Wurled.

Wurled.

As requested:





look at that posture!


And a bonus: me posing with my new Sherbert Fountain, a favorite candy ("sweet") of my youth. We found it in Shakespeare's Pub Shoppe in midtown. My friend Shea said the name "Sherbert Fountain" sounds naughty. I shudder to think of what it could suggest, like [whispering:] Golden Showers and what have you, but surely you all have some suggestions. But the candy is actually a licorice stick that you dip into a tube of sherbert. Lick, and repeat. [more whispering:] Perhaps these instructions are indicative of the candy's future usage as a naughty code phrase.

Out of Tune

Out of Tune.

Last night, we picked up a piano. Late night piano moving? Awesome. It's a 1962 upright Wurlitzer. And they only wanted $100 for it. I didn't have the heart to argue with them, so I begrudgingly scored a piano for a tenth of what it's worth.

It's delightfully out of tune. It sort of has that wistful seaside carnival feel to the sound, like in some of my favorite Over The Rhine songs. Sure, we'll get it tuned eventually, but right now, I'm enjoying the vintageness of the 1962 original configuration tuning. Ha.

Seriously, tuning it will cost more than the piano itself and that's just wrong.

I'm currently learning Auld Lang Syne (Old! Long! Since!) for our New Year's Eve party. In England, we all used to hold hands with our arms crossed in front of us, and swing up and down as we sang it together. As a kid, it was one of those songs you could have sworn was written much differently. Wikipedia refers to it "the song that nobody knows." Our more hipstery party guests may clear out when the singalong starts, but meh. Their loss.

Merry Christmas and Blessed Be to you all. And here's a hand, my trusty friend.

That's cold.

That's cold.

Dear husband,

It's totally worth living in a house with no insulation in the walls if it means waking up next to you sleeping in your cute little beanie hat.

xoxo,
your wife.

[LI].

[LI].

I'm still here. I'm just knee deep in kitchen.

The new guy officially closes and buys our condo in the morning. HALLELUJIAH or however you spell it archaicly. We cleaned our way out of the condo Sunday night. This is a good thing. Thanks be to God and Greased Lightning. (It may be scary and chemicalicious, but dude, they're giving away Vespas on their website, so they get a few treehugger points back). My mum asked me if it was a bittersweet moment, leaving our first home blah blah blah. Meh. Mostly, I just realized that we're kissing goodbye to the easy no-projects, usable kitchen, etc., lifestyle.

I think my next door neighbor might be a car thief. I can't really discuss it, especially since I think I'm stealing his wireless right now. Yay.

Coworker John and I went trail running at lunch today. I was starting to think that I had all but lost my distance running mojo, but a good trail run was the perfect medicine. John, while I love him to pieces, can also be a completely un-charming tool. But I'm sure that's why I love him to pieces in the first place. If he was just nice all the time, I probably wouldn't hang out with him. Meh, I probably would.

Speaking of work, things have been ridiculous and bizarre. I'm sick of the details right now, but I have to say that the ridiculousness has really brought out the best in certain people there. Jackie in particular. She totally stepped up. Dear Jackie, I heart you, and maybe I don't tell you that enough. Heart heart heart. xoxo, Julia.

Today, via my dear lovely Katie via the dear-and-lovely-to-some Kotke, I read Annie Proulx's original short story, Brokeback Mountain, you know, that one movie with the hot guys and all the press coverage. The New Yorker put it up online. She has an amazing voice and amazing characters. I choked up towards the end. But I confess, I had an underlying curiousity throughout the whole story, wondering how they're going to do the sex in the movie. I fixate on such trivial matters.

I copied the story text into Outlook and acted like I was working on an email, gradually reading a few paragraphs here and there throughout the day. But I'll have you know that it was one of the more productive days of my career. I knocked out a 26 page install guide today like it was butter. BUTTAH. Sorry. These last bullets quickly shifted from literature to gay sex to butter. This will be good for the search engines.

How do you make a name that ends in X into a possessive?

No rhetoric can change this: intentionally killing someone against their will = murder.

Thread bare.

Thread bare.

This weekend, Erik and I walked to the San Diego Aerospace Museum (in the furthest possible corner of Balboa Park from us, grumble grumble grumble) for the annual Thread Show, a consortium of fashion/style/accessory/music/food/coffee stuff. We got ourselves on the early bird list, so we only had to pay $5. Thank all that is holy we didn't pay any more than that.

I had heard that Korova coffee would be there, my mostfavoritest coffee shop, but all they had were giant pots of drip-brewed coffee that you had to pay for. Pshaw. The DJ was pretty good, granted, but the sum total of the experience was so limp.

Centered in the arena's stage, as well as at a smattering of pedestals around the floor, were these "models." They were dressed in various designers' best fares, and holding signs. The outfits were fine. A little over-trendy, but generally fine. But the hair and makeup? Holy god. It was like the makeup artists were trying to out-catwalk the catwalk. Aerosolled hair sticking out yards in various directions! Intentional frizz! Green streaky eyeshadow! Golden foundation!

Come on.

Clearly, we all know that San Diego is so the new Milan, but let's not ruin ourselves trying to inflict that opinion on others. They'll come around.

What is fashion these days, anyway, other than frantic mimics of whatever the supposed it girls are wearing, plus outlandish hair and makeup? And where do the it girls get their material? Other it girls. Everyone in attendance at the show was dressed exactly the same. (With the notable exception of this sweet boy wearing cut-off 4" inseam daisy dukes and athletic socks peeking out of the top of his mid-calf cowboy boots.) Everyone else, however, looked like they were just copying whatever Sienna Miller or Nicole Richie or one of the other barbies were wearing in the last issue of People. They all had the same tapered leg dirty-look jeans with metalic-looking flats and layered long tanks and fat wooden bangle bracelets and layers of scarf-y things. You can't just add green eyeshadow and towering hair frizz to that and pretend it's some great beacon in the fashion world.

That's not style. That's doing what someone else is doing. Style can be inspired, sure. But a carbon copy doesn't involve any imagination, any uniqueness, or anything really that daring. Please note that I'm far from being daring or imaginative with my own fashion, but these people claim style, whereas I, on the other hand, fully admit to shopping at the mall sale racks.

Ergo, it was pretty disappointing and my maryjanes gave me an ugly blister on the walk home. Stupid fashion show.

Ahem.

Ahem.

New hobby. And a new post.

Key demographic.

Key demographic.

Since being appointed at the age of 25, my friend Greg Tuttle often reminds me that I'm probably the most un-senior senior warden in the world, but that's really nothing special. What is remarkable, however, is that I've lasted this long without having a set of keys to my church. I'm hoping to make it through my entire term as senior warden without having keys. Not only am I the only senior warden to go without keys, I'm probably the last person in the entire neighborhood, parishoner or not, to be granted unbridled access to the parish hall. Fortunately for me, this means that anyone at any given meeting will be able to open a door or two. My lack of church keys was never an issue. Until now, of course, and I will likely refuse them if the priest or any of the sweet office volunteers try to force a set on me to break my winning streak in these final months.

My church, keychain generosity aside, is quite a remarkable home. I fell in love with the beautiful sanctuary and the refreshing worship when I was a junior at UCSD. Gradually, a few more of us young folk descended upon first two pews, and before long, many parishoners referred to us fondly as their "two row's worth of young adults."

It's interesting, however, the niche that was quickly opened and filled for us young adults. I feel like we all grew up really fast. Our lives were accelerated by our comfortable acceptance in a cross-generational haven. Soon, we were all getting married and then at least one member of every couple ended up on Vestry at the same time, and then there were babies and grad school and people had to start resigning from Vestry and Sunday School. Other people moved away to fancy jobs or schools in other cities. We still have a strong presence in the church, but it has definitely changed from those halcyon two-pew days – for better and for worse. There are some Sundays we don't even fill up half a pew.

It seems that churches are in danger of getting what they want. If, suddenly, an influx of energetic youth or young adults come into the parish, and then those people are made welcome in conventional ways – elected to Vestry, asked to be Sunday School teachers, signed up for a plethora of committees, given special youth meeting times, given sets of keys to the parish, etc. – the energy can be stifled. These people will come to the church for a brief period, and eventually, feel hardly anything special drawing them nearer into the community. They'll realize that they're pigeonholed as the "two pew's worth of young adults," and feel like there's nowhere to grow, like nobody is going to expect more of them than their token assignment. The danger is that we're treated as a possession – a commodity. We're "their" young adults. It's certainly not of negative intent – churches want us there for our benefit - but sometimes you just can't help but feel like you're in a display case.

