Lovely Things

I have been pondering whether I have anything to say on the subject of one year over and another one beginning. In procrastination of that, I present this list of lovely things:

A study book with wide empty margins for writing in.

Rain drop ripples in a puddle.

A heap of comfy, cozy blankets and very soft sheets.

These words: insular and provincial

Really funny conversations with friends.

Cookies from my Aunt Kathy.

Crocker and Springer Pottery.

Tasty soup on a wintry sniffily sneezy day.

A new set of playing cards.

A book with a satisfying conclusion.

Last Kiss ~ Taylor Swift

To my Pink kicks.

A love letter.

Dear Pink Kicks,

Do you believe in love at first sight? I don't. Call me bitter or cynical. I like to say that I am practical. I like to say that once upon a time love kicked my behind so hard that I went flying up into the air (which sounds fun, but is surprisingly painful) and landed 24 hours later 1,505 miles away. I landed here in Tucson. The result is, I have a more practical view of love. That it requires work and effort and attraction. And then more work and effort. So I don't believe in love at first sight or magic. I believe that love is a choice. My point?

The first time I saw you, you were introduced to me with a couple of other pairs of shoes. Shoes that were not mine. I saw you in that dim light and I thought, "Cool orange kicks."  It wasn't love. Maybe a little lust. But not love. And when I discovered you were mine I was happy, but not overwhelmingly so. I pondered in my mind what place orange kicks could possibly have in my life. My life doesn't have a lot of space for orange kicks. Quite the impractical luxury. Like love at first sight. Or a magical feeling that you can't define. Or perfect circumstances.  But in my car I kept looking at you and you were growing on me and then one of the streetlights hit you and I realized you were...

H O T   P I N K! 


You took my breath away. I smiled all the rest of the drive home. No not smiled.....I....what's bigger than a smile? My lips curved upward so far and hard I thought my face would crack. That's how happy you made me. I let my defenses down and fell madly in love. With impractical, unrealistic, luxurious, magical hot pink Nikes.

And I brought you home and looked at the box and to my horror, the size was too small. It wasn't going to work, this is a disaster, this is....wait....oh wait a minute.....YOU FIT MY FEET PERFECTLY! Oh magical shoes! You fit! You fit! We belong together. Cue Mariah Carey!

And that should be the end right? Happily ever after. This is a love story after all. Isn't this how love stories end?

No. It's not.

You taught me some tough lessons, you oh sneakiest of sneakers. You may fit my feet perfectly, but you don't fit my closet. So few of my clothes want to go with you. Sometimes I feel rebellious and want to wear you with my dresses to the meeting or with completely non-matching outfits out in public just to be with you. But you and I, we can't be together all the time. We just don't work like that I guess. And I have had to accept that. You know what Common once said about reality right? Well it is not very nice. But it is true.


Pink Kicks, I love you. I wish we could be together more. But whether we are together or not, I will always think that you are the best shoes in my closet.

With Love,

Meghaun 

Never Entered Into My Mind ~ Miles Davis

"Jazz washes away the dust of everyday life." 

Art Blakey 

Here is a common conversation KayKay and I have:

KayKay: I can't remember, are you the one who doesn't like jazz?

MayMay: I just don't like the kind of jazz you like. You like easy listening jazz (I like to sprinkle that statement with a small amount of contempt because of my strong negative emotions towards Kenny G). I like actual jazz (I always say that part with smug superiority).

KayKay: Oh yeah, that's right.

The truth is that jazz has a lot of different influences and the kind of jazz we like isn't that far apart or one less worthy than the other. And that regardless of what type of jazz it is, I usually only take it in small doses. I have this memory of being in the car with my dad and he had some Miles Davis recordings. We started listening and it became this game of chicken. Like who is going to break first and say, "Good grief! I can't take it anymore! Can we please listen to something else?" I broke first. In my defense, it was some of his more experimental stuff. It Never Entered Into My Mind it was not. In any event, dad seemed relieved.

That being said, I have been listening to nothing but jazz at work for the past few days. Thank you Pandora! You are bringing it with the jazz. Especially today. Love the John Coltrane station.

One of the things I consider myself to be extremely blessed with is an appreciation for all types of music. I meet people who listen to only one kind of music. Their world must be so small. I love that on any given day you could find me listening to any sort of music. And I think all the credit for this goes to my parents. To be in the car without music on was unheard of in my family. And it was on pretty frequently in the house too. And while yes, most of the music was right in line with what you would expect from a couple of hippies: Beatles, Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, etc; they kept up with the times pretty well too.

My Uncle Randy, who was in a band for many, many years, wrote a song and one of the lines was: Mama gave me music, daddy gave me strength, and I thank God for the rest." In relation to this post I would say, "Mama gave me Beatles, daddy gave me jazz, and I thank life for the rest." Which is to say that a lot of my musical loves I have picked up along the way in life. But I would not have been able to do that if my parents had not raised me to be open mind. In conclusion......

