ago.

From an Etsy site.

Mailed from the Netherlands.

By a French designer.

So darling.

Got it in the mail.

And let's just say.

The coverage on the backside.

Very European...

Drat.

And this was after months of searching online.

Then tonight, I perused Anthropologie.

Let's face it, I do this everyday.

I wasn't expecting any new additions in the swimsuit section.

So was so excited when I saw this little number.

It's called Dotted Darling Suit.

Cross your fingers!

Because if this one doesn't work out...

I might just have to buy a wetsuit.

Deuce

2010-07-08T20:09:00.000-05:00

I'll miss you Deuceroo.

Hair & Hawaii & Holy Moly

2010-07-07T15:13:00.000-05:00

Here, here! Here is my hair!
I'm beginning to accept the highlights.
There's nothing wrong with them.
He did a really great job.
They're just not me.

They do make me look more put together and older, though.
Schucks.
Does this mean I have to grow up now?

I am sparing you the sight of my hair down.
Too many layers.
We all know what David Bowie looks like.
Business in the front, party in the back, anyone?

ON TO OTHER BIDNESS.

Remember my raving and ranting about the Bahia Vegetable Stew I ate like a million times while in Hawaii last summer?
I've spent the last year searching and searching and searching for a recipe, to no avail.
I had the ingredients from the restaurant's online menu.
But had no idea about the process.
When faced with this sort of dilemma, I usually just dive right in and try to figure it out.
Mixing this.
Mixing that.
Trial and Error Kitchen Style.
But something kept me from attempting the Bahia Vegetable Stew.
I didn't want to ruin the memory of it, I think.
It was that perfect.
Finally, though.
The cravings were too intense.
Had something to do with the fact that it's the anniversary week of last year's trip, I think...
(Meka Leka SIGH Meka Hiney Ho HUM.)
So I went to the store and I bought all the ingredients listed on the online menu and went to the kitchen and donned my apron and grabbed a knife and wooden spoon and a big pot and then got tired so I had to sit down on the couch and pet Dorothy and then I heard my stomach grumble and so I got up and washed my hands and then dove right on in.

I COULD JUST KICK MYSELF.

It came out perfect.
So perfect, I could actually hear the Hawaiian waves and Higgin's fake British accent.

Recipe below:

Bahia Vegetable Stew
-Yellow Onion
-Celery
-Carrots
-Green, Red Bell Peppers
-Zucchini
-Hot Pepper
-Potatoes
-Crushed Tomatoes, canned
-Garlic
-Coconut Milk
-Salt, Pepper
-Brown Rice

Saute onions, celery, carrots, bell peppers, zucchini, and hot pepper in oil and salt. Start with the onions, and then as you dice up the remaining vegetables, add along the way. Add tomatoes, a can of water, coconut milk, and cloves of garlic. Salt and pepper to taste. Bring to a boil. Then, saute until all vegetables are soft. (Note: unlike regular milk, coconut milk can boil and saute for long periods of time without going all yucky, so let it saute for a long time, it'll only get better.) Prepare brown rice. Add rice to bowl of soup to make the best stew you'll ever ever ever had. Ever. Ever. I can't say this enough. Obviously.

ON TO OTHER BIDNESS.
REALLY, THIS TIME, I'M ACTUALLY BEING LITERAL.

Because.
You see.
It has been 6 months exactly.
Working at The Library.

Holy Moly.
This is sort of a big deal for me.

Go ahead and applaud if you feel moved to.

The One With Here Is the Church And Here Is The Steeple.

2010-07-01T06:00:00.000-05:00

Here are two poems that I love.
Written about prayer.

The Summer Day

by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Grace

By G. K. Chesterson

You say Grace before meals.

All right.

But I say Grace before the concert and the opera,

And Grace before the play and pantomime,

And Grace before I open a book,

And Grace before sketching, painting, swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing,

And Grace before I dip the pen in the ink.

The One With The Sting

2010-06-23T17:44:00.000-05:00

Some days.

I wish I lived in New York City.

The One With The Father's Day Weekend Letter

2010-06-21T11:33:00.000-05:00

Dear Cousin Heather and PIMA Wes:
I loved your place. I just might steal your doors.

Dear The Fugitive on ION:
Why can't I ever stay awake long enough to finish watching you? It's the couch's fault. I'll take it up with him.

Dear Couch:
You really shouldn't be so comfortable. You make it really hard to stay awa.....

Dear Andrew:
I'm digging the color. Unfortunately, you must have taken our conversation about my love affair with David Bowie to heart, because my haircut suspiciously looks like his did in that video we were watching while you held the scissors in your hand. At least we didn't talk about Renee Zellweger, huh.

Dear Anthropologie:
Hello lover. You delivered.

Dear Class of 2000:
You haven't changed much.

Dear Father Darling:
I enjoyed spending the day watching Golf with you. Thanks for the kleenex.

Dear Mother Mary:
Thanks for treating me this weekend, and thanks also for the treats. I've gotten over the hair, and have already devoured the salsa.

Dear Brother:
You smelled.

The One With Father's Day.

2010-06-20T06:00:00.004-05:00

Father Darling.
I hope you have a great day!

The One Where I Get My Hair Did

2010-06-18T11:40:00.000-05:00

I have a sneaking suspicion that Mother Mary is up to something.

You see.
The other weekend.
When she and her sister, Aunt Claire, were here for Girl's Weekend (plus Wes.)
They called a hair colorist and got me an appointment for this Saturday.

They did it with mischevous glee in their eyes, mind you.
And without my consent.

During this time, they also brought up a conversation about my 10 Year High School Reunion.
And how I JUST HAD to go.
Or else I'd JUST REGRET it years from now.

I told them I'd think about it.

And, now that I think about it.

I find that the hair appointment and reunion...
JUST HAPPEN to be coordinating on the same weekend.

Well.
How convenient.
Mother. Aunt.

The following pictures of hair colors are what I've come up with.

I think this one is closest to my color at the moment.

Only with more blonde highlights.

Which is an option.

Or I could go much more blonde...

Then there's this one.

I have dark blonde hair with red tints anyway.

So this would play up the red, as well as added blonde highlights.

Or, hey!

What do you say, Mother Mary?!

See what could happen when you try to pull a fast one on me?!

I ain't skaired!

And, yes.
I am aware of the fact that every picture is of Drew Barrymore's hair.
I tried to think of an actress with the same type/length/style of hair and came up with her.
Plus.
We go way back.

So.
What do you think?
Which one should I go for?
You know.
To catch the eye of that old high school guy...

The One With Downward Dog

2010-06-14T06:00:00.000-05:00

Got home from work the other day.

Caught Dorothy Parker doing yoga on my mat.

The Downward Dog position, to be exact.

The One Where We Synchronized Summer.

2010-06-13T00:35:00.001-05:00

Today felt like the first day of Summer.
I know, I know.
Most everyone else in the world has already gotten good use out of their new swimsuits.
Established a tan.
Taken a week long road trip vacation with the family.
But not me.
I've been inside.
In business casual attire.
Perfecting my paleness.
Unable to use vacation leave as of yet.
I'm not complaining.
Really.
But good gracious.
Today I nearly had an anxiety attack when I couldn't locate my swimsuit anywhere in my dress of drawers.
I mean, really.
It's June 12th already.

But, find it I did!
And as I drove to Laura's house a mere 15 minutes after having received a text message invite to go swimming at her parent's pool.
(Which I responded to said text, faster than I knew my chubby fingers were capable of, with a quick YES YES YES!)
I couldn't stop smiling.
Because I was going swimming.
Swimming!
I felt just like a child the moment the end-of-the-year school bell rings and everyone rushes out the doors.

Soon enough.
I arrived at the ranch.
Slathered on the sunscreen.
And proceeded to cannonball into the pool.

An hour or so later.
The tops of our shoulders pink with sun.
Our fingertips wrinkled like prunes.
And the insides of our mouths stained with Seagram's Strawberry Daiquiris.
Laura and I caught each other's attention.
Shared an up-to-no-good glance.
Stifled giggles as we discussed the plan of action.
Then turned around and proceeded to:

Synchronized Swimmers from Cassandra Bennett on Vimeo.

Our audience was captivated.
I assure you.
And mind you.
That was without a single run through of practice.
We are naturals, I tell you.
And did you notice the two bottles of Seagram's sitting there on the edge of the pool.
Classy.

Matching caps and nose plugs are our next priority.

The One With The Girl's Weekend Plus Wes.

2010-06-12T12:44:00.000-05:00

Last weekend.

The girls (and Wes, aka "PITA") came down for First Friday.

Mother Mary and Cousin Heather got a head start by drinking a couple of mini Champagne bottles.

Went to a downtown wine bar called Uncorked.

$115 bottle of wine and a cheese plate?

Sure. Why not.

Does anyone else think this tastes just like the $10 bottle of wine we love but are all too embarrassed to call by name?

(It's the thought that counts. Thanks, Wes!)

Then, dinner at Cafe Capri.

Yum. Cajun Fettuccine.

And more wine!

Afterwards, weaved in and out of shops and art cafes.

Danced with Mother Mary to Johnny Cash's "Get Rhythm" in the street.

Had all but decided to call it a night.

When Mother Mary exclaimed, "Let's go to the Dry Bean Saloon!"

Yeah.

I have one of those mothers who is a cheap drunk and still knows how to have a good time.

(Hello childhood memories, long time no see.)

So, of course, we drove to Northgate and had a couple of Tequila shots.

Made our way back home.

Quick stop at CVS.

For ice cream.

Because, when you've had champagne, wine and tequila shots.

Why not go back to The Charles and make milkshakes?

Which we did.

And then all fell asleep watching Sliding Doors.

The following morning.

I should say, the following late morning.
(Except for Aunt Claire who wakes at 4 most mornings. Freak.)

Some Mimosas.
And then lunch at the Dixie Chicken.

The One Where We Lean Like A Cho-lula

2010-06-10T22:23:00.001-05:00

Most of you know my female fascination with Gwyneth Paltrow.

She's practically perfect in every way.

Great hair. Tall. Thin.

Married to a guy who'll sing her "Yellow" anytime she pleases.

Has a couple of cute kids with eccentric names.

From California, but has houses in New York and England.

And learned all she knows from Mario Batali in Spain.

I could go on.

But I won't bore you.

Because that's what my dear friend Laura is for.

(No, not to bore you.)

She let's me go on, I mean.

And on.

Because she's rather fascinated with Gwyneth herself.

Maybe even more so.

You see.

She's a Gwyneth.

(I'm more of a Drew who wishes her best friend was Gwyneth.)

So you see, it all works out.

We're thinking about making shirts.

Where am I going with this?

Okay.

So, Laura and I got together to make an Gwyneth-inspired dinner.

Baja Tacos.

We dressed the part.

Blacks and grays and whites and creams, flats, and straightened shoulder length bobs.