I hate to over-categorize, but youth and young adults generally crave the unconventional. We don't want the church of our parents just yet. From our churches, we crave authenticity in its rawest form, and we thrive on a mix of comfort and challenge – intellectual, spiritual, and relational. Don't appoint us to committees just to say you have us on committees. Put us there because we're pretty smart, we care about our church, we're savvy, and sometimes we can be pretty hip (granted, we are also big geeks). Just what the church needs.

We're not the "future" of the church, nor is it cute that we're on your Vestries and appointed to be your senior wardens. This is now and this is it. We are the church, and we have a lot of work to do. But first I'll need someone to unlock the parish hall.

Yellow rectangular warehouse.

Yellow rectangular warehouse.

Yesterday, Erik, the father-in-law, and I went to the National Geographic Warehouse Sale in progress this weekend at the San Diego Convention Center.

If you live even remotely close to San Diego, GO. It ends today. Giant lovely books were $2-10. TWO DOLLARS. We got things like the Best Portraits ($10) and History of Religion ($Can't remember). Also picked up the new hardback World Atlas, for $60. I'm not kidding. This thing sells for $135. It's brand new! In plastic! Free fleece blanket! The thing might go to other cities next, but I don't care. GO. It's a little competitive feeling, since everything is in boxes and piled up and what have you, but how can you be competitive with sweet old geography-wizz ladies and men wearing those little photography field vests with the zippers for film, etc? Honestly, I didn't see any of those vests, but it wouldn't have surprised me if I did. There were in fact selling them, of course.

Details from the San Diego Reader:

National Geographic's Warehouse Sale runs November 25-27 at San Diego Convention Center (111 West Harbor Drive). On offer: globes, watches, books, maps, more. Hours: 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. on Friday; 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. 619-525-5000. (Downtown)

I totally wasn't paid to write this. But if anyone wants to buy me the little Lomo multi-shutter-release camera they have for sale there, my blogging will not be in vain.

Moved. Ish.

Moved. Ish.

I'd say we're all moved in, but the "all" part would be a rotten lie. We aren't going to get a fridge or washer and dryer delivered until the kitchen floor has been ripped up and replaced. We won't be unpacking anything in the kitchen until we paint the cabinets and try to un80s them. And the closets currently have giant holes in the ceiling with only a thin mesh wire cover protecting our clothes from the beasts and dust in the attic, so our clothes are just going to stay put in suitcases or the condo for the time being.

And also, we can't use our shower until the end of the week. This has proved to be wonderful. This morning, I took a bath. I AM NEVER GOING BACK TO SHOWERING. I promise you, I'm going to be a morning bath-taker from now on. I'm all soft and steamed and lavendery and what have you, and it took less time than a shower. Well, less time than one of my showers, that is. I also feel like of vintage legit about it.

I girl scout promise, we're never ever moving again. And not just because moving hurts. The house is so lovely in the mornings and the late afternoons. Light suits it very well and the living room is perfect for sunny naps. In fact, just thinking about our living room makes me feel a lazy spell coming on. That sounds bad, but I'm a little high strung and frantic sometimes, and I have a hard time doing the guiltless lazy thing. This will be good for my stomach. See also: morning baths.

Julia: spastic-colon-free since moving to Texas street.

When we find the camera charger, I'll take some pictures and give you all a little tour. (Of the house, not my spastic colon.) (Although, with the marvels of modern medical science, it can be done.) (For the love of god, stop this post now.)

Karen's toilet.

Karen's toilet.

I have a very dear old friend, Karen K, who, in addition to being gorgeous, caring, and hilarious, is also brilliant and wrote this poem in high school (roughly paraphrased; not even Karen remembers the actual wording):

As I feel the cold porcelain beneath the thin crinkly white paper
I wonder,
Is it wrong to pray on the toilet?

I have thought about that poem almost every single time I've used a paper seat cover on a public toilet since high school. Sorry, Karen, to think of you that way, but your thoughts are genius and I can't help it.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall: I hate you.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall: I hate you.

I know, this may sound like yet another rambling depressive pity-me event about my body/skin/whatever, but it's not! It's a house post! Lucky you guys.

Anyway, this last weekend has been all house, all the time for us. Ridiculously so. My reasons for wanting so badly to hurry up and move have changed due to this. Now, instead of just wanting the sweet life of living in a sweet house, I just would much rather be able to crawl into bed after painting until my arms ache, or at the very least, not have to pack three different outfits every morning. We even took over a TV tray and some folding chairs because we were sick of eating El Zarape potato rolled tacos (heaven!) on the floor.

I digress. We spent all.weekend.there, and if our bathroom hadn't been taped up and currently mid tile restoration and therefore out of commission (more on this another day), I might have dragged over an air mattress and some shampoo.

We also had Our First Totally Our Fault Damage, complete with Our First Taking Responsibility And Fixing It On Our Own Like Grown Ups event. I present to you: the office mirror. Yes, a mirror. In the office. And one of those giant bathroomy ones. Yes, you can't even see the edges of the mirror because it's THAT HUGE.



So, I quickly unscrewed the little claspy mount things (this is totally how I would write my user manuals if they would make it through the review process), and nothing happened. I tucked my fingers behind the sides and tugged a little. Still nothing. The fucker was glued to the wall. We made a trip to Ace Hillcrest Hardware, as un-Home-Despot as they come, and picked up some respirator masks, protective gloves, and a putty knife that I could wedge behind there and do a little poking. Still nothing. I heard a few cracks and grumblings, but it wasn't really doing the trick. I started hammering the putty knife further down there, but that was lame. Finally, I took the back end of the hammer and used the simple scientific concept of leverage to pry the mirror off the wall. Some loud banging and cracking noises ensued (manifestations of which will be identified below), and suddenly I was using every ounce of my being to hold up the heavy mirror currently descending upon me. We didn't really have time to survey the damage, because at this point, I had dragged Erik into the picture to help lift out and carry the massive 500 lb mirror (not really). It's currently outside, and I'm waiting for mother nature to break it for me so I can throw it away guilt-free.

Unless you want to buy it! I give you good deal. It comes complete with 5 priceless pieces of our house!





Good thing we wore those respirators.

Another trip to the hardware store later (luckily, it's close, and the salesguys are adorably indie rock hardware storeish, my new favorite genre), and I was quickly versing myself in the fine art of plaster application. The room is now patched up:



...and has been primed and painted in a tasty creamy latte color, of course. Late last night, mid-first coat, I turned to Erik and announced my current hankering for a latte. That room is going to be the death of me. Please look at the pictures above to note the colors that were previously in that room. It was either leady mustardy yellow, barbie-flesh beige, or Apartment White. Not delicious. I'll take another picture later to show you the finished product this weekend, ALONG WITH ALL OF OUR FURNITURE. (Including the bookshelves that will likely be in front of the lame plaster patch job we just did.) Because we're finally moving. This weekend. Hot damn.

I was immensely proud of myself, and found each step of the destruction and repair process to be completely charming. I also understand that this will soon pass, and house problems will quickly stop being quaint and fun (which also means I'm not likely to blog about a step-by-step plaster patch-up any more, thank all that is holy). But I will blog about the spiderous crawlspace if I ever decide to tackle that, but I'm trying not to even entertain that thought yet.

Good times. Dusty, but good.

Overdue.

Overdue.

I wish I could have posted earlier this week, but my mind wouldn't stop spinning enough to string a sentence together.

For the first time, I honestly can't post about what's really getting to me because I'd get in serious trouble. But things just aren't right when your boss has to close her blinds so everyone passing by won't see you crying. But it's too late, because enough people have already gone by. And you also can't really tell what decade you're in. Why would someone treat someone like this? I love and hate my job at the same time. I hate that it does this sort of thing to me, but I know that I would not be able to handle any of it were I surrounded by people any less genuine, authentic, and amazing as my favorite coworkers. So I guess I'll stick around?

And you're also on a no-boys-allowed message board and somebody specifically pages you, by name, only to tell you to Fuck Off in words and in gestures.

I'm telling you, I'm this close to swearing off women altogether. There are enough gems out there to keep me grounded, but dude. Wait. Let's take a moment to sufficiently honor those gems, those amazing women in my life right now, because I definitely just "but dude"ed their sentence. I don't know what I would do without you, my lovelies. Okay, the non-gems: maybe it's the internet, or maybe it's just a few bad eggs, but I can't fathom how mean people are capable of being.