If music be the food of love, play on. 

~Shakespeare. 

Special Note: If you are not a jazz fan, start with Miles Davis' It Never Entered Into My Mind, once that song gets you hooked, go exploring. 

Melancholia ~ Van Morrison

Tell me how you hibernate.

Some days I want to devote myself to being sad.

 Does that fit the definition of melancholy? It should. 

I find something so beautiful in a rare day devoted to sadness. 

And I love the word melancholy.

Listen to all the songs that break your heart because they remind you of all the other times you had your heart broken. Currently: Last Kiss, Innocent,  Taylor Swift.  House That Built Me, Miranda Lambert. Fool of Me, Bilal. Can't Find My Way Home, Blind Faith. Sparks, We Never Change, Trouble, Don't Panic, Coldplay. Title and Registration, Death Cab for Cutie. Not Like The Movies, Katy Perry. Can't Be Friends, Trey Songz. Grace, U2.

To read the poetry that is heavy with longing and loss. For instance, Tonight I can write the saddest lines by Pablo Neruda. I really love Neruda. Or read The Book Thief  by Mark Zusak again.

And then to watch Little Women so I can cry when Angela Chase Beth dies. And then Wit.

And then maybe stare out the window for a few hours and ponder the wreckage of my 20's while wishing for mood weather. A gunmetal gray sky and drizzling rain.

Or maybe a dark ominous thunderstorm and a copy of Wuthering Heights.

Or a stealthy snowstorm and a cup of something warm and a puzzle and Beethoven's Symphony No. 7 in A Major. Possibly the saddest classical composition I have ever heard.

Maybe it's not so much sadness as it is the desire to hibernate and engage in lonely activities.

Friday Finds

A gathering of moments that I have had on the internet lately:

The Intricacies of Male Heartbreak. The male brain (and heart) escapes my comprehension.

Insecure People Are Better At Dating. But how the heck are they supposed to handle the break ups?

The Guilty All The Time Generation. Will women ever stop beating themselves up? Probably not in this world.

I am not entirely sure of why I am currently addicted to this website. But I am. And I never even like fashion spreads in magazines. Something about the titles and the settings and the craziness of the clothes. I just love it.

This Is a Dog. A blog entry by Roger Ebert on how dogs and humans judge appearances.

This video of Prince making a surprise stop on The View gave me butterflies. Because it's Prince.

SNL skit with Robert DeNiro and Robin Williams as guest stars on Kenan Thompson's What's Up With That?


Have we ever talked about my love of Sesame Street? Cookie Monster Auditions for Saturday Night Live.

Let It Snow

This morning I woke up and stared out my window looking for snow. And when I didn't see it, I kept staring for two reasons: 1. I thought if I kept staring and wishing enough it would appear 2. I wanted to make sure I was looking hard enough.

Then I remembered I live in Tucson.

Then I looked for snow some more.

Just in case.

You never know.

Sugar Pie Honey Bunch ~ The Four Tops

Dear Little Sister,

You were the cutest toddler on the planet earth. Most especially when dancing and singing, "Sugar Pie Honey Bunch." You loved that song.  That's what makes it so shocking that you have grown up to be a Jane Eyre hating troll. Just kidding! But seriously.  Why oh why must you hate on my precious Jane Eyre? Do you not know that I own five copies of that book and have read it almost once a year since I was a teenager? It cuts me deep.  You accused Jane and Rochester of yammering! Yammering!

As punishment I present this letter. Where I yammer. To you.

I had read Jane Eyre on my own before I studied it in my Brit Lit class in high school. Sometimes studying a book lessens it magic for you. You find out about all this subtext and hidden meaning and suddenly the book is dead to you. This didn't happen with Jane Eyre. My appreciation grew. Mostly I love that Jane is a woman with strong emotions and strong principles. I wrote an essay on it for class. I will show it to you sometime.

But enough about Jane Eyre. In general, I am just jealous that you are reading a book right now. I need a book to read. I get caught up reading blogs and forget about actual whole books. Might explain my dwindling attention span.

I wish you had been here last night. More than anyone else, I needed you last night. I needed your fire and attitude to get me through hurt feelings and over dramatic emotions. And then we could have cuddled up and watched Top Chef together.  And drank. And cursed men.

I have all these sentimental thoughts swirling in my head. About how our older sister and I used to meanly tease you about what an ugly baby you were. Little monkey baby with crazy black hair and the popped up veins that formed an angry red V on your forehead. We called it the Vulcan V. And I wonder, did I ever bother to tell you that in my mind it was okay to tease you about what an ugly baby you were because the instant you passed the newborn stage you transformed into the cutest of all of us by a long shot? Proof that my logic issues started a long, long time ago (e.g. it's okay to tell your little sister she used to be ugly because she is not anymore.)