We gathered up the ingredients.

Black beans, brown rice, and homemade corn tortillas and pico and guacamole.

Pronounced with the short "g" people.

None of this silent "g" insanity.

We said such Gwyn-isms like "Schmear" and "Donesville" and "I'ngonna."

Leaned against the kitchen counters gabbing.

Decided to watch a Tracy Anderson workout video.

(Yes, we recognized the irony in that.)

And then.
With our plates filled with deliciousness.
On the couch.
Elbows up and side to side.
We leaned that Cholula.

All the homies know what I mean.

All photos by Laura Powers Design

The One Where His Heart Is Something Beautiful

2010-06-06T23:58:00.001-05:00

Brother is famous.
He's wearing the red plaid long sleeved shirt.
Over the white tee.
With the Justin Bieber hairstyle.
Hehe.
And the killer high five at the end.

The One From BSC to SATC.

2010-06-02T20:30:00.002-05:00

When I was at the impressionable age of 9, I got hooked.

Hooked on BSC.

The Baby-Sitter's Club, that is.

1. There was Kristy Thomas. President. Tomboy. Bossy. Big Thinker. Loves baseball.

2. There was Claudia Kishi. Vice President. Artist. Funky style. Bad speller. Loves Nancy Drew and candy.

3. There was Mary Anne Spier. Secretary. Good listener. Shy. Sensitive. Loves Logan Bruno.
4. There was Stacey McGill. Treasurer. New Yorker. Sophisticated. Diabetic. Loves to dot her i's with hearts.
5. There was Dawn Schafer. Alternate Officer. California babe. Tree hugger. Vegetarian. Loves ghost stories.

I loved those girls.

(Even Kristy Thomas. Who we all knew, even at just 10 years old, was bound for lesbianism.)

Would stand before my mirror and think, "Would Claudia approve of this outfit?" And with the two pairs of layered and alternating bright socks, leggings and oversized t-shirt dress, would nod my head and pretend to receive a charcoal-stained high five from her.

Wished I was more like Mary Anne. Probably because she had brown hair and was calm and quiet -- the exact opposite of me -- not to mention the dreamboat of a boyfriend Logan Bruno she had.

Dreamed of one day living the Stacey McGill New York life. Which I did, for a short time, and like Stacey in book #28, Welcome back, Stacey!, eventually came back home.

But, my favorite was Dawn. I even convinced Mother Mary that I desperately needed two holes in each earlobe when I turned 10... just like Dawn had. And, um, hello? She had a wicked tan, long blonde hair, blue eyes, and lived in an old farmhouse.

And, for four years, I lived in that farmhouse.
In that messy room with the private phone line.
In that quaint town of Stoneybrook, Connecticut.

Coveted the pages on family road trips and had to be dragged out of the backseat to pose next to the obligatory welcome to such and such state sign, or view the vastness that is the Grand Canyon, or ride the teacups at Disneyland.
Or some other such nonsense.

And then one day, it all came to a halt.

When Mother Mary lined up every single book of the series that I owned (and I owned them all, mind you) up against our brown 1970's style covered couch.

Like she was lining up the all of my beloved characters before a firing squad.

Then, she fired away.

The camera, that is.

And what came out of it was a photo of me, my arms wrapped around my beloved series, like I was begging for their death row pardon.

Then, their little binded bodies were gathered up and sent off to Goodwill, the public library, or a less fortunate student of hers.
Or some other such nonsense.

I have never forgiven her.

Alas.
I grew up. Eventually.
And before I knew it.
Just the other day, in fact.
I realized, the girls had grown up too.
Had graduated from high school and college.
And much like one of their earlier jaunts: Super Special #6 New York, New York!
Had decided to celebrate their graduation by up and moving to New York City.
Had decided to get hooked on something else entirely.

Sex and the City, that is.

An older, wiser, and more sexed-up version of Baby-Sitter's Club.
Where the girls have traded their Kid Kits for Bourke bags.
Their converse hi-tops for Manolo Blahniks.
And their private phone line for a private jet to Abu Dhabi.

1. Where Kristy Thomas = Miranda Hobbes. Lawyer. Type A. Cynical. Loves to pretend to be a lesbian while playing on her company's baseball team.
2. Where Claudia Kishe = Carrie Bradshaw. Creative writer. Funky outfits. Bad spelling saved by her Mac PowerBook. Loves wearing candy necklaces.
3. Where Mary Anne Spier = Charlotte York. Mother. Traditional romantic. Blue-blooded. Loves Harry Goldenblatt.
4. Where Stacey McGill = Samantha Jones. Public Relations. Confident. Glamorous. Loves to, well, you know.
5. Where Dawn Schafer = Me. Please, oh please, oh please, oh please?

You are all breathing in right now with realization, aren't you?
Thinking, OH MY GOD. YOU ARE SO RIGHT.
I know.
I've watched the show for years.
And I JUST realized it.

The One With Brown Sugar

2010-05-31T23:50:00.000-05:00

Oh. Goodness.

I love me some horse.

The smell.

Braiding small sections of the mane.

The shallow valley above their eyes.

Let's all cross our fingers and hope for a Cowboy in my future, okay?

The One Where We Went Home And Gobbled Up A Peach Cobbler Pie

2010-05-30T16:49:00.000-05:00

The One Where I Couldn't Help But Wonder

2010-05-28T06:00:00.021-05:00

Sex and the City 2.

$10 says Samantha utters the phrase "Abu Dhabi? Abu do me!"

Not to mention the handful of cameltoe jokes that are sure to ensue.

($10 is all I can afford at the moment...)

The One With The Paper Maker

2010-05-27T21:29:00.000-05:00

Papermaking at The Library this week.

At this point, I was seriously considering the idea of turning my tub into a papermaking machine, so that I could create my own mixture of fibers to form letter writing stationery...

Hobby Lobby, here I come.

The One With Camp Yaya

2010-05-23T18:00:00.041-05:00

Dorothy Parker is at Camp Yaya for the week.

Yes. That's a legitimate camp.

With other campers.

And coordinating bandanas.

With whittled walking sticks.

And rice filled rain sticks, too.

With mess halls with macaroni and cheese on plastic trays.

And the dreaded KP duty.

With arts and crafts and glittered pet rocks.

And purposedly tipping over the canoes.

With BFF's forever and friendship bracelets.

And the end of the week dance with the adjoining boys camp.

So, gather around the campfire.

And let the kumbayas begin.

The One With Weekend At Bernies

2010-05-19T22:35:00.000-05:00

I am missing this one, right about now.

The One With The Sister I Never Had

2010-05-18T06:00:00.001-05:00

The weekend in pictures.

The One Where We Get Our Pollock On

2010-05-16T08:00:00.000-05:00

MaryNollMaryNoll is here for the weekend!

Today, we will be doing a little bit of this.

“The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”

-Kurt Vonnegut

The One Where Mary Poppins Lied

2010-05-14T16:55:00.000-05:00

At 3:30 today.
I decided that I'd better go get a Starbucks latte or I just might fall asleep again at my desk.
Of course, I didn't check the weather this morning, so wore a white top.
So, I borrowed one of The Library's umbrellas.
Black sturdy mothers they are.
Took a little walk towards Starbucks.
All was well.
Got my latte.
Took a sip and was warmed as the cool wind lightly whipped the ends of my hair.
God is good.
And then I started walking back.
This was when the wind decided to pick up.
A lot.
What usually would be a 7 minute walk back to The Library.
Ended up taking only 4 minutes.
This was because the wind kept yanking my umbrella forward.
Pulling me along in a slow trot.
When I got to the Education building.
I was breathing heavily.
Had spilled half of my latte.
And had gotten a week's worth of right arm workout quota.
And then.
A tornado swept me up.
At least, that's what had to have happened.
Because all of a sudden, neither feet were on the ground.
And I remember, in that millisecond, thinking, "Ummm, Mary Poppins lied. This isn't fun. Not fun at all."
Out of desperation, and with a newfound strength due to horror, I yanked my arm holding the umbrella back towards me and grounded.
Upon which, another tornado swirled through and whipped my umbrella out in front me.
Turning it inside out.
I was then dragged.
My knees locked.
My feet sliding.
Towards a pole at the corner of the Education and Academic buildings.
I remember having only enough time to think, "Oh no."
And then crashing into it.
As I threw my latte into the shrubbery.
And looked desperately for help towards The Library.
Which was merely a football field away.
A man exited the Education building.
And seeing my turmoil.
Ran to help.
It took the two of us to snap back the umbrella and velcro the strap back on.
Then, as the wind whipped our hair into our faces.
And carried our voices miles away.
He screamed, "Don't open it again! Run!"
And so I ran.
And now everyone at work knows I wear lacy bras.

Blerg.

The One When I Danced In the Rain Very Superstitiously

2010-05-13T06:00:00.020-05:00

Happy Birthday Stevie Wonder.

You're my favorite.
Of all time.
And I will never forget that time at your concert.
In New Orleans.
When I danced in the rain.
With complete strangers.
Sharing umbrellas.
Swapping smiles.
As you sang Superstition.
Swaying that sway of yours.

The One With The Mom-Arms

2010-05-11T17:30:00.000-05:00

I remember this one family vacation when I was in high school.
We were driving.
Between campsite destinations.
And I was sitting in the front, reading a book.
There must have been a line that I'd just read and really felt.
Because I took a moment to lift my eyes and stare at the scenery out the window.
Or perhaps it was just teenage vanity.
And about time for another side mirror viewing of oneself.
Either way.
I remember this part vividly.
My arms.
I remember staring at them in the mirror.
As mountains swooshed by.
And thinking just how beautiful my arms were.
They were toned, from dance and golf.
They were tanned, from eating lunches outside in spaghetti strapped tanks.
And yet, there was a slight layer of softness, too.
Which made me realize I was becoming a woman.

Now.
I have arms like this:

Otherwise known as.
Mom-Arms.

One of my Resolutions this year was to tone up these Mom-Arms.
Cousin Heather (who has amazing arms, damnit) gave me some Resistance Tubing for my birthday.
Don't worry.
She didn't just assume.
I asked for it.
Although, there probably was a small bit of assuming, seeing that my Mom-Arms are legendary amongst the cousins.
The cousins who all seem to have inherited the genes that enjoy sweating and working out for hours at the gym and looking altogether magazine-like.
(But I digress. In my red dress. That accents my Mom-Arms.)
Anyway.
Upon opening the present, I got so excited that I exclaimed, "Whoo-Hoo! Arm Workout Gear!"

Arm Workout Gear?

Wow.

Cousin Heather must have realized that not only was I in desperate need of a little motivation, I was also in desperate need of a crash course in exercise terminology for the sake of my already spiraling social awkwardness.
I mean, really.
Who calls it Arm Workout Gear?

According to the sidecut glances the cousins shared with one another...
It seems only I do.