I don't know what my world has come to. But I'll tell you something; I've been so raw all week, and have felt things I never knew I could feel. It has indeed been cathartic and catharsis we know is good. Bad things happen to good people for good reasons blah blah blah. But right now I'm sitting in my favorite fair-trade coffee shop with free wireless (I would pay them to have the following tagline, "Cafe Korova: the wireless is free but the trade is not.") and there's an all-woman girl-power art show going on, and the whole package is just what I needed. A panacea. Right here on Park Boulevard.

If life weren't difficult at times, we wouldn't notice when things were amazing. Moments of goodness and peace and empowerment would slide by like a million speeding raindrops chasing each other across the passenger window.

I know I end 50% of my posts like this, but dude, I'm so fucking sappy.

Spirit.

Spirit.

Yesterday, I was telling my coworker Jade about a situation currently underway at church that's making me fairly sad. It involves praise music, so we'll just leave it at that.

In setting up the story, I had to specify that I was actually not playing guitar on the offending Sunday; I was taking a nap in the car during most of the service because of my overconsumption of sugary lemon martinis at the Halloween party the night before. Jade stopped me at the hangover part to point out how much better the story had just become.

Clearly, I'm the best damn senior warden a church has ever had.

Well, I'm neither poor nor innocent...

Well, I'm neither poor nor innocent...

I present to you, my latest performance art piece. I call it: "the spray-painted doves, they are attacking." Click for more.



There are varied pictures in there, including downtrodden Erik/Charlie Brown and a choice, red-eyed close-up of my faux eyelashes cast downwards towards one of many girlie drinks which collectively made me too queasy to do anything else except nap in the car during church Sunday morning.

Now I'm off go to jumping into fountains naked, and what not.

I'm THIS MANY.

I'm THIS MANY.

About twenty days ago, the third anniversary of this wee blog passed unnoticed. I totally forgot, so shame on me.

Happy third birthday, little blog. We've been through a lot. I think I deserve cake or something extraordinary. (Sorry you can't eat any, because you know how you're a concept or at the very best a signal in air? Actually, come to think of it, I have no clear idea what you are, except that you pretty much have no mouth.)

Best.

Best.

Last night, on our ascent through the dense fog ensheathing Iron Mountain, John and I were joking about the usual things like mountain lions and bad guys, but also something new: mountaineering accidents.

"I'd have to go on local news and stuff."

"Yeah, it could be your big break."

"She thought it was just a muscle cramp. But I just knew her leg was actually broken. I knew she'd never make it out alive, so I had to leave her out there. It was so hard." [TM Jon Krakauer and/or Joe Simpson, etc.]

"Now would be a good time to shed a tear for the camera - maybe choke up a little."

"*tear.* I lost my best hiking buddy out there. But I think I'll pull through."

And that conversation, my friends, fully warmed my heart. Call me needy, but it really makes my world go round to know that I'm somebody's "best" something. Even if involves a plot to kill me.

Fintage.

Fintage.

This weekend, we went to the whatever-th annual Pasadena Heritage Craftsman Weekend. It's always so wonderful to tour around the sweet tree-lined streets with beautiful old houses, and sometimes even go inside and peek into people's built-ins. One of my favorite things about Pasadena is the historical planning convention of requiring specific trees assigned to each street. 100 years later, you have matching canopies of majestic, elegant, matching trees on each street. It's beautiful.

However, the weekend was a little anticlimactic. Now that we're Authentic Craftsman Bungalow Owners ourselves, I did feel a little more legit being there, but I've been sensing something for a while about modern Arts & Crafts/Craftsman culture that was magnified in the home tours. I've always been wary of people who live in museums or antique stores - with everything down to the magazines in the bathroom being authentic! period! pieces!. That's obnoxious. But now I've pinpointed something a little more annoying. It's the 21st century manufactured reincarnation. I'm so fed up of seeing living rooms decorated with new Stickley furniture (you know, those chairs and tables with the wooden arms and vertical slats) and the mica lampshades resting upon new artisan textiles embroidered a few months ago with ginko patterns or a William Morris knock-off design. And hanging chandeliers with the cliche craftsman window decoration in black metal over a white or mica glass.

We saw one house that seemed like it had been gutted and redesigned to match a cover of American Bungalow Magazine. How is that paying any sort of homage to the spirit of the original house? We bumped into the owner during the tour, and he mentioned that he had been up until 2am putting door knobs on. I glanced at the door knobs and saw beautiful retro-looking glass door knobs, but with shiny new esceutions and hardware. The knobs were brand new. The subway brick tiles in the bathroom were shiny and new, the grout blindingly white. The kitchen had granite counter tops and unpainted wood cabinets with over-the-top "craftsman" looking hardware.

I don't know why I'm dissatisfied with both the fake new stuff and the antique stuff. Maybe it's the saturation. Why can't a house have a healthy blend? Why does it all have to look the same?

The emphasis of the era wasn't necessarily on achieving that sought after Stickley chair look; it was on hand-crafted, durable and beautiful joinery. The furniture, like the houses, were designed to find harmony between form and function, beauty and structure. Kitchens and bathrooms, with the exception of a few notables like Greene & Greene's Gamble house in Pasadena, were generally 100% white. The end of the 20s saw a little color being added to kitchens and bathrooms as everyone discovered art deco, but for the most part, cabinetry and trim was painted white in those rooms.

This leads me to my next point. We're pretty much certain that the pink and blue bathroom tile is original. This kind of breaks my heart a little bit. If you recall, we had thought about installing subway tile in the bathroom. Some of the pink tiles were cracked, and others were surely damaged beneath the 70s shower fixtures. I had even almost convinced Erik to go with a light brown grout (ew, I know) to make it look less shiny and new and fake.

However, we've now scrapped the entire plan. We're keeping the pink and blue tile. The only work that needs to be done on the bathroom now is finding new knobs and fixtures, getting a new sink, and fixing the damaged tiles. A friend recommended some guy who is apparently a genius tile restorer. And, since everyone I've talked to is asking me how they do that, I'm just going to tell you right away that I have no idea. We're meeting with him on Saturday and then I'll get back to you.

So now I need to figure out how to decorate this pink and blue bathroom. Good times. I love it already, but it's definitely tough love. I keep telling myself that it takes a special kind of person to love things that are hard to love. This house needs me. Miraculously, the little house has barely been touched over the years. We found out that if it was truly built in 1929 like we're told, we're the third owners. Why should I rip up a perfectly good bathroom now? If I just want to get the pretty perfect subway tile white bathroom, that makes me no different from the guy with the shiny new doorknobs and cliche Stickley furniture.

Also, it will be way cheaper to just fix a few tiles (I hope) than to start over from scratch. The people we bought it from paid $10,000 for it in 1965. Then they sold it to us for a small profit. Everytime I think about how rich the previous owners are now, I cringe about spending another penny.

In other news, look what we got a few weeks ago:



It's about a 1932, which is pretty much spot on what the stove would have looked like in the old house. We will go with a modern fridge, because old fridges are a total energy suck (people and electrical). But the stove is just darling and is quite effective. Not to mention it has been professionally restored a few years ago. Hot.

This was a rambly elitist post. I'm over myself now, though. Carry on. As you were. Etc.

High strung.

High strung

I think I'm ready to snap. I'm so tightly wound. I settled down in bed the other night only to find myself thinking, "FALL ASLEEP NOW, DAMN IT" but barely being able to hear that thought due to all the others. I'm going to go ahead and bullet out all the sources of stress for you guys. Yay!

My church. It's kind of hard for me to talk about this stuff here, but it's really taking a toll on me. I'm trying to remain diplomatic and Everyone's Favorite Senior Warden, but it's almost time for me to start breaking people's comfort zones about leadership and direction and money. Also, we're like $40k in the hole. This is nothing compared to other financial quandaries of other organizations, not to mention the pick-up in church giving that occurs in November and December, but it's tough right now for our little family.

My work. Yeah, I'm pretty much not going to elaborate.

Selling our condo. We just decided to get a realtor to list the place, because we were wasting so much time sitting at open houses, and also not being very effective. We would like to get this shit sold so that we can stop paying two mortgages and move into our sweet little dream house ASAP. However, the realtor came over the other night and gave us a to-do list which involves planting things on the patio. There is no time! I think she might come over and plant gladiolas out there while we're sleeping - she's that kind of woman.