I think about how I have my entire life been searching for some kind of soul mate. Not a romantic soul mate. Just someone who gets all of me. Every facet of my being. And there are a lot of facets. So when you were born, I remember looking at you when you were in your play pen and thinking: This is it! The one I have been waiting for all 5 years of my life. My best friend! And the bitter disappointment of learning that you had your own personality, your own life to live, and were my little sister, not my everything. I have this hazy memory of being truly hurt about that. And then resenting you. Some kind of distorted sibling rivalry.

And now, I am so glad that you did and do have your own life and personality. How boring would you be if your personality was molded around  me? What a tragedy that would have been!  Because as it turns out, the beauty of sisters isn't that they are your everything or that you are all just alike. The beauty of sisters is the shared experience and the shorthand. The secret language of sisters. The give and take. The support. The reality checks. The fact that even though I am an over dramatic lunatic you are still required by the laws of nature to love me. Right? I hope.......

And now because I am so very tired, I present the rest of this as a list.

~Don't you hate wasting emotions on people who aren't wasting emotions on you?

~Don't go blond (unless you can afford it). It's an addiction you are genetically predisposed towards. Once  you start down the path of blondness, it is hard to turn back. BUT it does make any occasional gray hairs WAY less noticeable.

~Eat more whole grains. I would say eat more veggies but that would be hypocritical of me. But I can tell you to eat more whole grains with a clean conscience.

~Never base your opinion of who God is on your opinion of the people who worship him. We are imperfect and mess up constantly. He is not and does not.

~Aren't you glad we have uniquely spelled names?

~Have you ever stopped to think about how if the genetics had just played out slightly differently and we had all gotten Emma and Rita's tall and skinny and our curves, all four of us would have bodies that make Victoria's Secret models jealous? Genetics are a cruel and fickle mistress.

~ I LOVED our trip to San Diego. It was one of the best trips of my life. Next time I think we should go to Vegas. Have you ever been to Vegas? We should go to Vegas.

~Thank you for reading my blog and commenting. As completely stupid as it seems, I have days where I think: No one reads this thing. I am an idiot for keeping it up. I should just delete the whole thing.  Your comments help. Well any comments help, but you are really good about it.

That is all I have for now.
Love,
Megs

Last Night ~ Diddy

I feasted with friends last night. Here is how the menu went down:

I love Trader Joe's Island Soyaki sauce so I bought a ton of chicken and threw it in the crockpot with that sauce. I have a large amount of leftover teriyaki chicken and I will make a big pot of brown rice, some pineapple glaze to drizzle over and eat like a queen for the next few days.

I also made white rice (which I had a little left over and at 4:30 AM started thinking about rice, milk, and sugar. A childhood staple. Do you think you can make that with vanilla soy milk?)

There were also stir fry veggies and Hawaiian rolls.

But as usual, it was really about dessert.

For dessert I did three different variations of chocolate bark. Something I have been wanting to try and make for a long time. If you are working with white chocolate, it couldn't be easier. If you are working with dark chocolate, it is not as versatile. If you know the rules of working with dark chocolate (like I do now after trial and error), it is still just as simple.

The three different kinds of bark I made are:
1. White Chocolate Peppermint
2. White Chocolate Cinnamon Berry
3. Dark Chocolate Espresso

White Chocolate Peppermint. Crushed candy canes for fun color.

Bark is only as good as the chocolate you buy.

Starbucks Espresso beans. You better believe I set some aside for me to eat!

The 2 different kinds of white chocolate bark. They look so pretty laid out on a platter.

I always like to have a different centerpiece for each dinner. This is last night's. Oranges are straight from the tree outside my condo.

Lovely Rita ~ The Beatles

Oh, lovely Rita meter maid,

Where would I be without you?
~ The Beatles (Of course)

Dear Baby Sister,

Today I am grinning from ear to ear. It might be the Excedrin. But it also might be that I got a full night's sleep last night. Although it was almost physically painful put away my beloved tech, Denzel and  Idris, and sad to turn off the TV when it was the Burn Notice season finale-in the end it was worth it. Thank you for your suggestion.

I wish you were here-especially today. It rained all night last night. I know, I know, rain doesn't sound exciting to you. You see it all the time. But nothing compares to desert rain. Or rather nothing compares to the smell of the desert after the rain. If I could bottle it, I would give it away as gifts to everyone I know and love. And when they asked me if I was ever moving back to St. Louis, I would tell them to open the bottle and inhale. And they would know I was going to stay. The smell comes from an unassuming bush called the creosote bush. It smells like a gentle loving version of pine or cypress. Fresh, clean, and just a little earthy.

And when it rains at night in the winter, you wake to find the mountains wear the clouds like a silky white scarf.  Tucked in around them. Sometimes so thick you can just see the peaks of the Santa Catalinas covered in sparkling white snow. And although we don't believe in saints and such, I think Santa Catalina (In honor of St. Catherine) is apt, since the mountains are occasionally Tucson's saving grace for me.