So.
I've been using those Resistance Tubes.
And this weekend, I received my Tracy Anderson Method videos, too.
Tracy Anderson is this pixie of a girl, dressed in constant lycra, who is now Gwyneth Paltrow's personal trainer.
And most likely, BFF.
I mean.
Have you seen her recently?
All I can say is.
The dance video I did at 5:15 this morning...
Might be the blessed death of me.
I mean.
It's fun, and all.
Dancing around.
Reminding me of my dance team days.
I just have to watch out for the pile of sweat at my feet.
If you know what I mean.
And if by the end of the summer I've seen 1/8th of the results showing on Gwynnie's legs.
I might just have to mail Tracy a James Avery Best Friend necklace.

(I call the half that says "Be Fri!")

The One With The Family Fire

2010-05-11T06:00:00.000-05:00

Mother's Day Weekend was spent around the fire.
Eating S'mores.
Getting bug bites.
Laughing at awkward cousins.
And enjoying one another.

The One With The Hormones Talking

2010-05-10T16:37:00.000-05:00

I was THIS close to stealing the baby girl.
Changing her name to Mae.
And letting her crawl around naked as a jaybird in my elevator-sized apartment.

The One With The Mothers

2010-05-09T07:00:00.004-05:00

Happy Mother's Day.
To Mother Mary.
And Godmother.
I love you both.

And I find it delightful.
That Mother Mary is 28 years old in this picture.
And I am 28 years old now.
And we're both stylin' the same hairdo.
And we both stand that same way.

The One Where It Starts To Get Awkward

2010-05-08T06:00:00.006-05:00

I love taking awkward photos.
So imagine my upmost delight.
When I stumbled upon this little ol' website.
Awkward Family Photos.

I mean.
I can't stop laughing.
It hurts.

For example:

"Don’t be afraid to show the world that you’re in love and that you have a cat skeleton."
Photo courtesy of www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com

Jerry decided to pitch the tent a little early.

Photo courtesy of http://www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com/

Sleep tight.

Photo courtesy of http://www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com/

The One With The New Bob Dylan

2010-05-07T06:00:00.000-05:00

For your Friday.
How about a little 21st century Bob Dylan?
Enjoy.
Because that's America, baby.

Joe Pug - Bury Me Far From My Uniform from LaundroMatinee on Vimeo.

The One Where If Only I Could Snap My Fingers And Be On Holiday At An Italian Villa

2010-05-05T22:38:00.001-05:00

I had a conversation recently.

It was so honest.
So true.
And for the first time in a long time.
I felt a bond with someone over a huge, gaping burden that I live with everyday.
About how completely wonderful it is to figure out your passion in life.
And how completely heart wrenching it is to realize that your passion just might be unattainable.
At the moment.
Or perhaps, forever.

You see.
Writing.
It's my passion.
It's all I want to do all day everyday for the rest of my life.
It's what I believe is my gift.
A gift given to me.
For me to use.
And so I blog.
And so I scribble in journals.
And so I write my little novels.

But.

In the words of my friend...
"Do you ever feel like you're supposed to be something greater? That you're supposed to use your gift in a bigger way?"

And yes.
Yes. I do feel that. Exactly.

I feel like I'm supposed to be discovered by a literary agent.
I feel like I'm supposed to be a published author.
I feel like I'm supposed to read excerpts of my stories to children in libraries.
I feel like I'm supposed to inspire imaginations and bring characters to life.

And yet.
And yet.
Oh.
There are so many and yets.
That stand in the way.
Of my passion.
Of my dreams.
Of the gift that explodes daily within me.

I think we both need a weekend away.
A weekend away would work wonders.
A weekend in one place.
A weekend with nothing to do.
Nothing planned.
Only sitting.
And thinking.
And not thinking.
And talking.
And not talking.
And sleeping in late.
And staring out at horizons.

A place to remember how to breathe again.
Because seemingly unattainable gifts can be so stifling.

The One With Cinco de Mayo

2010-05-05T08:00:00.003-05:00

Hola.

I was out the door.
When I suddenly got a text from Aunt Claire.
"Happy Cinco de Mayo!" it read.
I skidded to a stop.
Looked down at my outfit.
(Simple. Clean. French-inspired pants. Pointy flats.)
Then at my watch.
Then up, with dread.
You see.
Dressing for the occasion is a must, for me.
And today was an occasion.
Even if this San Antonio-bred,-Mexican-food lovin'-cousin-to-the-Segovia's...
Had in fact forgotton one of her favorite festive holidays.
And was already running late.

So.
I ran back inside.
Deciding that if I power-walked to work, that would give me an extra 30 seconds or so to accessorize.
(Obviously, I am a stellar power-walker.)
I stared frantically at my jewelry stand.
Saw my pair of chicken earrings.
Whereupon the word "pollo" immediately popped into my head.
(One of the only Spanish words that apparently stuck after 6 years of schooling.)
It'll do.
Saw the Catholic Saints bracelet.
A present from mi madre that she picked up from el mercado en Mexico.
(Well what do you know. It's all coming back to me now.)
It'll do.
Slipped on the chosen jewelry.
Sprinted to the door.
Called out to Dorothy Parker a butchered "Adios, perro!"
(Remembered the reason why exactly I never speak the language.)
Sped off.
Was cut off by the slow car that ALWAYS cuts me off and then proceeds to drive 10 miles under the speed limit.
"Pendejo!"
(It really was all coming back to me.)

The One Where I Would Have SO Been One Of Those Damn Hippies Gypsy Dancing In The Mud At Woodstock If I'd... You Know... Been Alive Then

2010-05-04T06:00:00.015-05:00

Once.

When I was 21.

I rode on a Greyhound Bus to Santa Fe to participate in a photography workshop.

Oh.

It was a wonderful experience.

I'll tell you about it later.

The point is, while I was there.

A group of older women.

One from New York City.

One from California.

And one from Saudi Arabia.

Told me that I was indeed a Renaissance Woman.

I have a few people to thank/blame for this title.

1. The Parentals.

2. The BMG Music Club.

You see.

When I was just a wee high-schooler.

Pre-license day.

Which meant, before the days my friends and I could drive about town with our windows down and the radio up, screaming pop songs at the top of our voices.

I got something in the mail.

And this something was a fantastically colorful brochure with columns of band names in a font that just tempted.

I rushed and showed Mother Mary.

Look! Mom! 12 CD's for $10!

Mother Mary hunkered down and began to examine the Columbia House Record Club details.

And then broke it to me that joining the Columbia Record Club was a much larger commitment than getting married or having children.

Explaining...

Sure. You get 12 CD's for $10.

And then you had to buy 10 more at their original price.

Or die.

I went to my room.

And philosophized on the pros and cons of death.

Or most probably.

Put on my only CD -- Jimmy Buffett -- and popped in a piece of Juicy Fruit.

Soon after, though.

Mother Mary came into my room.

Pleased as punch.

In her hand was a slightly less colorful brochure with columns of band names.

With a far less snazzy name across it.

BMG Music Club.

Look! Daughter! You can get 8 CD's for the price of one! And then CANCEL!

I wasn't old or wise enough to understand her excitement.

But BMG's logo of a puppy standing next to a gramophone won me over instantly.

So I hunkered down and began to examine the columns of band names.

Pencil at the ready to circle my choices.

Problem was.

I didn't have a clue what sort of music I wanted to order.

I'd been raised listening to Jimmy Buffett.

To Oldies.

And the Classic Rock the Parentals listened to from their younger days.

And so.

With The Parentals' guidance.

I circled the ones that were familiar to me.

The Doors. Joe Cocker. Bruce Springsteen. Carole King. Fleetwood Mac. Cat Stevens. Creedence Clearwater Revival.

And yes, Paula Cole.

Hey, come on. Dawson's Creek had just premiered. I wasn't TOTALLY out of the loop from my generation.

All this to say.

My alarm woke me up this morning.

(Unlike yesterday morning. Cough. But that's another story.)

And out of it's speakers came "Black Dog."

And then followed with "Going to California."

Which means it's Tuesday.

"Two For Tuesday" to be exact.

On the Classic Rock Station.

My favorite day of the week.

Because.

Despite the cigarette-rasp voice of the Classic Rock D.J. that we've all come to expect.

With his gut-full of cheesy rock-n-roll philosophies.

And his ever-so reliable Classic Rock D.J. name of T-Bone, or Crash, or Buzz.

Today is the day.

When I can get a double dose of the Classic Rock greats all day long.

Music from my childhood.
Despite the obvious generation gap.

Man, I love the smell of Zeppelin in the morning.

The One With The Island Girl

2010-05-02T14:24:00.003-05:00

I was eating some pineapple on Friday.

And although I don't actually recall eating a significant amount of pineapple while I live in Grand Cayman.

I still was reminded of my year on the island.

As I bit into the sharp and sweet fruit.

Oh, you didn't know I lived on an island? (I say this to the once in a blue moon random reader who stumbles upon my blog.)

Well I did.

And it was wonderful.

My decision to move to an island after college had two reasons behind it.

1. Cubicles.

2. Tibet.

As luck would have it.

My parents had an old high school friend who lived on and owned a restaurant on Grand Cayman.

So that was that.

Got a visa.

Packed my bags.

Won't you step back in time with me?

I hope you don't mind getting your feet sandy...

Flying off to be Island Girl for the year!

I lived right there. Jealous?

The punk kids I homeschooled. There last name was Flowers. Dig it. (I loved them.)

If there's a tree. I'll climb it. There were also a type on the island called Sea Grape Trees. They were my favorite. Was THIS CLOSE to getting a tattoo of one on my foot.

Before I moved to Cayman, I was deathly afraid of swimming in the ocean. But the water there is so clear. You can see for miles. So I decided to dive right in. Bought some gear. Got all decked out. And was nearly eaten alive by a mantaray the size of a boat.

When Hurricane Wilma hit, I was at Lone Star Bar & Grill where I worked in the evenings. It was a dive, where the islands' dive crews would flock for cheap beer. And so that night, as the wind and rain slammed against the trees and windows, we all sat around at the bar drinking and swapping fish stories.

I was probably the best waitress in the world. The others I worked with were all from Canada. Except for one bartender named Keith. He was from the States, also. And would kiss my hand every time I passed him in the hall. Giggle.

The Parentals and Brother came to visit for Thanksgiving. We ate blackened fish caught just hours before and spent hours at the beach, where I introduced them to the beautiful sea glass that lay scattered across the sand, and set their nerves on end with my Left-Side-Of-The-Road Driving Skills.

Came home from work one day and saw that the landowners had cut down one of the biggest trees on the island. A very Joni Mitchell moment.

Every day between jobs, I'd either go to Governor's Beach or here, at Cafe Azul. Where I would eat chocolate biscotti and drink free refills of Lavazza coffee for hours. One day, while sitting there, a woman came in dressed in flowing linens, with dozens of bangles on her wrists. Instant inspiration. And that was the start of "Signed, Bertie."