Fixing up the new house. Sometimes I'm glad that we have a blank slate ahead of us, and we can ensure that things are appropriately restored, not McMansionly remodelled. But fucking A. We tried to design a new kitchen cabinet layout the other day, and I almost walked out. I DON'T KNOW IF I NEED 3 DRAWERS IN THAT CORNER OR JUST CABINETS AND ONE DRAWER OR WHAT! Stop pressuring me! I want someone to stand in the kitchen and understand what I want and then make the best decisions about drawer placement for standard work flow. Or something. And I wish they made skinnier fridges.

Fixing up the new house, part two. Our tile guy broke up with us, and we're trying desperately to find another contractor. The bathroom walls have to be ripped out almost completely on the lower tiled segments, to allow for a fresh coat of concrete liner and tile. I know this is a daunting task, but someone has to be up for the challenge or at least up for calling me back. The most recommended contractor called me in the evening yesterday, after we had planned on a "late afternoon" informal meeting in the bathroom (bwah), and asked if we could meet on Monday instead. I just want to move in! Maybe we will make sure the toilet is set up during remodelling, and just run over to Erik's sister's house in the mornings to shower. I'm that ready.

My car. It's screaming at me. It's more of a squeal, when I idle. I'm almost sure it's a fan belt something or other. I'm fully sure it's annoying and scary. Today, however, my Manipulating Since Three Years Old (tm John) tactics scored me Erik's car for my commute. He has the day off.

My body. I would like a retrofit please. Mine is pathetic. It's getting better, but I just am so tired of two periods a month or random inexplicable breakouts or hives or whatever or pesky IT bands. Also, last night, the TV taught me that I have Restless Leg Syndrome and all I have to do is take one pill a day for the rest of my life and I'll be able to relax. I've dealt with my stupid feet and lower legs not being able to relax if I'm too tired of on too long of a drive for my entire life. At least as long as I can remember. I recall as a four year old or something, watching my dad rip of his shoes to squeeze his rugby/hockey-wounded foot, and was instantly relieved that everyone had the same problems. Later on, I mentioned this to my dad, and he explained that he had broken his foot more than once and it acts up every so often. I then realized, having never played rugby, that my feet were just naturally and abnormally annoying. Sometimes I have to tuck my feet under Erik when he's sleeping, because having 180 pounds of human being crushing them makes them feel a little better. But hey, I'm totally not about to pop a pill a day. I'm sure the days you don't take the drugs are far, far worse than the baseline pre-drug. Of course, that's just my inner hippie talking. Anyway, at this point it's all way more than I can fit in a 15 minute doctor's appointment, so I'm just going to move on.

The internet. Why can't we be nicer? Why would we write mean things publically that we would never imagine saying out loud in front of other people in real life?

People who are stressed out about bird flu. Seriously, if you're that paranoid, don't eat a fucking turkey for thanksgiving. That makes me happy, at least.

In a nutshell, that is where I've been. It's been a lachrymose week and my precious local NPR station is on a fundraising drive and is thus useless to me. IS EVERYONE OUT TO GET ME?

Alright. I feel better. You?

Not The Same.

Not The Same.

I'm having the suckingest day ever at work today, including but not limited to a box full of 8 reams of paper falling corner-first on my left thigh, then crying about it, then someone walking in on me, then not even writing a technically written sentence until 1:45pm due to spending the day doing random administrative duties and box dropping that are so not included anywhere near my job description, then driving in the Poway heat trying to find a fucking Jiffy Lube and FAILING, turning around dejected, only to pass it on the way back to work. Then John, of course, made fun of all the previously listed items. I choose my friends wisely, you see.

I figured the best bandaid for such a lousy day was to plug myself into the ipod and blast Ben Folds. I kept having to turn it up, because I COULD STILL HEAR EVERYONE IN THE BUILDING WITH ALL THE TALKING AND CHATTING AND LAUGHING AND TYPING even all the way across by the windows. Probably not, but I was emotional which generally leads to exaggeration . Anyway, "Not The Same" came on the ipod. At the Wiltern show in August, Ben had the entire audience join in on the "ahhhhh, ahhhhh" part, using, I kid you not, three-part harmonies. We rocked it (thanks mostly to the phenomenal acoustics in the beautiful Wiltern theater). It was so beautiful.

It was just such a perfect time to hear that song again and I felt the need to enter the experience into my little time capsule here. This post brought to you by a ridiculously sappy moment in a ridiculous day.

My leg hurts.

Whatever happened to my ROCK AND ROLL?

Whatever happened to my, to my ROCK AND ROLL?

I just got back from the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club show at Brick by Brick. It's got to be one of the best concerts I've ever seen. They rocked. I have rockstar crushes on everyone in the band. Also: normal crushes.

If you haven't ever seen them live, now is the time. They are shining. Unlike a few years ago, when Robert's bass broke on stage.

First of all, we didn't actually have tickets to the sold-out show. My neighbor and concert carpool gave me one, and then one of the roadies gave us his access pass to get Erik in. We instantly felt a mixture of extremely badass and extremely lucky. Everytime I'm at Brick by Brick, I'm always surprised how great of a venue it is, it's lameness only due to the lame bands they usually bring in. Tonight, of course, was an exception. And we knew it. Towards the end of the set, one of the boys (I couldn't really see who was talking and you know how they both kind of sound the same?) said, "San Diego, it's, you know, alright." Thanks dude. I agree. I usually keep my expectations low for the rockingness and legitimate badassness of this America's Not Quite Finest Anymore City, but hey. We're alright.

After the show, we were dawdling back to our car and saw Robert with the many last names standing out in the alley. Janine, my neighbor, is more of an explicit rockstar addict than any of us, so we got her album signed. I had a chance to talk to Robert a little, and I asked him if he remembered opening for The Autumns, like five+ years ago in LA. Erik's college roommate and one of our dear friends, Frankie, is their guitar player. He not only remembered, but said that he had really liked them and played with them quite a bit. He asked me what they've been up to, and after hearing about their latest album, said something along the lines of "they're such fucking hard workers." Erik was really impressed that he remembered that, which must have made him change his mind about asking if he remembered when his bass broke at Coachella. On the contrary, tonight made me want to be a bass player in a rock and roll slash bluesish gospelish slash general indie band.

My concert reviews and scores generally revolve around how charmed I was. And, charmed I was indeed. Red eyes and tears no more for you, my love.

I feel like I should add: I'm fully aware that I am a poser when it comes to badassness. For example, the lower right side of my back was hurting significantly at the start of the concert, and the pain and discomfort not only got worse, but spread all over my back, right-side, and abdomen throughout the show. My unbadass diagnosis was that my kidney broke.

A Brief Recommendary Interlude.

A Brief Recommendary Interlude.

Things that I have recently enjoyed, because I'm a consumerous consumer with lots of consuming:

One - Vitasoy original soymilk.

Henceforth, named soy juice because that's what it really is. A few weeks ago, we went to our favorite Mexican restaurant in San Diego, Rancho's Cucina for breakfast with Sarah, Scott, Grace, and Natalie. The breakfast was far below their usual standard, but that's beside the point. Sarah and I got coffee, and I asked for a little jug of soymilk for mine. I took a sip of it before adding it to the coffee, and damn it, it was the best tasting soymilk, ever. We even gave it to sweet probably-lactose-intolerant Grace to drink, and she slurped it up with nary a complaint. The waiter showed us the container, and LO AND BEHOLD, it wasn't even vanilla flavored. The container looks slightly retro and cheesy, and I thusly adore it.

This morning, I poured a little of the vanilla-flavored variety Vitasoy into my coffee, and it kind of sucks. (This is proof for you that I haven't been bought out by Vitasoy.) So, stick with the plain original un-vanilla'd and NEVER MAKE FUN OF SOYMILK AGAIN, bitches.

Two - The new BRMC album, "Howl."

We've seen the delightfully named Black Rebel Motorcycle Club before, but I am so much more excited about seeing them tomorrow night due to the recent release of Howl. The album, it is golden. They mellowed out slightly since their prior albums - but not wussy mellow, or third album mellow, or even radio sellout mellow. I think of bluegrass and Bob Dylan when I listen to Howl. Did you know that BRMC is Noel Gallagher's favorite band? That's hot. Anyway, don't steal this album. And come to their show tomorrow night.