But more so than the rain and the mountains, I wish you would come and spend time here with my people. My people, being my people, love you already. I like to imagine you and Kameron and Kaylan tag team telling stories of horrible children. Each one of you trying to up the other in who has dealt with the worst. I like to imagine you verbally sparring with Jarrell and physically sparring with Jerry. Cuddling up on the couch with Tim, Jessica, and I while we discuss the best ways to survive a cougar attack and argue about the actual size and ferocity of a bobcat. I like to imagine how quickly you will become comfortable with telling Jesse B. to shut up while laughing hysterically with the DiemTeam. I like to think about how like me, you will feel nervous with Kris and her crew(Cassondra, Monica, Abel, Jesse O. etc) because they are cool and we always feel awkward.  But like me, you will like them. A lot. I like to imagine Kyle using his signature charm on you. You, in turns,  laughing and rolling your eyes and teasing him and feeling flustered. And how Chase will tell us something and we will both stare at him trying to decide if he is being serious or messing with us. He is messing with us. We think.

I like to think about how we will, just like in the old days, get ready to go out together or go to meeting together and change eighteen different times while telling each other that we look fine before every single outfit change. And then we will each examine the other's head for hairs that aren't perfectly straight ironed until I get irritated and tell you that your hair is not going to get any straighter so let it go already! And then I will leave the bathroom in a huff and you will continue to maniacally straighten your hair for another five minutes. And then later you will discuss this in detail with Erin and she will agree with you and then give you helpful hints. And invariably, something will happen that makes us both laugh and laugh and laugh until we have to lean on each other so that we don't fall over. And all of my people will stare mouth agape at how much we are sisters. More so than anything else, the way we  laugh gives us away.

And we will listen to really bad cheesy pop and decent hip-hop and really, really good rock while we are in the car. And you will do your little jokey "raise the roof" dance move while driving that I find so adorably dorky. And then we will wish Margaux was here. We always wish Margaux was with us. Except when she is with us, and then, who needs other people to have fun? WE ARE THE FUN! Except that if Margaux is here, we will have one night, at least, where we will stay in. And then I will want Emma, Gil, and the kids. Because who stays in like the seven of us? Nobody! That's who. We are the champions of staying in. Movies, TV, games, food, drinks, jokes, sarcasm. The seven of us are our own party. So back to you visiting......

I know in reality that you coming to visit me is as easy for you as going to visit you is for me. That is to say, it is not easy. But a big sister can dream.

Love, love, love,

Megs

Blame Game ~ Kanye & John Legend

I am in a horrid mood. 

It is because I have LOST THE ABILITY TO SLEEP and am desperately sleep-deprived.

Has anyone seen my sleeping ability? I seem to have misplaced it. 

Are you getting good Z's? 

May I have them? I think you took them from me.

I would like them back now.

No? Those are not mine?

 Well would you like to share them with me? 

Because I was up until three a.m. this morning looking for my high quality sleepy times and they were no where to be found.

If you ask me how I am and I dissolve into a puddle of tears on the ground at your feet...

 just know it is lack of sleep.

The only night in the past two weeks that I have gotten a decent night's sleep was purposely Nyquil induced out of desperation and then I just woke up feeling like I had drank Nyquil the night before. Not refreshing.

Suggestions?

Last Train To Paris ~ Diddy Dirty Money

I have asked several of my friends this same question recently: Can you explain Diddy Dirty Money to me?

Really. Can anyone account for this??

More importantly, can anyone please make it stop?

The answer to that question is invariably: "Can't Stop, Won't Stop."

But he can stop and he should stop.

He just won't stop.

Do you think that anyone close to him has ever had the nerve to say: "Please stop shaming Biggie. Go back to your office. Stay out of the studio. And since we are on the subject, no more dancing either."

A review of Last Train 2 Paris that mirrors my feelings on Diddy.

Other Diddy issues.

12/17/10: I forgot that I totally was NOT going to post this out of fear that I am the Diddy of blogging and everyone around me is secretly all "please stop" and I am all "can't stop, won't stop." But it is too late now.  I have already posted it.

Confessions ~ Usher (Volume 7)

1. I am sore from bowling. Yes, bowling. Shameful.

2. The last time that I laughed really long and hard was at Gene Simmons on Family Jewels. I love that show.

3. My closet cleaning project is still not complete.  Perhaps there is a reason my nickname in high school was THE PROCRASTINATOR.

Fireworks ~ Drake

Dear Aubrey Drake Graham,

 I am not the type of girl who is prone to celebrity crushes. But you don't do any of the following things:

1. Rhyme "toot" with "boot" or "bump" with "dump". The "artists" that do seem to have mastered the art of amputating sexy from sexual. You bring the sexy back.