Round round get around, that's how I got around.

Ayn Rand on the beach? Nerd.

There were no clothing stores on the island except for the few in hotel lobbies. Its still amazing to me, that for a whole year, I didn't shop for clothes. Life was very simple. One room home. Old jeans and t-shirts. Bike to the beach and to work. My iPod stopped working, too, so the sound of the waves and the chatter of Caymanians was my music.

When I left the States, I left behind 4 years of tumultuous Tibet, a doctor who refused to listen to me and would scribble out prescriptions instead, the memory of an ex-boyfriend that refused to erase, and the uncertainty of what I wanted to do with my life. Although stopping the medication was probably a bad idea, sitting on the beach, lost in my own thoughts, did wonders for the other tangles in my life. I faced the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named memories, realized my worth, and experienced a few new fun crushes. I let myself fall in love with writing, and also with the idea of letting it be my lifelong ambition. And when I returned to the States, I found Dr. Fish, who jump-started the saving of Tibet.

This was one of those wonderful crushes. Right before moving to Cayman, I met this fella while camping at the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. He liked my braids and said I reminded him of a 1967 Jane Fonda. I like how he reminded me of Huckleberry Finn. And so. We promised to write each other. Which we did. All year long. Long, handwritten letters filled with such banter. It was lovely.

Mother Mary just couldn't stand the thought of not seeing her one and only daughter on her birthday. So she came to visit. That was her excuse, anyway. (She's a self-proclaimed beach bum.)

The GodParents visited for my birthday also. One of my favorite memories... sipping tropical concoctions, cramming into a rental jeep with our luggage, and the hours at Governor's Beach.

Blue Iquanas. I was not a fan. Still. It was pretty hilarious, watching Mother Mary's expression and quick escape when this one ran across her path.

Got to see this every evening. Have never seen a prettier sunset. Also. Have never reached that state of tan that I had that year. The sun was THIS CLOSE, I swear.

Friends and coworkers taking me out for my 24th birthday.

Site of my 24th birthday party. At least, that's what they tell me. I was long gone by this point.

And this is probably why.

My high school friend Jen came and visited me for a week. She was about to start Med School back home and convinced me that we should be roommates. So, a few months later, I packed up my bags and headed back to the States, roomed with Jen, lived off the money I saved from the island, adopted Dorothy Parker, and wrote all day long. Sometimes, I wonder what life would be like for me right now if she hadn't convinced me to move back and be roommates. Because that definitely didn't pan out as planned. We grew apart, like old friends sometimes do, and I missed Cayman daily. But then, I remind myself: Dorothy Parker... "Carrot Flowers"... "The Forgotten Fables"... The bucket full of experiences I've had since. And then I realize I'm glad I left when I did. I can look back at Cayman and think of wonderful, sunny, and freeing memories. And never feel that "Island-Anxiety" so many people feel from staying too long on a piece of land with no way to "escape."

Of course. Before I left. One last stop for some Banana Pancakes.

The One Where I'm Off To Bed

2010-04-30T23:14:00.005-05:00

Off to bed.
Waking up at 5:30 a.m.
To participate in a 5K.
And by participate.
I mean, walk.

Because I refuse to exert myself until my Tracy Anderson videos arrive in the mail.

She's going to kick my arse.

But.
Until then.
Walk.
And chat with a great group of friends.
And then come back to The Charles.
Where.
If the videos have not arrived in the Saturday Post.
A chocolate pie shall be made.
And a from-my-very-own-couch viewing of Amelie.
To gorge and loaf another day.

Before Tracy Anderson kicks my arse.

Have I mentioned that part already?

Photos courtesy of Laura Powers Design

The One Where My Female Family Members Are Simultaneously Saying To Themselves "MmHmm, I Know That's Right."

2010-04-28T21:41:00.005-05:00

I love 30 Rock.

Most episodes, when Liz Lemon delivers a line.

I think.

Oh God.

That's exactly what I'm saying inside my head.

Exactly what I'd say out loud if Mother Mary hadn't taught me all about good manners.

Case in point.

Watch the clip (about 3 minutes) below of this one particular episode I caught up on earlier tonight.

I mean.

It's completely me.

To a tee.
And then, what happens to her as she's spilling her heart out...
Classic Cas Circumstance.

Enjoy!
And by enjoy, I mean, have a good laugh at my expense!

The One With My New Year's Resolution

2010-04-28T06:45:00.004-05:00

Perhaps.
Because of the magical hustle and bustle of Christmas.
I always forget to think up a New Year's Resolution.
So, suddenly.
When the countdown begins.
My mind goes blank.
Thus.
I simply chug the champagne.
And give a whoop like huzzah instead.

This year was no different.

But somewhere in the middle of March.
When I had my own annual version of March Madness.
(Where I decided to let Pollyanna kick the Pity Party's ass.)
Afterwards.
I had an epiphany.
RESOLVE to be the person you want to be, right now.
Not the person society expects you to be at your age.
And so I started making a list.
Which slowly turned into a sort of collection of resolutions.
My own version of A New Year's Resolution.
(Huzzah! Now where did I put that champagne...)
Start date: My Birthday and the year that follows.
This made so much more sense to me.
A list that was workable. Expandable. Life altering.
Instead of a single, instantaneously muddled up resolution thought up at the nagging of a ticking of a clock.
And so I set to this Resolution List.
Thought out. Processed. Sribbled. Scratched off. Reworked.
And finally.
Completed.

This Year's Resolutions:
1. Talk less. Listen more. Consider what I want to say, before I say it.
2. Tone up these Mom-Arms.
3. Spend more time cooking/baking in the kitchen.
4. Stop being so secretive.
5. Let my hair grow out.
6. Save up for 30th Birthday Trip!
7. Go out on dates!
8. Write (does not include blogging) every day.
9. Stop biting my cuticles.
10. Take a dance class.

Will keep you updated on how the resolutions are going!

The One With The Sure Sign I've Been Reading Too Many Books Lately

2010-04-27T19:00:00.003-05:00

Please don't judge.
I usually am really good about these sorts of things.
But I had a pile of books THIS HIGH that I really needed to dive into.
Library late fees, and all.

Besides.
If its anyone's fault.
Its Dorothy Parker's.
We're roommates, you see.
We're supposed to help each other out.
Of course, she claims the lack of opposable thumbs.
But looky here what I found...

Here! Here!
So what's your excuse now, hmm?
You lazy mongrel.

Oh God.
I need to stop pretending my dog understands me.
Or can read.
Or sign on to the internet and check my blog posts.
And just get up and wash the damn dishes...

One more chapter... and the I will... probably...

The One Where A Blonde And Her Dog Sneak Into A Heavy Metal Concert For Free

2010-04-26T20:00:00.001-05:00

I am sitting here at my table.
The windows are open.
It should be lovely.
Only.
Downstairs.
And across the street.
Is a heavy metal bar that has enlists the kinds of bands who must hold a strong hatred towards their tonsils.
And so.
The little birds that chirp during the day.
And drive Dorothy Parker up the wall.
Have been replaced with throat wrenching notes.
That drive me up the wall.
So I get up.
And go to close the window.
But am distracted by Dorothy Parker.
Who has made her bed on my pillow.
In total disregard of the plush blanket I've put out for her across my bed.
So I pivot.
And go over to her.
And shimmy up the blanket to cover my pillow.
Which makes her think I'm wanting to wrestle.
Upon which she flips onto her back and begins to thrash her four legs into the air.
As the sound of the heavy metal band floats through my window.
Singing, "RRRROOOOAAAARRRRR!!!!"

Which is ironic.
Because Dorothy Parker's nickname is Roar.

So.
Of course.
I find it all a little bit too funny.
So fall onto my bed.
And begin to mosh with Dorothy Parker.
And scream along.

The One With The Clean Slate Clothes

2010-04-25T20:21:00.001-05:00

The call was too strong.
So.
I went shopping yesterday.
But not before sitting down and determining how much I was willing to spend.
(I'm learning! I really, really am!)

You see.
Most of the time.
When I go on a spontaneous shopping spree such as this.
I spend too much money.
And buy clothes that I end up wearing only a couple of times and then get tired of.

I believe this is an epidemic most women have nursed.

But this time, I did not grab my keys and dash to Freddy Mercury (car.)

No.

First.

I took out a scrap of paper and pen and began to make a list.

(Because I am a proud member of List Makers Anonymous. That's why.)

I even titled the list.
"Clean Slate Clothes."
You know.
Fresh start.
Simplify.
Figure out who I am with and without Tibet.
And new clothes were a good path to start down.
Being that they were something tangible to be gotten.
And also, they'd be daily visual evidence.
A palpable clean slate every time I looked into the mirror.

4 hours later.
The list entirely wrinkled and creased.
I returned home to Dorothy Parker.
Tired.
Hungry.
But, nevertheless, shopping spree satisfied.
And as I began to hang up my purchases.
In hues of whites, and creams, and grays, and blacks, and dark blues.
They stood out strangely, slipped between the bright colors I normally wear.

And I thought suddenly to myself.
These clothes are not you.

And what I meant was.

You are not these clothes.
You are the person inside them.
You are the accessory that will pop out against these muted hues.

Breakthrough.

So I slipped on one of the new outfits.
Grabbed a piece of fruit.
And took Dorothy to the park.
Where I watched her run.
And stared at the sun.
Thinking blinding thoughts.

And then I called Mother Mary.
Told her how Dorothy Parker had taken a shit in Freddy Mercury.
And how I'd bought a pair of shorts.
For which I think she nearly shit her pants.
Because I haven't worn a pair of casual shorts in years.

I think that's saying something.

(Sitting here and not believing that I actually took the time to edit and enhance this photo!)

The One Where I Find It Funny That

2010-04-23T21:24:00.000-05:00

In the midst of trying to simplify my life...

All that is going through my mind right now is that I am in desperate need of a new wardrobe and a really really big purse.

Go figure.

The One Where The Floor Of My Apartment Is Covered With The Extent Of My Closet.

2010-04-22T18:35:00.002-05:00

I've been nervous all day.
I tried to hide it with lots of fart jokes.
But Brother and Cousin were not around to help me take it just a little too far, and normal people can only take so much before they start avoiding you.
Tried to distract myself by reading favorite blogs.
But all my favorite blogs are obsessed with love and poetry.
Made lists of outfit choices I could wear tonight.
But eventually crossed each of them off and cursed the mould that is my body.
Tried to take a walk during lunch.
But noticed several very handsome men, and wondered when exactly it was that I crossed over to that age where I automatically search out the left hand of passing gentlemen. Wondered when exactly it was that I crossed over to that level of helplessness of having to be set up by friends on blind dates.
And it just wouldn't be me if, on the drive back to my place, I didn't have a slight anxiety attack.
Even entertained the idea of becoming so nervous that I made myself sick, and therefore, couldn't go!
Huzzah!