Three - Veg'n Out Restaurant in San Diego's North Park neighborhood

This vegetarian restaurant does not suck! It is mere blocks from our new house, and I am counting the days until we move and I can coast on my rusty uptown-style bike to this delightful little eatery and eat their North Parker or South Parker burgers more often. It's very casual, and the staff will talk to you from the kitchen while they're making your food. The best parts of the menu are the burgers, although Erik likes the (non-vegan) fake chicken nuggets, too. The prices can add up when you start getting extras (like vegan cheese or avocado), but it's worth it. They give you some veggies and dip with your burger, and I recommend asking for the vegan dip. It's brown and tasty. The non-vegan dip is just boring ranch or something, aka white and non-tasty. They also have a really impressive childrens' menu.

Four - Pannikin Coffee in San Diego County's Two Mile Strip of a (strangely) Incorporated City of Del Mar, specifically their soy vanilla latte

Good god, this may well be the best, frothiest, sweetest, coffeeingest soy vanilla latte I've ever had. I always make a point to get one on the way out of town (northward on I-5, which is pretty much the only way we ever go out of town anyway), even if I'm running late. Like Saturday for example, when I was an hour late to a bridal shower, but damn it, I didn't fall asleep at the wheel and spent the two hour drive engulfed in perfect vanilla latte bliss.

Pannikin is a local company, so anyone outside of San Diego is just going to have to wait until they visit me. The sweet coastal pale yellow victorian stick house-ish incarnation of Pannikin in Encinitas is by far the cutest setting, but their lattes hardly measure up to the Flower Hill Pannikin in Del Mar. Especially when the skinny girl with the jutting shoulder bones and fantastic jewelry froths my soymilk. That sounds naughty. But there's a big difference between a latte crush and a girl crush.

Tangential fact: at least 50% of all parking citations received by Julia have been from the Incorporated City of Del Mar.

Further tangential fact: I have one that I got in July but forgot about.

The end. Note that I didn't start calling soymilk "soy juice" after all.

Run Julia, Run!

Run Julia, Run!

First of all, if you haven't been in the previous post's comment box and said something smart and inspiring, get thee there!

Second of all, many of you have endured my seemingly endless recovery since June's marathon. Running, in a word, sucked. After one pitiful, highly emotional six minutes of running on a Saturday morning, I had to stop. My IT (iliotibial) band wasn't just irritated, it was sore. I had never had any IT band problems before, but I knew enough to realize that I was putting my running future in jeopardy with every continuing step. So I stopped running. After six minutes. I was so furious and frustrated, thinking of all the times I'd easily ran ten times that, just a few days after knocking off a 3 hour long run. I knew I needed to seek help.

When I first starting running with Team in Training, they set us all up on a little listserve thing. Most of the emails revolved around run locations, carpooling, and fundraising. After the marathon, they added us all to an alumni list. These emails were easier to ignore. Fundraising for people in the current season. Help needed with aid stations for their Saturday runs. Sign up to be a mentor next year. Etc. But I knew everyone I had ran with was on the other end of that email address, so one night, I went for it. My post was titled something like, "I need an IT injury support group." The replies flooded in. Many people mentioned that they usually delete all the emails that come from the listserve, but this one caught their eye. I realized that yes, my problem was indeed potentially serious, but that other people knew exactly what I was feeling. I felt idle, useless, betrayed by my own body, and most ridiculously, I felt a little flabby. Not running was depressing me.

Finally, I was advised by Coach James to seek professional help. (For the IT band, not for my mental injuries). $130 and two hour-long visits later, I was covered in bruises THAT I PAID FOR, after having the sports therapist do all sorts of deep tissue "massage" (piercing evil wounding beatings). There was also the awesome little electrostimulator tickler thing, which made me happy on the inside. After a rough assignment of cross-training (which involved buying a temporary gym membership, boo, hiss), dilligent foam-rolling (lying on top of a giant stiff cylinder of foam and well, rolling over it), extra protein consumption, and lots of stretching, I finally got the okay to run again in late September. "Ten minutes," she said, her 2% body fat arms bent at right angles, sun-damaged hands perched on her hips. "Flat surfaces, for now. Add a minute every time and see how it feels."

Everyone in the waiting room clapped for me when I answered, "No, I don't need to make another appointment at this time." It was equal parts empowering and dorky.

Yesterday, I ran about 23 minutes at lunch. I ran again today. I'm forcing myself to not run again tomorrow, even though I want nothing more. Usually, going out to lunch with John is pretty much my favorite part about my job, but there's something about being injured - being literally unable to run - that makes it so, so much better when you're whole again. Sorry, John. Nothing personal.

But, damn it, I'm running again. I'm happy again.

Gas is FREE! No strings attached!

Gas is FREE! No strings attached!

Mitsubishi Motors current offer, "Gas Comes Standard", offers you a free years' worth of gas (12,000 miles at $2.95/gallon) if you buy one of their cars.

The commercial has pictures of lots of cars and SUVs driving fast, along with high gas station price boards. The website for the campaign claims that "there's only one way to beat the high price of gas," which is to get it for free, buying a car with total irreverence for fuel efficiency. I honestly thought they were going to announce a hybrid or a highly efficient new model. So naive I am.

Here we are giving away free gas and loosening environmental standards to allow more polluting foreign blends of fuel to be consumed in the US. Why aren't we instead asking people to drive less? Why have auto manufacturers stopped producing electric cars? The message is that conservation really isn't necessary. There's plenty of fuel! And if it feels like there's a shortage, well, hell, they'll either pay for our gas so we're more likely to buy a less-efficient car, or just claim that since we're running out we need to drill every last inch and start allowing dirtier blends. It's an emergency. Congress will pass anything.

There's no doubt that gas shortages in Texas last week caused a true emergency as thousands upon thousands tried to evacuate. But the shortage isn't the emergency: it's our unwillingness to consider change; our unwillingness to be outraged at Mitsubishi's propose solution for our expensive fuel bills.

Even though he can sometimes be a total and slightly embarassing liberal whack, I heartily endorse Kalle Lasn's commentaries on "true cost" economics in his book, Culture Jam.

More than any other product, the car stands as a symbol of the need for a true-cost marketplace, wherein the price you pay for a car reflects all the costs of production and operation. That doesn't just mean paying the manufacturing cost plus markup, plus oil, gas and insurance. It means paying for the pollution, for building and maintaining the roads, for the medical costs of accidents and the noise and aesthetic degradation caused by urban sprawl. It means paying for traffic policing and for military protection of oil fields and supply lines.

The true cost of a car must also include the real but hard-to-estimate environmental cost to future generations of dealing with the oil- and ozone-depletion and climate-change problems the car is creating today. If we added up the best available estimates, we'd come to a startling concluion: The fossil fuel-based automotobile industry is being subsidized by unborn generations to the tune of hundreds of billions of dollars every year. Whey should they have to pay to clean up our mess?

In the true-cost marketplace of the future, no one will prevent you from driving. You will simply have to pay the real cost of piloting your ton of metal, spewing a ton of carbon out of the tailpipe every year. Your private automobile will cost you, by some estimates, around $100,000. And a tankful of gas, $250.

He's sort of doing the Fox News-esque "some" bibliography, but still. I agree with him. We have run out of time for this consumptive behavior. Giving people free gas in exchange for irreverent automobile purchases right now is like laughing in the faces of my unborn children.

I think offers like Mitsubishi's should be illegal. And if that makes me a socialist, sign me up.

Forever marked.

Forever marked.

This weekend, our best friends' youngest daughter, Natalie, was baptised. It was such a beautiful weekend here, with your standard-issue San Diego weather: moderately warm, sunny, slightly breezy skies. It's why we all pay the mark-up to live here. Sarah and Scott met up with us for breakfast Saturday morning, for a so-so performance of the usually spectacular Ranchos Cucina. It was great to get a little time with them before the relatives and friends started pouring in, and also before big sister Grace's 15 hour sleepless marathon. We played a little at the new house and in Balboa Park, and then parted while we prepared for the reception we were hosting at our condo. I hadn't really planned anything. When we have parties, there are usually many lists involved. Shopping, to-do, timeline for day-of preparations, etc. This time I had absolutely no lists. SHUDDER THE THOUGHT.