2. Rap like Lil Wayne. I know. You love him. But... did you read that interview he did with like... I dunno....Rolling Stone maybe? The one where he is portrayed as a person who is so drug addled that he and reality haven't been in contact for a long time.  For reals, I think they said he is incapable of like tying his own shoes or buckling his belt or something basic. So is it surprising that sometimes he sounds like he is just stringing completely random and unrelated words together in a rhythmic pattern?

3. Copy 'Ye's ego or straight up craziness. One day will you run on stage and steal Taylor Swift's thunder or get into an argument with Matt Lauer? If so, I will still think you are talented but I won't have a crush on you. Until then, I find you endearing.

4. Repeat two colors over and over and over and call it a song. Okay, okay,  in truth....I kinda dig "Black and Yellow" and something about Wiz Khalifa is just likeable. Not crushable, but likeable.

5. Act hard in cases when you aren't and/or try to hide who you are.  Maybe it isn't the most inspiring display of machismo and street smarts but in the hip-hop environment of total misogyny(full disclosure: my crush would be much bigger if you weren't so fond of the term "hoes") and constant fronting (Rick Ross trying to pretend he wasn't a corrections officer), I will continue to be grateful for a (if not completely real) convincing portrayal of an open and earnest guy with talent, big dreams, and even bigger drive.

Drizzy, I don't know if you the best, but you are pretty dang good.

Totally Crushin',

Megs

Ten on Tuesdays: Indie Kick

I am on this alt music kick lately. It happens. Don't judge.

Here is my current alt playlist:

1901 ~ Phoenix

Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop ~ Landon Pigg

Steady As She Goes ~ Raconteurs 

I Turn My Camera On ~ Spoon

We're Going To Be Friends ~ The White Stripes 

Maps ~ Yeah Yeah Yeahs 

The Ghost Inside ~ Broken Bells

Dog Days Are Over ~ Florence + The Machine

And any time I am on an alt kick you can bet good money that I am listening to Fiona Apple's first two albums over and over and over and.........you get the idea. I will never forget the first time I heard Fiona Apple. It was "Criminal" and I was in the green sherbet Honda with Emma. Many thanks to Emma for introducing me to the miserable little waif.  

So tell me, what are you listening to these days? 

Jingle Bells

On Wednesday I made two batches of brownies for dinner with my local makeshift family. The first batch was just plain brownies. A variety of family members are allergic to a variety of nuts so while I normally like to mix in some sort of peanut butter element (like Reese's Dark Chocolate Peanut Butter Cups), I restrained myself. Thank goodness because unbeknownst to me an extra allergic to peanuts friend was going to be there! But the second batch of brownies was a little more fun. I am calling them HOLIDAY BROWNIES.

Should I? Probably not. Am I going to anyway? Yes! So perhaps you will recall that as a non sequitor  comment in a previous post I mentioned my current Ghirardelli Peppermint Bark kick. No? Well, I am on a kick with the Peppermint Bark. So I decided to chop it up and throw it in the brownie mix.

And then I thought to myself, "Dude, I totally have Starlight Peppermints that I could crush and decorate the tops of the brownies with for extra cuteness! SWEET!" What I did not think to myself was, "Dude, you so do not have the right tools to accomplish that! You need a seal tight plastic baggy and a mallet and candy canes."  So I commenced trying to crush up Starlight Mints. It went......badly. But I did manage to get a few usable shards. 

Finished product: 

As it turns out, my local clan doesn't do peppermint and chocolate combination. But since they turned out to be extra tasty, I was more than happy to eat them all by myself.  

They are a nice departure from the only two foods I have been eating lately: Homemade vegetarian burritos and steel cut oatmeal with baked apples, cinnamon, and brown sugar. They are both good and filling meals, but not quite as decadent as HOLIDAY BROWNIES. 

Sleep To Dream ~ Fiona Apple

sometimes i take melatonin to help me sleep. forgetting the vivid, emotional, and frequently horrific dreams it creates. disturbing my normally peaceful slumber.

last night i fell asleep a little after 10. i must have immediately tumbled into my dream. it went like this: i am at home. i know it to be my home even though my dream home looked nothing like my real home. it was small. basically one room. the kitchen separated from the living room/bedroom by counter space. into my home walks some of my friends. here and now, i can't remember who any of them are. i was too fixated on the tall one who walks in last. a man i used to love. it is awkward. even in dreamworld, i remember that he does not speak to me. that he purposely ignores me for reasons unknown.   yet there he stands in my home. i play it cool. polite. he plays sweet, sincere, caring. he disappears thru a door at the back of my kitchen and i follow. it leads to a dark movie theater. as the movie starts we are curled up together and then...