But then I got back to The Charles.
And wrestled with Dorothy Parker.
And realized that my life was my own.
And reminded myself that I wanted to have that life filled with lots of experiences
And lots of fun.
So I turned up Stevie Wonder.
Picked out an outfit.
And entertained myself with a little karaoke.

... And I'm off!

The One With The Aesthetic Mother Earth

2010-04-22T07:00:00.003-05:00

Interesting enough.

Feng Shui experts say that a vase of peonies in your house brings romantic love into your life.

Well, what do you know.

A week or so ago I dried my birthday peonies and put them in an antique teapot on my windowsill.

Did I happen to mention I have a date tonight...

Happy Earth Day!

The One With The Dog's Sense Of Hearing

2010-04-21T07:15:00.002-05:00

"We do not expect people to be deeply moved by what is not unusual. If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence."

The One With The Random Act

2010-04-20T08:42:00.000-05:00

I was told today is Random Acts of Kindness Day.

I'm sure the bird I ran into on the way to work would have to disagree.

The One Where I Save Tibet

2010-04-19T17:30:00.004-05:00

Let’s call it Tibet, shall we?

Tibet.
Such a small and sacred place.
And yet.
Like the actual land from which I’ve borrowed your name.
My Tibet has been anything but a safe haven.

For seven years.
I’ve been in a different sort of Tibet.
And it hasn’t been beautiful.
In fact.
It’s been desolate and dangerous and draining.
And easy to succumb to.
A place that swallowed my life entirely.
A place that denied my right to live normally.

Thyroid Disease.
Just look at those two words.
So miniscule in the broad spectrum of diseases.
No sirens going off here.
Right?

Yet.
Hidden in the cracks of its mountain of letters.
Is an abyss.

Loss of self esteem.
Burned bridges.
Weight gain.
Weight loss.
Heart trouble.
Grave’s Disease.
Insomnia.
Fatigue.
Severe mood swings.
Depression.

After 7 years.
I’ve realized.
No matter what I do.
This destructive version of Tibet will never go away.

Even after Dr. Fish* threw an emergency ladder down that dark abyss to me.
Even after the scale has sort of normalized.
Even after the heart beats to its own thump again.
Even after the eye drops start to work.
Even after the bed is just a bed again.
Even after swallowing radiation.
Even after the daily pills are a habit of nature.
Even after reconnecting with loved ones.
Even after feeling good in a dress again.
Even after being given a second chance.

No.
The past destruction won’t just crumble down into the deepest depths.
Not completely.
Because they can only fall as far as the core.
So it will always be there.

And yet.
I refuse to forget the old Tibet.
The one thirsty for life.
For adventure.
For love.
For simplicity.
And easily overcome with laughter.

And so.
After seven years.
I’ve given you a name.
Tibet.**
Which means I can’t just ignore you.
Or accept the fact that you’ve beat me.
You’ve been named and shall reside on the tip of my tongue.
Because you are real.
You are breathing.
You are twofold --
Once so simple and perfect.
And then, so destructive and denying.
Lately.
I’ve realized I’m at a crossroads.
I stand between your duplicities.
In a limbo I’ve been too long acquainted with.
And I see your two choices.

And I'm choosing.

I’m stepping completely over to the difficult side.
The simple side.
Because I’m thirsty for life.
Craving adventure.
And love.
Oh, love.

The true Tibet.
In its intended form.

I ask that you keep me in your prayers. Each day will be a struggle. To get up and be happy? Or to slide back into the passiveness? But I’ve made such progress over the last week. And this past weekend… I was so happy. So constantly full of breath. (So constantly full of breath, despite all the yawning I couldn’t stop from occurring, which I was told was a sign of not enough oxygen! But, then again. I suppose there are different sorts of oxygens a body needs… just as there are different sorts of Tibets…)

*Note: Not his real name.
**Note: This is just a metaphor. I am not a Buddhist. Although, to quote Seinfeld, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

The One With The Art Fair

2010-04-19T07:35:00.000-05:00

At the Art Street Fair in Downtown this weekend.
Where I was reminded.
Just how subjective art is.
Hey.
I mean.
Kudos to the artists.
But.
I'm just saying.

Still.
It was fun.
And there was Mother Mary.
And Amanda Jean.
And free coffee!

The One With Feeling

2010-04-15T18:30:00.000-05:00

"A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words. This may sound easy, but it isn't. A lot of people think or believe or know they feel - but that's thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling - not knowing or believing or thinking. Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself. To be nobody-but-yourself - in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else - means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn't a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time - and whenever we do it, we are not poets. If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed. And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world - unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die. Does this sound dismal? It isn't. It's the most wonderful life on earth. Or so I feel."

e.e. cummings

The One Where We Were Those People On The Side Of The Road Taking Bluebonnet Photos

2010-04-11T20:34:00.002-05:00

A few Fridays ago was my birthday.

Laura and I were going to have a picnic.

On campus.

During our lunch break.

Blankets and takeout food and hour long chatter.

But then.

Allergies.

And rain showers.

The birthday celebration was nixed.

Until further notice.

This afternoon I went over to Laura's house.
We ate Chedders.
And pie.
We chattered.
I opened up birthday gifts.
And then.
A ramble through wildflowers.

Thanks my friend!

Photo Credit: Laura Powers Design

The One Where I Finally Learned How To Shop Smart

2010-04-10T19:13:00.001-05:00

I love to bake.
But when it comes to cooking...
Well, I always had Mother Mary for that.
Since being on my own.
I've had aspirations of cooking delicious meals that send wafts of yumminess down the hall and attract cute neighbors.
Alas.
No cute neighbors.
Because of this funk I've been in lately.
When it comes to the kitchen.
Peanut butter on graham crackers.
Pasta salad.
Baked potatoes.
Hummus and pita chips.
Vending machine.
Gasp.
I complained to a friend of mine.
And she gave me a few helpful hints.
How to cook for one or two.
How to have yummy options instead of the dreaded leftovers.
How to take one item and make it into several different meals.
Roasted tomatoes, for example.
You can make a ciabatta, roasted tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella sandwich.
You can mash roasted tomatoes, add a little olive oil, and make a delicious dressing for a salad.
You can mix roasted tomatoes with roasted potatoes and roasted asparagus.
And on and on.
Off I went to the grocery store.
Gathered up some goods.
Made a list of all the variations of meals I could make.
Came out to be about twenty meals.
Huzzah!

Does this mean I'm finally an adult?
Egads.

The One With The Friday-Night-Nowhere-To-Go-So-I-Think-I'll-Make-A-Berry-Pie Recipe

2010-04-09T22:07:00.001-05:00

People.
This is important.
I need you to hold your pinky finger up in the air.
We're about to make a very important promise to one another.
Promise me this.
You'll never ever ever buy a store-bought, pre-packaged pie crust again.
Instead.
Make the following recipe.
It took me all of five minutes.
I swear.
And tasted delicious.

1 1/2 cups Flour
3/4 tsp. Salt
2 tbsp. Sugar
1/8 tsp. Baking Powder
1/4 cup (4 tbsp.) frozen Butter, grated
1/4 cup Vegetable Oil
1 tbsp. Cream Cheese, room temperature
2 tbsp. Milk
1 tsp. Vanilla

Combine flour, salt, baking powder and sugar in bowl.
Whisk together.
Add butter and cream cheese.
Work into mixture with your fingers.
Will be crumbly.

Combine milk, oil and vanilla.
Whisk together.
Add to flour and butter mixture.
With fork, combine.
Drop into pie pan and work evenly into bottom and sides.

Place the prepared crust in freezer while you preheat oven to particular recipe.
Prepare your filling.
(I used a frozen berries, honey, sugar and flour combination.)
Make double the dough if you'd like to have a crumbly layer on top of filling.

If you need a pre-bake crust, heat oven to 350 degrees and line chilled pie crust with foil. Weigh down with beans and bake for 10 minutes covered. Remove foil and beans and bake for 5 minutes uncovered until golden brown.

The One With Broseph And His Technicolor Penguin Suit

2010-04-08T06:00:00.001-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen.
My Brother.

This is him.
About to be inducted as a College Young Life Leader.
I suggested the hawaiian shirt.
The rest of the get-up is all him.
Afterwards.
Amidst all the hub-bub and chaos.
With his friends surrounding him.
With the excitement of the moment still echoing in the air.
(And waking up my neighbors.)
He found me in the stands.
Came over to sit for a few minutes.
And shared a Ring Pop.

If that isn't the epitome of the heart of a Young Life Leader.
I don't know what is.

The One With The Film I Almost Stopped Watching When I Saw Alan Cumming Was In It

2010-04-07T06:00:00.007-05:00

If you enjoy Period Pieces.
"Sweet Land" is a gorgeous and subtle film.
About Inge, a German mail order bride, who arrives on Olaf's Minnesota farm in the 1920's.
I love this movie.
It's so simple, with a focus on images rather than dialogue.
And I actually didn't mind Alan Cumming in it.

If you can't see the whole screen of the video, click here.

The One With The Tea Rack

2010-04-06T07:02:00.002-05:00

Every morning.

I have a cup of tea.

But.

Really.

I could use a tea rack.

So Mother Mary bought me the supplies.

And I went to work.

And for those who don't believe me.
That I hammered and painted and hung this myself...
I'll show you the finger.
The finger I hammered, that is.
And which now has a blood blister.
Ouch.
I think I shall go and make a cup of tea to soothe my wounds.

The One With The Anniversary That Ends With A Bang

2010-04-05T18:00:00.004-05:00

Hello, Blog.
It's been a year.
Thank you for being an outlet for creativity.
For snapshots and scribbles.
And for helping me keep in touch with friends and family.

We've morphed together.
And changed.
And before we start sounding like an excerpt from Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.
Let's take a look back.
Shall we?

Splashed through rain puddles.
Cooked a mean quiche delivered by a dream.
Had a photo session in the wheat field and tree grove.
Trained mile after mile after mile after mile after mile after mile after mile after mile.
Ran rampant through that Colorado wilderness.
Listened to the windward waves in Hawaii through screened windows.
Had to turn down a dream due to poor timing.
Attempted Etsy.
Held a pair of M&M's.
Family beach weekend at Port A.
Built a bookcase.
Got my heart trampled on by Archie.
Sent Brother off to college.
Saw a lot of pumpkins.
Ran into an ex-boyfriend.
Lost a good dog.
Lost an old soul.
Got a real job.
Kept up Christmas Eve traditions.
Moved into a loft.
Had my first solitary night. Ever. Alone.
Decorated The Charles.
Finished the Half Marathon.
Found out my neighbor wasn't a serial killer.
Had a dance party.
Ran into an old professor.
Had a very awkward date.
Put my stories "out there."
Went to the beach for Spring Break.
Remembered that I was very allergic to a certain tree.
Turned 28.