It was a wonderful evening, despite being ill-prepared, party because someone brought a portable zoo kit for the kids to play with on the front porch, and there was plenty of beer and apple juice. But it was wonderful mostly because we were all there to support one little girl in her lifelong walk with Christ. God has had remarkable plans for sweet Natalie for a long time, and one day it will be her choice to embrace these plans and continue her journey of faith. But Sunday morning, we poured a little water on her and welcomed her unconditionally with arms wide open into the body of Christ.

After the priest poured the water on her, he handed her to me. Sweet confused wet baby. Then, there was a little annointing of oil. It's always my favorite part of baptisms, because the baby always seems completely captivated by the priest as he draws a tiny little oil cross on their forehead, saying, "something something something, you are marked as Christ's own forever." It's like they can feel it happening. As she snugged into the crook of my arm, I watched as she stared right at the priest. I felt like I totally lucked out. Like, who was I to get to hold her for this part? Even after watching the scene countless times, it was life-changing beyond words to stand there and hold her then.

I can only pray that Erik and I, her godparents, might have a fraction of the impact on Natalie that she and her family have already had on our relationships with God. But I look forward to trying, and I look forward to being there for Natalie along her walk with God. Well, she's not quite crawling yet, but she flails and wriggles around on the floor. I'll totally flail and wriggle with God too.

Sweet little powerbook.

Sweet little powerbook.

This right here is my first submission to the infonet from our new powerbook. First of all, it's swanky and lovely. Second of all, just a few minutes ago marked my first viewing of my blog on a Mac or on Safari (swoon). It looks bad. I'm unhappy. Surely a kind soul out there knows my tendencies (some would say "neuroses," but everyone hates a critic), and would wonder why the font in the cagefighter graphic is a little wonky, or WHY THE WHOLE BANNER IS NOT CENTERED, but for some reason chose not to tell me. It's like I don't even know you anymore!

As soon as I figure out how I can fix it, I promise that I will. I apologize for the last three years of ignorance. In the meantime, I will be taking suggestions. And salutations for finally entering the elitist underground subculture club of Mac users worldwide.

Also, another thing we reluctantly enjoyed with our old Gateway Profile (hiss) was the lovely WinXP option of setting up multiple user accounts. I could actually IM Erik and it would be waiting for him when he switched over. I could store my gmail password to memory. How can we work with two sets of usernames and passwords? Help please.

Thank you. Please hold for normal posts, resuming shortly. Depth is forthcoming; aluminum is strangely inspiring. JUST YOU WAIT.

Two years.

Two years.

Today is our two year wedding anniversary. It's been kind of a remarkable day, what with our house closing in the morning and two of our really close and sweet and lovely friends finding out that they're finally pregnant. Yay! But, you know. The usual.


September 20th, 2003

Two years. They flew by. It hasn't even really occured to me that we don't have our pictures organized in an album (but damn it, I coded them into a gallery!), nor did I ever unbustle or clean my dress, nor did we ever eat the top of our cake. I actually have no idea what happened to the top of the cake. To all of the cake in fact. I know that the baker cashed our deposit check a few months after the wedding, so I'm not sure what that means.

These things really don't matter, and dude, if we haven't done them yet, we're clearly not going to do them ever. Dress preservation and aging cakes are so overrated anyway.

Yesterday, as we were running late (my fault) to meet the realtor for the walk-through, I said to Erik, "I am pleased that you're my husband. Are you pleased that I'm your wife?" He nodded, and then slammed on the brakes as we hit a traffic jam. Then I said, "...Even when I make you late?" [pause, silence]. "I mean, even though I make you late?"

I am indeed pleased. With Erik, sometimes it feels like there aren't even any little things to be all "even though" about.

I totally scored.

Hairy toes are just another sign my youth is slipping away.

Hairy toes are just another sign my youth is slipping away.

After a few days of opening this blog to see my toes - and dude, they're distance-runner toes, and they can be kind of hairy in certain lighting - I had to update the blog for the singular purpose of bumping the picture with my toes.

Things are going well, as long as I don't think about work. In fact, if I hadn't carpooled yesterday, I might have quit. But I needed to give Matt a ride home so I figured I'd stick around. Speaking of Matt, these final carpooling days are going to start getting bittersweet. Soon I'll be moving, far away from our favorite little Park-N-Ride, and making all new carpool buddies. What if they're not as flexible? What if they don't participate in trash talking? What if they like country music? (Well, Matt likes country music. We can only agree upon no music, bluegrass, or Johnny Cash). I digress - what if they only like bad country music? What if they don't appreciate my friends drunk dialing them from my phone like that one time with the margaritas and the phones back when Matriarch Sarah had about a two week window where she could drink?

I feel like I need to somehow commemorate the carpool breakup. Maybe we could tailgate in the Park-N-Ride lot and blast bluegrass, drink margaritas, talk trash about work, and drunk dial Sarah, preferably at a time when we won't wake up any of her sleeping babies. So much has changed since our halycon days of drinking with whoever we want without any fetal alcohol syndrome side effects or disturbing naptime or having corporate jobs with carpool buddies. Our lives are zooming by us, and I fully intend to appreciate the little moments, the little rites of passage, the little hairless toes of youth.

Wish you were [there].

Wish you were [there].



This weekend I went to Maui. I know, I know. I really do have a rough life. The best part is that my trip was pretty much all paid for, as I was asked to be on music staff for a retreat out there. I went without Erik (gasp!), which was such sad times, but, and you didn't hear this from me, kind of nice to get a bed to myself for once.

Four and a half days later, the persistent heat and humidity did not in fact end up being a four-and-a-half-day facial and instead made me ripe for biting. I am covered in mosquito bites. I spent most of my time a little bit inland, just outside of the great town of Haiku. It felt like a jungle.

I am also dead tired. Somehow, I had the bright idea of coming straight to work after a redeye flight. Please allow this to also explain my haphazard sentence structure. I do have a lot of pictures, but, because I came straight to work, they are still stuck on the camera. The ones in this post are cameraphoney.



Side note: here's where I totally had to explain my penchant for group and solo self portraiture, especially because there were always plenty of idle people standing around able and willing to take pictures. I guess I take for granted the fact that Erik is immune to my "art projects" and/or the people I spend most of my time with are a little more understanding of the blogging/self-portraiture culture.

Also upcoming, after a little work and sleep: details and pictures of my sweet ex-work-boyfriend's rowdy Jewish wedding in Mexico. Remember, dear reader, the days of Joel the work-boyfriend who work-broke-up with me?

I still love you, Prius. Hybrids 4EVA.

I still love you, Prius. Hybrids 4EVA.

Let me preface this by reminding you all that we are a proud hybrid-owning family. We were very excited at the prospect of getting a fancy little sticker allowing us solo access to the carpool/HOV lane, since the federal government allowed CA to do so a few weeks ago.

This weekend, we finally got our stickers. Yes, plural stickers. There are four of them. They are HUGE. They are bright yellow. And all four have to be affixed permanently to the car, interspersed along our shiny smooth Prius bumpers.

They look exactly like this, but SEVEN INCHES LONG:



I've been cracking myself up commiserating with this thread at greenhybrid.com.

From an LA times article linked in the thread:

They're big. They're ugly. They're offensive. So say owners of the hybrid Toyota Prius -- not about larger gas-guzzlers that hog the road but about the decals the state is handing out that allow hybrid owners to drive solo in carpool lanes.

Prius owners cheered when Congress approved solo driving in carpool lanes last month.

But a growing number of drivers are now protesting because the California Highway Patrol is requiring that four bright yellow decals -- 7 by 3 inches and 5 by 2 inches in size -- be displayed on their cars.

I firmly believe this is karma coming back to bite us in the ass. We were so proud. We were so smug about our fancy little efficient cars. So holier than thou. This is everybody else's mustard-yellow way of getting back at us. If they can tell that our one inch registration sticker is current or that someone is carpooling with a two year old in the back seat without four gigantic stickers permanently marring the paint, then they can certainly tell that we're driving one of three approved hybrid vehicles eligible for HOV access. And hell, it's up in the air whether the stickers will mean anything after 2007.

I'm guessing the guy who designed the access sticker and placement requirements doesn't drive a hybrid. Bitch.

Recommended reading.

Recommended reading.

A retired priest and parishoner at my church, Bill Mahedy, gave this sermon yesterday morning. It was incredible. Luckily, he's also a blogger and had the sermon on his website right away.

Reflections On The Hurricane

I promise, it is worth reading every single word.