everything changes. i am walking into a room that looks like a unfortunate 1970's church basement or funeral home. wood paneling on the walls. i am here to see one of my favorite writers. i have met her once before. she is standing there conducting a meet and greet. i suddenly feel out of place and stupid. just as i turn to leave (no one has seen me yet, i can escape unnoticed) her best friend, standing next to her, lets out a shrill yell of recognition and pulls me over to the writer. everyone seems to know me, especially the writer and her friend, and are happy to see me. my family appears out of nowhere. specifically my sister and her brand new baby boy.  i tell my sister that the writer's best friend looks and sounds and acts exactly like her best friend. my sister says she doesn't think so. she seems annoyed by that idea. the writer's best friend comes over to talk to me again and suddenly i realize she is ugly. a bad hair, bad skin version of my sister's best friend. i decide to hold the baby. a creepy old lady with a face like a star wars creature wants to hold the baby. i do not want this vomitous looking old hag to hold my precious nephew. my sister makes me give her my nephew. she instantly starts to suffocate levi to death in the folds of skin on her neck. she is doing it on purpose. she is evil. i want to move and grab him away from her. i want to scream for help. i open my mouth and no sound comes out. i can not seem to move. my sister sees what is happening and grabs her son away from her and gives him back to me. his features have taken on an over exaggerated cartoon look. it is awful. as i hold him, his breathing starts to return to normal and his features start to relax. but now the old lady creature is coming towards me again. once again i want to flee but can not move and scream but no sound escapes my lips. i begin to panic.

i wake up in a sweaty, terrified panic.

i had only been asleep for a little over an hour. it takes me a little time to calm down. to realize that my nephew is safe and sound. no george lucas creatures are threatening his safety.  but once i calm down i recall the beginning of the dream.  i fall back asleep covered in blankets and sadness.

Appetite ~ Usher

Today I got this funny little idea in my head. Here are the three key elements:

1. I am a mischievous brat.

2. I am obsessed with Top Chef and the new season, Top Chef, All-Stars is consuming me (and this is only one episode in). I think about it all of the time. You are going to be hearing lots and lots about Top Chef All- Stars. Prepare yourself.  New episodes air on Wednesday nights.

3. I mostly faithfully attend Family Worship night every Wednesday. This is a weekly event that means a lot to me and has had a big impact on my life. I am grateful for it. C is, of course, the ruler of our madcap weekly ritual and he rules with,  if not an iron fist, a very serious intent. Very serious indeed.

So there is this piece of me that wants look him straight in the eyes tonight and say, "C, can we move this along? I have to be home by 10:00 so that I don't miss any of Top Chef, All-Stars."  I just want to see if I survive. If I manage to cheat death.

Every time I think about it, I giggle. I will never have the guts to do this.

Ten on Tuesday: Ten Most Influential Albums of My Youth

Presented with minimal comment, the ten most influential albums of my youth and childhood. So 18 and under.

1. Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band ~ The Beatles
2.Poetic Champions Compose ~ Van Morrison
3. Nick of Time ~ Bonnie Raitt
4. Rhythm Nation, 1814 ~ Janet Jackson
5. The Four Seasons ~ Antonio Vivaldi (not exactly an album, I know)
6. II, Boyz II Men
7. Buena Vista Social Club ~ Buena Vista Social Club
8. August And Everything After ~ Counting Crows
9. Tidal ~ Fiona Apple
10. The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill ~ Lauryn Hill

Confessions ~ Usher (Volume 6)

This round of things that I would like to confess is just a list of really horrible pop music that Rita and I listened to for an entire winter. And the one album that my two younger sisters and I shamefully love(d).

1. Britney Spears' Blackout Album

2. Ashlee Simpson's Get Out Of My Head.

3. Miley Cyrus' See You Again.

4. Hilary Duff's Dignity Album. Most specifically Gypsy Woman. Sadly, I still freakin' love that song.

Bound To You ~ Christina Aguilera

I have a friend that I value. She isn't my closest friend. She isn't my oldest friend. She might be my realest friend.  Among the reasons I value her is that she makes me see the value in myself. When someone you love, admire, and respect tells you that you keep it real, that you are worth having as a friend, that they value their time with you, you believe them. If I were making a case for "widening out" and developing friendships with people of all ages, colors, and life experiences, she would be my key piece of evidence. She isn't someone I would normally develop a friendship with because she isn't my age and seemed out of my league somehow. Thank God I did! And I don't mean that in vain. With all sincerity, I thank God for her friendship.  I could tell you more about her, but it wouldn't be in keeping with who she is. She is who she is.  If you know her, you know her. If you don't, you don't. 

Whenever I am in the St. Louis area, I try to carve out quality time with her. And this most recent trip home was no exception. Here and now, a week later, I am having this realization about our conversation. She was talking about her immensely talented artistic husband and how the things that some people see as extras or luxuries (art, music, literature, and other creative outlets) are truly necessities for other people. And I agreed with her statement and related it to myself and my writing and my need for things like music and art in my life. She didn't disagree. But immediately, I felt stupid. Her husband makes a living off his creative abilities.  I keep a private blog. A blog that I sometimes get bored reading. 