And now.
To end with a BANG...

(I got bangs.)

The One When The Bunny Invaded My Birthday

2010-04-04T23:34:00.001-05:00

Peonies are the prettiest flower.

Nope.

Don't try to convince me otherwise.

The Daily Grind.

Sandwich Reunion Tour.

Last bite.

Om Nom Nom Nom Nom.

The Sisters demand.

I deliver.

My monochromatic arrangement skills.

Thanks to The Godmother.

Might just have to get a part-time job at a florist...

Funny story.

The Fortinberry ladies made a homemade strawberry cake.

"We all had a hand in it," they all chided in. "It's famous."

A moment later.

As we all helped ourselves to the deliciousness of it.

Mama Berry shared with us that her skin had been rather itchy lately.

And, jokingly, hoped that she didn't have scabies.

We all paused.

Mid-bite.

And stared at her.

Then stared at the cake.

And for a moment.

We all considered spitting our mouthfuls out.

But instead.

I said, "So, it's your famous Scabies Strawberry Cake, then."

Upon which, we all laughed.

With strawberry seeds between our teeth.

And continued helping ourselves to the deliciousness.

Sunflowers and Degas' (otherwise, boringly deemed Stock.)

Mother Mary dug a pit.

Stacked some rocks around it.

And, wha-la!

We've been wanting one of these for years.

Seems all it took, was for me to move away.

Hmfph.

Alas. I could not pitch a fit.

Because I was too busy staring hypnotically into the fire.

Easter bonnet.

I so wish we'd revert back to a hat sort of society.

They are such a touch!

We have aspirations of growing old together.

This is how it should be.

With neighbors.

Cousin and Brother.

And a whisker-less bunny with an orange for its nose.

This is what happens when you let the boys take charge of holiday traditions.

The One When I Was Born

2010-04-02T06:57:00.004-05:00

Mother Mary went into labor on April 1st, 1982.
24 hours later.
(The ultimate April Fool's prank.)
I was born.
And I was supposed to be named Stevie.
But, because of the vat-full of medications the quack of a doctor dosed Mother Mary up with.
She was out.
And, because it had been 24 hours and Father Darling is sort of a labor room softie.
He was out.
So when Dr. Quack asked them what my name would be.
Mother Mary arose from her semi-conscious dream state and called out.
Cassandra.

Apparently.
She'd been watching "Little House on the Prairie" before she went into labor.
And there'd been a baby named Cassandra on the episode.
And within that semi-conscious dream state, her synapses faltered a bit.
And she remembered that episode.

Is it any wonder that I wish I lived on a farm?
Or that I have these freckles.
And that I quite enjoy running through fields of grass.

Happy Birthday to me!

The One Where I'm Cranky, Not Pranky

2010-04-01T06:50:00.007-05:00

April Fool's Day is here!
And yet.
I am somewhere, lost, in a far, far away galaxy of Zyrtec.
In the land of swollen glands.
Where the peaceful Pranks were taken over by a hostile group of Cranks.
Who've now set up their fortresses along the River Tussin.
And refuse to cease and desist.
Because they'd rather sneeze and resist all forms of Sprintime shenanigans.

The One Where I Take An Ax To My Usual Tree Hugger Sensibilities

2010-03-31T07:18:00.002-05:00

Oh, how I hate thee
Arizona Ash tree
Damn you fraxinus
For pressuring my sinus
Dear Lord, send down a plague of Texas Root Rot
Karma for my scratchy throat, cough and snot

The One Where Charlton Heston Shakes His Fist In The Air So You Catch His Drift

2010-03-30T07:00:00.000-05:00

So.
I just finished reading.
Pillars of the Earth.
I wrote the title that way so that you would read it in a deep and shaky voice like Charlton Heston.
Real epic like.
Because if they ever made a film out of the book, he would have so starred in it.
Tragedy after tragedy after tragedy.
With a triumph or two inserted every once in a while to keep you hooked.
His sort of film.
I don't want to come across as belittling.
Because I enjoyed the book.
I recommend it.
I mean, look!
I'm even dedicating a post about it.
It was just one of those reads that linger because it's just so...
Heavy.
So.
When I stumbled across this comic strip by "Hark, A Vagrant!"
A very necessary series of laughs ensued.
Click on the comic to open a larger image.
Duh.

The One With A Day In The Life Of

2010-03-29T21:26:00.003-05:00

Today.

Had a cup of chamomile peppermint tea.

From a teacup.

And saucer.

Today.

Picked out a rather 1950's style outfit.

Think I Love Lucy meets Gidget

Pleated linen skirt, tucked in blue and white striped shirt, a high-waisted belt, and flats.

Today.

Got to finish listening to the final minute of Stevie Wonder's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered" as I sat in the parking lot at The University.

Took the longer walk to work route which winded through tree-lined sidewalks.

And noticed a statue of a man with a backpack hidden down an alley between two buildings, who I quickly and quietly dubbed Jack Kerouac.

Today.

Lounged on the grass during lunch.

Read a book, toe-grasped blades of grass.

And wore my most perfect one dollar sunglasses.

Today.

Had a conversation with a co-worker about her childhood in Hong Kong and Venezuela.

Got to learn particulars of Chinese customs.

Like how they refer to siblings not by their names, but by, simply, Brother and Sister.

Today.

Took Dorothy Parker for a run.

Then, took Dorothy Parker for a stroll through a daisy and dandelion covered field.

And watched her romp around and chase bugs without her leash on.

(And I didn't pass out from an anxiety attack. Nor had to chase her through oncoming traffic.)

Today.

Talked with Father Darling.

Talked with Mother Mary.

Talked with Brother.

Today.

Locked myself out of my apartment.

So ran over to The Village to get my extra key from Amanda Jean.

Who came over and gobbled up leftover chips & queso with me.

Today.

Received a letter from marynollmarynoll.

Then, pulled out a few sheets of paper and a rolling ball pen.

And wrote her back.

Today.

Wrote another chapter of The Forgotten Fables.

Wrestled with Dorothy Parker.

Took a long bubble bath.

Today.

Realized that when you cancel your Cable T.V.

And can't waste hours of your life watching Seinfeld episodes.

A day in the life without commercials.
Goes something like so.

The One Where She Came In Through The Bathroom Window

2010-03-28T17:37:00.005-05:00

As I was waiting for the following pictures to load.
And wondering just how I should go about writing Laura's Birthday Party post.
I suddenly craved a chocolate milkshake.
And.
Although you might not see the significance.
I did.
And found delightful happiness in the fact that when I thought about my dear friend Laura...
I thought, simultaneously, of a chocolate milkshake.
You see.
Laura and chocolate milkshakes.
Are two of my favorites in the world.

Laura came over to the Charles today.
To celebrate her birthday!
We ate a few of her favorite things.
Chip&Queso
Tomato & Basil Bruschetta
Chocolate Croissants
A hodge podge.
For certain.
And gobbled up.
Nonetheless.

We both loved the set design of "It's Complicated."
This print was used in the bathroom scene of the movie.
You know.
The funniest part of the whole hilarious movie.

Afterwards.
We had a short snapshot session.
To celebrate the big 2-9.

Hope you have a wonderful year, Laura!
So glad I get to spend some of it with you!!!
Love you dear friend!

The One With My Penelope Wall

2010-03-27T11:26:00.000-05:00

Have you ever seen the movie, Penelope?

It's a beautiful and quirky fairy tale.

It also is a beautifully filmed movie.

Filled with saturated set design.

I found these butterflies in Target a few months ago.

I instantly thought of the movie.

This morning I finally put them up on The Charles' walls.

They snap off and on.

Which is great.

Because I'm thinking about getting some black spray paint action going on.

And although I love my loft windows.

I love even more so, fluttering curtains.

And since Spring has arrived.

I'm thinking about getting me some black lace curtains to accent the loft windows...

The One With The School Girl Crush

2010-03-25T06:35:00.000-05:00

I used to have a small picture of River Phoenix that I cut out of a magazine and kept under my pillow.
I liked the secrets he seemed to carry in his eyes.
And his name.
I liked his chin-length hair.
And how every time I read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn for school, I'd picture him.

Paul Newman.
Enough said.
Actually.
I take that back.
There's so much more.
Like that mischievous grin.
And those liquid eyes.
Like the way he'd clap his hands when he laughed.
And that drawl.

I do not care what anybody says.
I like Robert Pattinson's messy hair.
And want to run my fingers through it.
I like his British accent.
And am transported to the Cotswold hills when I hear it.
I like his thick eyebrows.
And the way his eyes have a Peter Pan sort of sadness.

I'm thinking I see a pattern here.
And I'm not talking black and white photography.
Perhaps I do have a type after all.

Tell me.
Won't you?
What School Girl Crushes do you have?

The One With The Dog Stache

2010-03-25T06:30:00.010-05:00

This is Dorothy Parker.
When she goes out on the town.
She's famous, you know.
Has to go around indognito.

So.
Yeah.
I bought Dorothy Parker a Rubber Stache Ball.
For her birthday.
She's a bit suspicious of it at the moment.
Just stares at it.
Sniffs.
But soon.
I just know it.
I'll walk in and catch her.
Will keep my camera on me at all times until that moment.
So stay close my friends...
You won't want to miss it.
High priority.
And all that.
(Because I'm sure you don't have more important things to do with your time.)

The One That Explains It All

2010-03-24T07:30:00.004-05:00

When I was in elementary.
I heard about this book.
Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.
I was too young to read it.
Of course.
But.
There's always that girl in elementary.
Who's mother is single.
And dating.
And let's her daughter stay up late.
And read the other Judy Blume books.
So.
I remember quite vividly the topics said elementary girl whispered to us other elementary girls at the cafeteria table.
You know.
About a boy's you know what.
And why he acts the way he does.
Like pulling on our side ponytails.
And flicking our ears when they pass us in the hall.
Or planting a wet one on us.
Only to then, a moment later, pull on our side ponytails again.

An article came out today that I just happened to read.
It seems the writer took on that long held expression of the female grumbling.
You know.
The one we all think of when a certain boy is being just so...
Grrr.
The one that goes something like so.
"How about you think more with your brain and less with your..."
You know what.

It's really quite interesting.
But I warn you.
After reading the article.
I sort of felt for those Men from Mars...

Click on link below:
http://www.cnn.com/2010/OPINION/03/23/brizendine.male.brain/index.html?hpt=C2

The One When I Asked You For A Stick Of Gum

2010-03-24T07:06:00.001-05:00

Main Entry: gris·tle

Pronunciation: \ˈgri-səl, -zəl\

Function: noun

Etymology: Middle English gristil, from Old English gristle; akin to Middle Low German gristel gristle

Date: before 12th century

: CARTILAGE; broadly : tough cartilaginous, tendinous, or fibrous matter especially in table meats

You know who you are.