And you'll be comfortable in your ergonomic desk chair, instead of sitting in the second row on wooden pews, trying to take stealth sips of your latte while the priest isn't looking, because the senior warden should totally know better than to bring a latte into church.

Bill has such an amazing voice for a Christianity in crisis. This sermon changed my life a little bit, and armed me to be fully vocal for a more socialist concept of government and public life. [Especially stumbling across the U.S-Mexico border in stillettos on the way home from Joel's wedding last night. More on that later (the wedding and/or the border juxtaposition.)]

Good and Faithful Servanthood.

Good and Faithful Servanthood.

I feel like the hardest thing absorbing all the reports about New Orleans and the south and Iraq and the Shiites and all the dying and destruction, is that my life is just continuing on, as usual.

That's not right. I feel like I should be suffering too. I should be struggling. I should be putting every ounce of my energy and time into helping these people survive, and if that means my job and house and security are in jeapordy, hey, I'm clearly not the only one. And, scooting back a little to think big picture-ly (yes, that is a new adverb), I should be reducing my dependence on oil. I should be reducing my dependence on clean water. I should be reducing my dependence on non-renewable energy. Each of those things can be done without really connecting with the grit of the situation. An entire city is gone. People are still trapped in a city filled with sewage- and corpse-ridden water, and I took a 15 minute shower this morning involving luxurious bath oils and a sugar scrub that you can actually eat as you use it. No, it's nothing kinky, it just happens to have ayurvedic/food-based ingredients. And here I am in my air conditioned office, sitting in my clean ergonomic desk chair writing technical user manuals that will not help alleviate the suffering in the world right now.

I've been gradually reading (it's taking me a few days, because I am slow and easily distracted) an essay by the great Richard D. Bartlett.

He discusses the concept of meaningful work/career in a way I've never seen it addressed before. Richard writes:

Schumacher's solution (which he identifies as being a Buddhist point of view) is to take "...the function of work to be threefold: to give a man a chance to utilise and develop his faculties; to enable him to overcome his egocentredness by joining with other people in a common task; and to bring forth the goods and services needed for a becoming existence."

I found myself strangely comforted by this statement amidst an otherwise bleak commentary on my life (it didn't help that he uses technical writers as his example). I cannot really say if the egoless tasks I am performing here, as a cog in a giant wheel, are actually improving our existence. I work in a strange sector of the semiconductor industry, so technically I'm somehow indirectly contributing to the fact that people can turn on their computers and read this blog or read the news or bank online or google high school classmates or look up porn. But the sad part is that if my town, my house, my photo albums, my bed, my life - if they were all completely flooded with equal numbers of freshly dead and exhumed ancient corpses swirling in the midst of the dirty water, you would probably all still be able to bank online or read blogs or talk on your cell phones. Or even if you couldn't do that, you would still have breath in your lungs and love in your heart, and you could just walk over to your friends' houses and talk to them instead of calling or blogging to them.

On Sunday, a sweet and terminally ill lady at our church was presented with a prayer quilt. Many people had crafted squares with messages or pictures for her, but one struck me, and set me off in a standard Julia crying fit. It just said "Well done, good and faithful servant." I was overwhelmed by the beauty and sadness of the thing. I was overwhelmed thinking about my own life, and whether I would be greeted with that statement at the end of my life. What am I doing that is meaningful? Are all of these cubicle-based contributions to a common task truly meaningful? What would happen to our society if everyone left their office jobs and ran off to work with their hands or help sick children or alleviate world hunger? What if nobody wrote the user manuals? Is it my lot in life? Is it wrong to feel like it is unfair? To be jealous of the people who get to do the true prophetic work of the church? To, out of jealousy, chastise them as egocentric?

I feel like I should quit my job and sell my stock options and possessions to buy a cheap used helicopter from craigslist. After I learned to fly it, I would take my helicopter to New Orleans for a few days and airlift stranded residents and prisoners and homeless people and hospital patients. And then I would buy an old cattle farm and send all the sad cows to Farm Sanctuary and then grow grains in their place using immeasurably less water and energy, and send the staple food items to poor starving countries. But then would I get a "well done, good and faithful servant," or would it be more like, "mehhh, E for effort, egocentric servant"?

But you and I both know that this will not happen. I'm cannot singlehandedly buy a helicopter and learn to fly it and also while flying with one hand, work the airlift contraption with the other hand. I cannot singlehandedly tackle hunger season in Nigeria. I need to be a cog in the wheel. I need to join with other people in the common task. And then it hits me, I am sort of doing that already. That is, in the time remaining after my 9+ hours daily in a concrete box.

There's nothing like a disaster to trigger an existential crisis.

When in Rome.

When in Rome.

Our project intern here is my new favorite chatty girl friend. Easy to talk to, open, approachable, complimentary, good-humored, perfectly liberal, etc. The main problem is that he's a boy. And before you get any naughty thoughts in your head, please remember that this year's crop of interns were born in like, 1983. The turn of the decade at 1980 is, for my generation, such a tidy distinction between adult relationships and like, pedophilia. Or, my little brother, who was also born in 1983. And yes, I was born only a few months shy of the 80s, but damn it, those four months make all the difference. And yes, my husband is five years older than me. I'm a walking double-standard.

A week ago, the intern and I were discussing his recent boys' trip to Italy, and the fact that they ran out of money and slept on some famous steps of some famous building in Rome, blah blah blah.

I said, "No way! A friend of mine [WHO DID AND SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS] had sex on some famous steps of some famous building in some famous city in Italy. Maybe it was the same step."

Thankfully glossing over how un-special of a coincidence that would be, he then fired off such questions as, "So, who was it with? Some Italian guy? A tourist? Older? Younger? What time of day was it?" and so on. After I told him that I didn't really ask those kind of questions, he gave me a disappointed look and said, "Oh come ON. Details! I always ask for details."

I feel like a failure to the greater sisterhood of girl friends everywhere.

***

Also, someday I will write a deep post again, and that may or may not be a promise. I have plenty of fodder right now, however. For example, we are currently reading a book about reclaiming the Book of Revelation from the fundamentalists, and it has lots of big words and big thoughts, and our tiny little group spent most of tonight's grouping session reading paragraphs aloud and shaking our heads and laughing nervously and feeling a little lower-intellect-ed (okay, maybe that was just me). And then we realized that the book sounds exactly like a Bill Mahedy sermon. You probably don't know this man, but imagine someone giving a sermon on reclaiming [insert Christian thought]from [someone bastardizing that thought] and making you feel simultaneously inspired, faithful, enraged, empowered, and at least 25% sheepish.

So, until then, it's yellow fridges and girl-ish interns for you.

A match made in a mental hospital.

A match made in a mental hospital.

Sometimes it occurs to me that Erik and I are really bad at fighting because we don't do it that often. And we don't fight that often because we always seem to agree on big things like politics and priorities and what have you. This can sometimes make things boring, and as I mentioned, when something really big does come up, we have had little-to-no practice and resort to childish means like cussing and saying things like, "I wish we weren't having Christmas AT ALL."

I was contemplating how agreeable we can be on the drive home tonight, and a snippet of a conversation from a few minutes earlier popped into mind. We were talking about trying to find plain-looking appliances that were enamel, rather than textured plastic or stainless, lest they look ridiculous in our little old house. This way, we could use enamel-y paints and fix them up however we want. Erik had done some appliance-store-hopping earlier in the day, and had found an enamel fridge.

I then asked him, "so, we can paint it yellow?"
Erik said, "yeah."

Okay. Let's pause for a minute.

WTF, mate. Who wants to paint a fridge yellow?
And why are there two of us?

Bung hole.

Bung hole

I've recently fine tuned my bungalow snobbery with the addition of the American Bungalow Magazine message boards to my list of time sucks.

We're currently faced with a quandary. Two, in fact, but both revolve around the same theme: kitchen and bathroom restoration in light of my burgeoning old house snobbery. Today, we're talking about the bathroom, however, which we will call the Bung Hole Bathroom. Originally, when we first looked in the bathroom before buying the house, we were kind of disgusted. "Ugh," Erik's mother and I fizzed in union. We scoured bungalow and craftsman books and resources to try to get ideas for touching it up. The sad part is that only a few things have been modified from the original 1929 bathroom. The wall tiles are still there, the hex tile floor is perfect, the pedestal tub is original and the medicine cabinet is still there.



Why is this sad, you ask?