The realization is that it was a true statement. I am not happy unless I am creating. Something. Sometimes anything. Blogging, creating collages, coloring, cooking, creating stories in my mind.   I might not be good at any of it. I am reminded of an early mentor, Bob, asking me if I had ever tried to develop a certain artistic skill (painting? sketching? I am not sure now), because I was complaining about my lack of this specific skill. His point was natural ability or creative juices are not always enough. Sometimes you need education, hard work, and practice. Perhaps the more accurate statement is I am not happy unless I have readily accessible creative outlets. All through school this was easy. There were art classes, music classes, journalism, drama, and most classes required writing. Writing has always been my favored medium. When I left school, it got more complicated.  Creating for no reason (especially with no monetary reward at stake) is frequently viewed as wasteful. A waste of time. Of energy. The feeling of necessity is hard to justify to onlookers who don't have it.  And my lack of ability doesn't change this feeling of necessity. I can't discount my creativity anymore.  (It hurts me to not add a self-deprecating joke right here. But I will not!! No backhanding!!!) 

The other part of this is how I need the arts or other peoples' creative expressions in my life. Most specifically, music.  You don't have to read very many posts on this blog to see that music is important to me. That it is a vital part of my every day life.  Sometimes I set out to write my love letter to music only to find that words don't suffice. Can I logically put into words why I for a certainty had to stay home "sick" from school because I needed a day to just be at home and listen to the Otis Redding's The Dock Of The Bay album?  (Sorry mom & dad!) No. I have searched for the perfect words for what songs like As, Feeling Good, Hallelujah, Slow Dance, Never Is A Promise, and I Know (just to name a few) mean to me. I can not find the words. Or at least I haven't yet. I will keep looking. In the end, I must have music.  There is nothing more or less to it. 

So here's the thing. The realization. The "root of the root and the bud of the bud." I can no longer hide or run from my creative urges and needs. Lack of skill is not an acceptable justification. And since practice makes perfect, you, my imaginary readers will be my guinea pigs. (Ah! Release! I feel so much better. The pressure of not skewering myself through out this post was killing me). And if you relate to any of this, tell me about it. Write it, paint it, sculpt it, play it, sing it. Just do it. 

Required Reading: (Or things I read that I found fascinating and relatable). 

 George Orwell: Why I Write. I was absolutely floored by how much of what he said about himself as a child was(is) true of me as well.  Most especially this line, "I was carrying out a literary exercise of a quite different kind: this was the making up of a continuous ‘story’ about myself, a sort of diary existing only in the mind."

Joan Didion: Why I Write. This link is just an excerpt. The whole thing is well worth reading. Here is what struck a chord with me:  

"All I knew was what I wasn’t, and it took me some years to discover what I was.

Which was a writer.

By which I mean not a "good" writer or a "bad" writer but simply a writer, a person whose most absorbed and passionate hours are spent arranging words on pieces of paper."  

And finally, an article on creative personalities from Psychology Today.

Blackbird ~ The Beatles

Here is a moment that only The Beatles can provide:

The car is full. In the back seat are husband and wife and an unrelated girl, twenty + years their junior.  The wife says, "Look at that huge crow....or blackbird...whatever its called." At these words, she points to a large bird sitting on a fence.

Husband and girl simultaneously start quietly singing, "Blackbird singing in the dead of night..."

I read on Wikipedia that Paul McCartney wrote the song Blackbird in response to the civil rights movement and the unrest at the time (1968) in the United States. Also, nothing speaks to the widespread of appeal of this song quite like the list of artists who have covered it. Click on the wikipedia link above to see the list.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly

Into the light of the dark black night

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly

Into the light of the dark black night

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Arizona ~ Kings Of Leon

Once Upon A Time......

I took a trip to Sedona and the Grand Canyon back in August.  Here are some pictures:

The Boys. 

The Girls

KayKay was SO scared!

But LOOK! She did it!!

Does it not look like he is about to fall backwards into the Grand Canyon? Go me with the picture taking!! (For Once)

This was my bravest moment. I sorta had to crawl on my hands and knees to this ledge , I was so scared!

Library Loving: One Day

I recently read a book called One Day by David Nicholls.

One of the reviews on the book cover said it was "profound without being pretentious". I agree wholeheartedly. The characters felt real and honest. Funny and tragic.  Wonderful and imperfect. Real people. People we know or are ourselves. 

Here is a link to a New York Times review of the book. 

I liked that this book was an easy read (I read it in a matter of a few hours), but at the end of it I didn't feel like I had just lost brain cells or shamed my reading ability. 

A Long December~Counting Crows

Meclizine Meg was staring out the window of the airplane.  She loved staring out the window.  Meg had heard people many times discuss the joys of people watching in such a situation.  Meg preferred taking in the landscape.  She found people watching to be vaguely annoying.  Everyone thinking they were Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot. Meg would see herself as Ms. Marple.  She had the same tendency to see similarities in people.  But mostly she just didn't like people watching.  Too many assumptions and leaps in logic.  She knew that people who didn't know her well, or at all, saw her as sad and quiet.  Melancholy. Melancholy Meclizine Meg.   Disinclined to smile.  People who knew her well described her as dramatic and bubbly.   She supposed she probably fit both sets of descriptions.