Happy Birthday dear friend!

The One Where I Write This Sitting In The Kitchen Sink

2010-03-23T23:11:00.005-05:00

I Capture the Castle.
By Dodie Smith.
Have you ever read the book?
I found my copy at Tattered Cover Bookstore.
In Denver, Colorado.
You see.
When I travel somewhere new.
I like to search out an independent bookstore.
Find a book.
And write, inside of the the cover, the date and location.
(It's better than shot glasses. Miniature silver spoons. And even postcards.)
Well, on that day.
While browsing through Tattered Cover, I saw a stairwell.
So I climbed.
And what lined the steps and railing of the stairwell?
Piles of books.
And what pile of books did I happen to stump my toe into?
Causing the topmost book to slide off and onto my foot?
I Capture the Castle.
Fortuitous?
I think so.
The book quickly became a favorite.
Soon, I discovered the film based on the book.
Which quickly became another favorite.
Although.
Sometimes.
Like tonight.
I must stop the movie at 1 hour and 13 minutes. Exactly.
It's the look on the character Stephen's face that does it to me.

Side Note:
Oh. And also, I've always wanted to buy a bottle of the Bluebell perfume from the movie! But have never smelled bluebells before. Anyone know what it's like?

The One Where Morning Has Broken

2010-03-22T07:00:00.000-05:00

The One With The Spring Break Letter

2010-03-21T08:00:00.036-05:00

Dear Father Darling,
I can't believe you thought that dog food was party mix.

Dear Mother Mary,
Next time I am having a horrible day, I'll just remember how you slipped on the boardwalk because you were walking like Meme because you were so excited to get to the beach.

Dear Brother,

I'm glad you've enough self esteem to wear your Hawaiian shirt buttoned down like that.

Dear Brownie Milkshake,

Hello, lover.

Dear Beach,
You never fail to remind me, after a long winter away from you, that I really am a beach kind of girl, and should really do something about it someday.

Dear Pillars Of The Earth,
I really wish you'd stop with the roller coaster of happiness and tragedy, already. And if I have to read one more page of pillaging and rape and setting fire to villages...

Dear God,
Thank you for not sending me to live in 12th century Europe.

Dear Sand,
Thanks for the free pedicure.

Dear Port Aransas IGA,
HEB, schmashebe. Trader Joe's, schmaderschmos. Port Aransas IGA, you are perfect. The fact that I found the most perfect sunglasses in the whole wide world on a forgotten rack down one of your aisles, and the fact that they were only $1 should make a believer out of any of your doubters.

The One Where We All Got Sunburns

2010-03-20T18:00:00.003-05:00

The Family went to The Beach for Spring Break.

We love the beach.

And we love this beach.

Yes.

The sand isn't white.

The sea isn't clear.

The rentals aren't first class.

And exotic waiters don't serve Mai Tai's from server trays at a whim or a whistle.

But you can bury your feet into the cool sand.

You can hear the ocean at night from open doors.

You can walk around and pass as a local.

And Mother Mary supplies endless refills of Bloody Mary's and Mimosas without the need for a whim or a whistle.

The One With The Sand Dunes At Her Back

2010-03-20T15:03:00.001-05:00

The One WIth His Finger Up A Dead Fish Nose

2010-03-20T10:00:00.001-05:00

The One With The Cherry On Her Knee

2010-03-20T07:00:00.001-05:00

The One With Milk On His Shoulder

2010-03-19T09:00:00.000-05:00

The One With Sand On Her Elbow

2010-03-18T08:54:00.000-05:00

The One With The Other Bronte Sister

2010-03-17T07:30:00.001-05:00

I think I've said it before.
I love comic strips.
Newspaper ones.
Black & white sketched ones.
Graphic novels.
I don't know why I haven't attempted one of my own.
Hmmmmmmm...

But in the meantime.
Please.
Someone.
Get this for me.

http://www.topatoco.com/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=TO&Product_Code=BEAT-BRONTES&Category_Code=BEAT

And yes.
I do realize I'm probably the only one I know who will find utter humor in this t-shirt.
And yes.
I'm okay with that.

This is the comic strip the t-shirt is based on.

Any ideas for themes/characters I could use for my own comic strip?

The One WIth The Irish Jig For Dorothy Parker

2010-03-17T07:18:00.001-05:00

(Yes. Dorothy Parker, I did choose this picture. Because you have no say in the matter. You also have no opposable thumbs for that matter. So can't do a thing about it.)

Today.

4 years ago.

You were born.

Ish.

You see.

The Pound didn't know exacts.

So I chose this day as your birthday.

Because I'm rather fond of this particular day.

And sometimes.

I like exacts.

I like significances, too.

And this day is certainly filled with significances-es-es.

Like Sinead O'Connor.

She's Irish.

And she also doesn't mind me belting out Nothing Compares 2 U along with her.

Like Daniel Day Lewis.

Yes. I know he's really British. But he became a Irish citizen.

And he doesn't mind me tearing up each time the finale song comes on from Last of the Mohicans.

Like William Butler Yeats.

He's most definitely Irish.

And he doesn't mind me attempting a horribly sentimental oral reading of his poem Brown Penny.

And let's not forget all the Seamus's.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DOROTHY PARKER!

I love you.

Lots.

The One Where You Can Read "The Forgotten Fables"

2010-03-13T19:37:00.000-06:00

Grab the kiddos.
Tuck them into bed.
And begin to read them a bit of "The Forgotten Fables."

It's a work in progress...
But I love love love this particular story.

(See the appropriate tab beneath my banner.)

The One Where You Can Read "Signed, Bertie"

2010-03-12T19:51:00.001-06:00

This is what I looked like when I wrote, Signed Bertie.

Only.

Different clothes.

Longer hair.

Different country.

Much tanner.

Probably had sand in between my toes.

Really.

The only similarities are that I was at a cafe and that I drank lots of coffee.

But at this cafe.

Cafe Azul.

I drank so much Lavazza coffee.

And spent so many hours there.

That I had to tip really well.

So.

The waitresses began to reserve my table for me.

And began to give me free refills.

I was entirely grateful.

And still am.

Even gave them the opening scene in my story.

If you'd like to read Signed, Bertie.

Click on the appropriate tab beneath my banner.

The One With The Vulcan Salute

2010-03-12T18:59:00.002-06:00

Our recent Science Fiction & Fantasy Exhibit at The Library.

Dear George Lucas,

I love your original Star Wars Trilogy. Don't even get me started on the other three.

Dear J.R.R. Tolkien,

I held an original letter of yours in my hand. You know. The one you wrote after 14 years of writing your trilogy. When you'd all but lost hope about publication. Nearly resigned to the idea of keeping it to yourself, perhaps. I feel like that sometimes. And holding your letter in my hands. And seeing the way your letters curved in a slant. Well. It was a bit overwhelming. But also heartening.

Dear Trekkies,

Some may slander you. But I admire the fact that the male half of you stood staring down at the exhibits with wonder in your eyes. With amazement stretching the corners of your mouths. In a society that likes to stifle any male emotion, I salute you! (And then immediately get a hand cramp.) Now. Go take a bath.

The One With All The Ruckus

2010-03-09T06:00:00.001-06:00

Woke up.

Got out of bed.

Brushed a comb across my head.

Then wondered what all the ruckus was about.

Pulled up the blinds.

Saw busy birds.

And condensation hanging from budding buds.

It was Spring that I'd heard.

The One With The Instant Heritage

2010-03-08T15:56:00.000-06:00

Beneath my banner.
Are some tabs.
Wander over there.
Click on the one that says, "Instant Heritage."
For a bit of a trip back in time.

I love old snapshots.
Love to make stories up about the people caught in those black and white and sepia toned moments.
Hope you enjoy these little scribbles of mine.

The One With The Other Oscar Night

2010-03-08T06:00:00.001-06:00

I don't know which Academy Awards you were watching.
But mine was far more entertaining.

An Oscar for Best Writer.

No big deal.

Laura took home the Best Actress award.

Steve and Alec were such a pair.

Meryl, Laura and I were ripping our dress seams from laughter.

The After Party was such fun.

I never knew Leonardo DiCaprio was such a handsy dancer.

Who could forget the Gourmet Soup and Chocolate Croissants for dinner.

And.

Afterwards.

Oscar found a home.

To keep me humble.

The One With No Rhyme Or Reason

2010-03-07T13:32:00.002-06:00

Brother is going to be a horse wrangler at a camp this summer.

So of course.

He needs a hat.

He's rather fond of the one he's wearing in this picture.

You can tell by his pose.

I'm rather fond with the idea of him wearing the one that's on my head.

He merely ignored my insistence.

I merely insisted more.

Insistence works.

(Case in point: that Bob Marley shirt he's wearing.)

It was a Saturday.

What better to do than antique shop.

I liked these Mason jars.

Thinking about buying a box of them to use as my glassware.

But in the meantime.

I spent an hour browsing through old black and white photographs.

In a box, labeled, "Instant Heritage."

Bought a few.

Will scan and post them sometime this week.

Bought a small, red salt bowl.

You know.

For that pinch of salt you need for taste.

And various letterpress type.

Spells out, Imagine.

This morning.

Woke up at 5:30.

Joined my dear friend Laura and her Mother.

At the Armadillo Dash.

A 5K, mind you.

No more silly Half Marathons for this gal.

5K's the way.

Because.

Afterwards.

(And an hour, at that!)

You get to treat yourself to IHOP.

Whole grain, walnut and oat pancakes.

Floating in a pool of Old Fashioned syrup.

And a side plate of hash browns.

Yep.

They had to ply the plate away from me.

The One Where Pollyanna Kicks The Pity Party's Ass

2010-03-05T06:00:00.000-06:00

{Get ready for a pity party.}

March.

Its always a tough month for me.

Always a reminder.

That I'm almost a year older.

Actually.

I don't mind getting older.

It's the other reminders that I mind.

No husband to write love letters to.

No children to tuck in.

To read bedtime stories to.

No cottage.

No garden patch.

{Get ready for some Pollyanna.}

Then I remember.

I am one year closer.

So I'll keep on writing these love letters.

And I'll keep on writing those stories to read.

And as for the garden.

I'll wrap this floral scarf around my neck.

And slip on my floral patterned shoes.

And take delight in these.

The One With Sand In My Cell Phone

2010-03-03T06:30:00.001-06:00

Every year.

Around this time.

I get a text.

From my cousin.

(Seany-Poo.

Sean, to the rest of you.)

And in this text.

The following words.

"Who's ready for the coast?!"

You see.

Every August, our families get together.

Head to the beach.
Where we share a rental house.

Eat lots of homecooked meals.

Drink lots of beer.

And let it all hang out.

Which we can do.

Because we're family.

And it never fails.

6 months from that long, awaited beach trip.

This text appears.

I have a love/hate relationship with this annual text.
Love: The lovely quirks of family members.
Hate: The reminder that there are still 6 more months until said beach trip.

But.

In the end.

Love always beats out Hate.

(Or should.

But this isn't a political post.
So I'll return to the sun and sand.
And I don't mean the Middle East.
I mean Port Aransas.)

So.

I suck up the remaining few weeks of winter.

I set my iPod to the essential.

Jimmy Buffett.

Jack Johnson.

Bob Marley.

And respond with my own exclamatory text.

The One With The Black-Haired Crooners I've Been Listening To Lately

2010-03-03T06:00:00.002-06:00

For your ears and eyes and music-loving souls...

Beirut. Love this one.

Beirut, again. Would have loved to walk up on this as it was going on.

Alexi Murdoch. I love the bookshelf backdrop, and static t.v. Oh, and of course. The song.

The One With Oscar Week On My Mind

2010-03-02T06:00:00.001-06:00

Let's say.

Someday.

Some publishing company falls in love with my young adult novels.

The Forgotten Fables.

And.

Thusly.

A 5 books series follows.

And, of course.

5 motion picture movies to follow that.

Amidst the whirlwind of unknowns and uncertainties.

Of book signings and readings.

Of world tours and interviews.

Of coffee shop scribblings.

Not to mention the whole, having to relocate to my newly purchased European estate.

There's one thing I'd know for certain.

What I'd wear to my first red carpet experience.

The One With The Socially Inept Neighbor

2010-02-26T16:48:00.001-06:00

So. Last night, I get this knock on my door.
After calming down Dorothy Parker, I peeked out the Creep Hole.
(You need to see it, to understand.)
It was my upstairs neighbor.
I opened the door.
The best way to describe him is to compare him to socially inept characters on t.v.
Socially, Dwight Schrute of The Office.
Outwardly, Jack Donaghy of 30 Rock.
Let's call him, Dwight Donaghy, shall we?

Three things I should preface about Dwight Donaghy:
1. He has a dog he's kind to outside, but yells horribly at in his apartment. I can hear it.
2. He's a lawyer. And an artist.
3. He has a girlfriend. I've never seen her.

So, pretty much, we're dealing with a regular bipolar disorder here.

Three things I should preface about me, and how I pertain to this story:
1. I've considered stealing his dog from him.
2. I do not find Dwight Donaghy attractive in any way, shape or form.
3. I am still alive.

On with the story.

We talk for a few minutes.
I'm in my pajamas, mind you.
When all of sudden.
Out of nowhere.
He asks me if I'd like to go see a movie.
I was in complete shock.
I was in my pajamas.
I had never had a real conversation with the man outside of our puppy matter chatter.
I was in my pajamas.
So, of course, in the midst of my complete shock, I answer...
"Ok, sure, yeah, sure."
He left, giving me twenty minutes to change.
I really didn't want to go.
There was The Office to watch, and all.
Alas, twenty minutes later, I'm heading downstairs with Dwight Donaghy.
I ask, "So, what movie are we going to see?"
He answers, "I don't even know what's out."
For a self-proclaimed OCD Movie Patron, I secretly died a thousand deaths.
He continues, "I figure we'll just see what's playing closest to the time. I've never had to wait more than 40 minutes before."
For a self-proclaimed OCD Arrive Early Movie Patron, I died another thousand deaths, just thinking of all that time I'd have to make conversation with him.
As we stepped out of The Charles, he paused for a full five seconds.
Then says, "Ok, I guess we can take my car."
Okay. Sounds good. Since you were the one to invite me, and all.
Only, I didn't crinkle my face and say this, because I'm not socially inept.
Then, it takes him 10 minutes to clean out the front seat of his car.
At this point, all I really wanted to do was change my mind.
Use some excuse.
And just bear the embarrassment of having awkward exchanges from then on everytime we passed each other going up and down the stairs.
Only, before I could muster up the courage,
He finished shuffling his junk to his trunk (hehe).
And said, "Alright. Hop in."

Another preface is in order here, I think.
1. I did not hop in.
2. I got in the normal way any normal person would go about getting into a car.
3. Earlier, I'd called a friend of mine to let her know my plans and whereabouts. You know. In case I never returned.

Add socially responsible to the list.

On with the very long story, again.

We made it to the theater.
It had only been the longest 5 minute drive I've ever taken.
Never before had I smelt that smell before.
Think, old man sweater vest.
Never before had I heard a person talk more about themselves in such a short amount of time.
And I'm a talker.
Never before had I been talked over so much in my life.
And, I wasn't just trying to put in my two sense, only attempting to answer.

We watched the movie.
Which I loved.
And which I had to love, while sitting beside Dwight Donaghy.
The man who takes off his water-stained leather penny loafers.
And props his stinky socks on the chairback in front of him.
The man who groaned as he gobbled down two slices of pizza, a hotdog, and a whole bag of Reeses Pieces.
And who sighed really heavy, morose sighs every few minutes or so.
The man who is that guy with the kooky laugh during the previews.
And the off-scene hahaha, and echo to his harharhar that makes you miss the following line or two.
The man who grumbled throughout the entire movie about indiscrepancies, brute behavior, idiocies, etc.
And me, silently screaming hypocrite!

Oh, there's more.
Like how, as we walked towards his car, after the movie.
Just happening to mention that he needed to pick up a few things at the grocery store.
And how I had to tag along.
How he warned me to be careful around Al, the homeless man who lives near The Charles, declaring him a schizophrenic.
Pot calling the kettle black, mister.
How he found out I am a writer.
How he offended this writer by not asking about what I wrote, but instead, spun off on another tangent about how great of a writer he'd be if he could only find some time.
"Like, for example..."
And off he went, telling me plots and characters of the many stories he could write.
How he made me carry his two grocery bags.
His only two grocery bags.
How he said, "We should really do this again sometime!"
And how I mumbled cheerfully in agreement.

There.
All the sordid and sleazy details of an outing with my socially inept neighbor.
Bottom line.
What can you learn from this?

If you like post-apocalyptic movies, go see Book of Eli.
If you like anti-social moments, go see it with my neighbor upstairs.

The One With Why I'm So "Picky"

2010-02-26T06:00:00.000-06:00

I hear it all the time.
You're just too picky.
In regards to why I'm still single.
But I object.
This is what I've been patiently waiting for...

The One With The Haiku About Snow

2010-02-24T07:00:00.026-06:00

Ever the small child

Our open mouths catching snow

And running amock

The One With The Canadians, Eh?

2010-02-24T06:00:00.002-06:00

One of my favorite things to do?
Watch people's expressions.
During a movie.
Or sports game.
I saw this photograph on CNN.
Of Canadian hockey fans watching the USA v. Canada Olympic game.
You know.
The one we beat them at.
I especially like the guy somewhere in the middle.
Sitting.
Wearing all red.
With one of those hats with the flaps.
His hand up to his chin.
Reminds me of a friend of mine named Hooter.
Wonder what he's thinking.
Probably, "What a bunch of hosers."

Post Script:
You should know, I am a closet hockey fan.
Ever since living in Grand Cayman.
One of my jobs was as a waitress.
At a sports bar and restauraunt.
Most of my co-workers were Canadian expatriates.
After a long day, we'd settle onto the barstools and drink together.
Being a sports bar, there were televisions everywhere.
Being overridden with Canadians, all that played was hockey.
Although, I did get them to root for the Spurs during the basketball playoffs.
I didn't even have to buy them all a round.
They just saw me screaming at the opposing team (stupid Dallas Mavericks).
They saw my passion.
My pride.
And swallowed it up for themselves.
That's one thing they do well.
Well, that and swallowing shots of Jagermeister.

The One With The Texas Snowstorm

2010-02-23T07:00:00.000-06:00

Minding my own business.

Working.

Hear a shriek from the lobby.

"IT"S SNOWING!"

Work can wait.

As I shuffle around the corner.

And see it for myself.

And twirl in it.

Then.

Who should I see shuffling up snowballs with friends?

Brother.

We hugged.

Photo opportunity.

Then he was off.

Streaking and bobsledding were mentioned...

The One With The Professor Who Loved Faulkner

2010-02-23T06:00:00.002-06:00

I met my match as a sophomore in college.

He was 5 ft. 4 in.

Dressed in corduroy and tweed.

Smoked a pipe.

Wore a fedora.

Had the roundest belly you ever did see.

And talked of nothing but William Faulkner.

I was taking Literature of the South and my professor was this bundle of fun.

He had this quirky little laugh.

Which caused people to stare.

And not know whether to laugh along with it.

Or at it.

I'd be walking out of the English Department building,
And would hear his voice yell across the crowd at me.
“Oh, fair Cassandra! Will it ever rain today?”
It would be stormy and heavy outside.
I'd yell back that I believe it would.
Upon hearing my answer,
He'd raise his hand to his forehead with anguish and call me a liar.

One day in class,
He commented on the fact that he'd like it ever so much,
To be known as a Good Ol' Boy.
To me, somewhere between his turtle shell round glasses,
Elbow patches, and love of literature,
He was the best kind of Good Ol' Boy.
And so.
On the title page of the following paper he assigned,
I wrote beneath my name and lecture title:
Professor Good Ol' Boy.
He gave me a hoot.
And an A+.

More than that.
He enjoyed my writing.
(And as you know, all writers are narcissists, and revel in another's praise!)
I was inspired by his questions marked in red on my papers.
The ones that were not corrections.
But instead, exclamations of wonder.
Scribbles of curiousity.

We've kept in touch, over the years.
He's written me recommendations.
He's read my follow-up stories.
And, this weekend, I had the distinct honor of running into him at The Library.
And he recognized me.

The One With Brown Penny

2010-02-22T06:00:00.003-06:00

That's Penny.

My dear friend Laura's pooch.

I'm her UnGodmother.

I'm not going to try to explain.

Just trust me.

Mostly, we just roll around on the floor.

Play tug of war with a rope.

And bathe each other with attention.

Me with lots of belly rubs.

She with lots of licking.

We have nicknames for each other.

I'm Mama Cas.

She's Penny-Pen-Pen-Pen.

Sometimes, I quote William Butler Yeats' poem to her.

"Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,

I am looped in the loops of her hair."

Sometimes we just sit and watch the dog show on Animal Planet.

The One With The Sartorialist Shoes

2010-02-19T05:00:00.000-06:00

At some point during the day I go here.

The Sartorialist.

A site for style.

And sociology.

Two things I'm crazy about:

Coming up with an outfit.

People watching.

(Which often times, makes me look crazy.)

I'd seen this photograph and fell in love.

With the outfit.

With the shoes.

So I bought a pair.

The One With Pipilotti Rist

2010-02-16T05:00:00.010-06:00

I am just absolutely mad about this.
Lovely.