She found that she liked traveling alone.  And decided it was something she should do more often.   The drawback was not having people to watch her bags at the airport when she went to the bathroom.  Traveling with people was nice too.


Meg stared out the window of the plane and thought about all the cliches of flying.  She thought about a poem she wrote once about it. "Landings are the reality." That's how the poem ended.  She couldn't quite remember the rest.

Her mind then wandered through movie scenes.  Zach Braff's imagined plane crash in Garden State.  Meg Ryan's meeting of Kevin Kline on the plane ride to France.  He not so obliquely compared take offs to sex.  Meclizine Meg always compared them to roller coaster rides.  She loved them.  Take offs.  Roller coaster rides.   Both.

Meg was seated right over the wing of the plane.  This had become her preference.  Near the wing, window seat.  She watched Mandalay Bay, The Luxor, The Wynn, and The Trump disappear from view. As the plane elevated over Las Vegas, Meg saw for the first time the effect turbulence has on a wing.  The wing seemed to bend and buckle unnaturally.  It didn't seem right for metal to move like that.  Was it metal? It looked like metal.   Regardless, Meg found it frightening.

Out the window Meg saw mountains below the clouds.  She would know she was close to her destination when the mountain landscape gave way to the orderly patterned squares of greens and browns.   Probably mostly browns at this time of year.   And still it would be 10 times as green as the place she left behind.

The flight attendants for this particular flight had the worst hair she had ever seen.  They all needed haircuts.  One of the female flight attendant had a fork in light socket hairdo.   The male attendant needed a haircut and a reality check on how his hair was not helping him.

The pilot says they are over Colorado. Meg has the sensation of movement even though she is not moving.  Vague swirling somersault feelings.  Either her Meclizine is wearing off or it causes the very feeling it is supposed to prevent. She doesn't mind the sensation.  It's kind of fun.  The feeling of floating.   But the Meclizine itself makes her feel a particularly miserable kind of tired.  When she is going to be stuck as a passenger in a car, she always tries alternative treatments before turning to the Meclizine.   She eats crackers or little stomach friendly snacks and puts lavender oil on her wrists and inhales deeply.   It usually works well enough.  But she didn't know how air travel would affect her.   Between being struck with vertigo/motion sickness and Meclizine misery, Meg picks Meclizine misery.  Miserable Meclizine Meg.

There are no clouds now.  Clearly it is a beautiful clear day in Colorado.  If they are still over Colorado.  The earth is looking more and more like a patchwork quilt.  They must be further east than Colorado.  Nebraska? Kansas? Somewhere else entirely? Meg can not remember the exact borders of the states that line up between the Mississippi River and the Continental Divide.


Meg wonders what she will feel when she steps off the plane.  She has been unusually unexcited about this trip.  Mostly because she knows it will be busy.  Not the luxuriant week of lounging, baby holding, and cooking she desired.  Going home was always like this.  Complicated. Torn between all that she missed and all that she quite purposely left far, far behind.

The fellow passengers in Meg's row have fallen asleep.  The woman next to her is sleeping with her head on the tray attached to the back of the seat in front of her.  Meg thinks that when the woman wakes up she will regret this position.  It can't be easy on her back.   Meg is kept company by her iPod and a peppermint.  She realizes it is ridiculous to see the candy swirling in her mouth as a companion.  But the thought pervades.

Meg's first order of business upon arrival at her sister's will be to hold the baby.  Her second order of business will be a long hot shower.  She has been in the same clothes since after her shower early yesterday evening.  She smells like bacon.  Last night, she stopped to say goodbye to her makeshift Tucson family.  They were frying bacon in their poorly ventilated apartment.  The smell clung to her like a barnacle to a ship. She has grown used to the scent and no longer notices it.  She doubts her fellow passengers' noses are so forgiving.

The view out the window was now white.  Not even shapes and outlines of clouds.  Just impenetrable white void.   Meclizine Meg created an imaginary view in her mind.  Endless Patchworks of emerald green. It is November.  She knows her view is pure fantasy.

Her iPod must know she is on a plane because it plays for her Jon Mitchell's Both Sides Now.  Meg has also seen clouds from both sides.  She isn't sure it's quite the metaphor for love and life Mitchell makes it out to be.  But it sounds good.

The white void is starting to make Meg a little stir crazy.  And funny because as soon as she thinks that, her iPod plays Don't Panic.  Creepy little iPod. The plane drops perceptibly.  Are they close? Will she soon see her city? She loves flying into St. Louis because she knows the landmarks and the highways.

The captain announces the final descent.

The white void becomes a gray void and tiny droplets of rain stream across the window.   Her first view of St. Louis is the highway running along side the airport.

She is home.