Well, a previous owner "remuddled" the bathroom fixtures a little. They replaced the sink, but just spackled in the wall mount holes in the tiles.



They replaced the faucet, shower head, and soap dish in the tub/shower. In doing so, I'm guessing, they weakened the tile and it has eventually formed giant cracks pointing down in a giant evil V shape towards the new soap dish and what have you. The tile will need replacing, which is good because dudes, it's pink tile. It may be original, but that doesn't mean the bathroom designers in the late 20s and 30s had good taste.



We have always, always had our little hearts set on a claw foot tub. You know, with one of those metal pole shower heads and curtain rails. I even found a perfectly cheap one on craigslist and am so close to making a deal. However, despite my general disagreement with the direction bathroom style started to go at the tail end of the twenties and into the thirties, I don't know if I can bring myself to rip out the tub.

Like I said, we are keeping the floor. It's beautiful. We will be retiling the walls up to the same height with white glazed "subway" brick tile.


picture from subwaytile.com

It is highly doubtful that there would be hex tile beneath the existing tub. We had considered this, and decided that we would build a small riser, a pedestal step thing, cover it with subway tiles (to match the walls), and put a claw foot tub on there. A tiled riser would look something like this step:


picture from subwaytile.com

What would you do? I love the claw-foot-tub-on-a-tiled-riser-idea, but it just seems so traitorous to 1929 and our original bathtub. Also, keeping the original bathtub will save us many pennies. TALK ME DOWN.

The Socially Inept Chronicles of Youth.

The Socially Inept Chronicles of Youth.

Sometimes I honestly can't believe young Julia was the same person as me. Other times, I am shamefully aware that we're totally the same person. Sure, I was a good person. All people are good, and the rotten ones are simply misguided. I was hugely self-conscious, obsessed about what everyone thought of me, and completely socially useless. Maybe not useless, but at the very least awkward and inappropriate, and had very little of what we call a "filter."

Instead of awaiting embarassing anecdotes to rear their ugly heads when spending time with old high school or college friends (that's you, Kashkouli, you charming bitch you), I am going to pre-empt all of that and launch a new and unscheduled series here chronicalling the most awkward and telling moments in my youth.

So there. I totally warned you.

---

The Socially Inept Chronicles of Julia's Youth, Part One:
I Was A Mean Girl (but not in the good-looking and popular way).

I had successfully forgotten this moment, but was painfully reminded thereof while having late night, post-Bikram's yoga hot chocolate (no, not exactly rehydrating) with a dear old friend, Ali, who was my high school boyfriend Nick's best friend, but then became a very close friend on his own dime when we went to college together.

In high school, we always ate lunch right outside the science classrooms. I sometimes had to force myself to go and sit with my only three girl friends in the main quad, because being around Nick's friends was always constantly entertaining. The group ebbed and flowed, but for the most part, the usual suspects always showed up to the little grassy man-made hill between Mr. Nuthall and Mrs. Rankin's rooms, the AP science teachers and academic league coaches.

Those people were my friends. I was not one of those people. The underlying environment was that, sure, I was a smart girl, but I was probably the dumbest of the group of friends. Someone always has to be the dumbest in any given group, so I felt like it was my lot in life right then. I stepped up. I took one for the team. I took classes like "oceanography" and "zoology" and "band" while everyone else sat captivated by Nuthall in AP physics and Mrs. Rankin in AP chem and bio and then went back for more of the same at academic league practices after school.

That said, they were not nerds. Sure, some of them might have been on the golf team, and some might have their varsity letters in marching band, and, like I said, they were ON ACADEMIC LEAGUE, but for the most part, it was a cross section of normal teenagers with normal foul language, hyperactive and sometimes mostly-fulfilled sex drives, and a penchant for fine large-breasted women, video games, and laser tag. All of them were very handsome, and their girlfriends were beautiful and of similar intellect and wit. They just happened to love school and be geniuses.

I had recently met a girl, Illian, from another local high school at honor band. We hit it off and started hanging out together. She was head-turningly beautiful. She was also incredibly musically gifted, and, in addition to her french horn skills, she could also tear it up on classical guitar whilst sporting the most elaborate fake nails a classical guitar has ever known. She was also single, and at the time, I totally couldn't fathom this. Yesterday, we went sailing with our church youth group, and I overheard one 13 year old girl say, "I've been single for like a whole YEAR, gosh!" and I laughed at her. Then, I realized that I WAS TOTALLY LIKE THAT, except that I had, however, never been single for a whole year straight from 13 on. Technically I was worse. Anyway, enter Neema. Also single. Also head-turningly beautiful. He was part of the science building grassy knoll lunch crowd.

One day, I had this great idea to play matchmaker for Neema and Illian. I was telling him about her at lunch, and sweet Ali overheard. I need to interject a brief history of Ali. This young man is quite possibly the most charming person you'll ever meet. He was also mildly awkward and was mid-growth spurt at the time. For some reason, and Ali constantly complained about this during college, most girls were instantly at ease around him and became fast friends. Just friends. It was the bane of his heterosexual existence. Now that he's older, a Hot Doctor, and getting some on at least an intermittent basis, I'm more comfortable admitting that I never really thought of Ali as a member of the opposite sex. Sorry dude. Granted, I always thought he was cute. I honestly do not know where my next painful line of dialogue came from. Hopefully I was just wittier than I or anyone else gave me credit for back then, and this was just a teasing jab.

As I told Neema he should go out with Illian, Ali butted in. "What about me, dude!"

My response? "No, she only likes tall and good looking people."

After unearthing this brief moment in my dark history of underdeveloped social skills, logic thoroughly evades the fact that Ali and I still have each other's phone numbers memorized. Also memorized by Ali? The entire global mythological catalog in chronological and regional order and this exact story down to the most minute details. For shame, Julia. For shame.

I algebra you.

I algebra you.

John and I seem to have been fighting a lot recently. John is my coworker and one of my best friends ever, and is only marginally aware of how many stories internet strangers hear about him. The fights are ridiculously stupid stuff, of course, the kinds of things you're embarassed to even vent about because the battles are so worthless. And, since he's male, the fights are fast and over as soon as I decide to get over them and stop holding a grudge. But regardless, I think we've both been overwhelmed with our own lives lately, and because of that, haven't really had much time to spend together or hang out like we used to. Things have just felt strained and I miss my friend.

Friday afternoon, after a bickery lunch, I was rushing around, flustered and frustrated, to get out of work early. Erik was whisking me off to LA to the Rufus/Ben Folds show, and I promise I didn't google the entire social calendar in Los Angeles to figure out what my surprise was. Yeah, that's another story. I was running about an hour and a half late at this point, and on my way out, I walked by a machine that I'll be documenting first thing Monday morning. John flagged me down and started making fun of me in his usual harmless way, and finally, I just couldn't take it anymore. Being epitomically girlish, I whined at him to stop it and that I needed a hug instead. Of course, John isn't much of a public hugger and I certainly didn't expect this to change standing around machines and technicians.

However, he then hugged a nearby giant tank of liquid nitrogen (don't try this at home kids!) and recited an "(a+b)" distributive property or pythagorean something or other equation in his best BBC children's programming voice and hugged me via algebra. My heart, warmed by factorials.

Math is totally the new love.

Birthday me.

Birthday me.



We got the house. A 1929 Craftsman on a large corner lot in the Morley Field area of North Park. Hot damn. Walking distance to our favorite restaurants and coffee houses. One block away from Balboa Park. Beautiful unscathed and unpainted gumwood interior trim and built-ins. An old four chime doorbell with the chimes hanging next to the door. Fugly kitchen and bathroom. Even fuglier 70s addition room with bright green carpet and wood panel walls.




I always felt like such a poser at all the Craftsman heritage weekends and tours we go to, fresh from our 1998 condo. Now we can actually buy fixtures and cabinet hardware from the booths and sellers in the convention halls, rather than just walk by and dream.

Our first post-closing, pre-moving project will be to restore the bathroom to it's original end-of-the-Craftsman-era glory, with mini unglazed hex tiles on the floor and sweet little latches on the sleek white cabinetry. Then there'll be a kitchen to restore, and by restore, I mean, completely rip up the 60s remodel monstrosity and start over. The project list is very long but not at all daunting. And believe you me, you'll be hearing all about it here. Good times.

But still, daunting project list or not: holy crap. Hold me.

Disconnected.

Disconnected.

These days, I feel like I'm constantly disconnected to my faith. I can't say what it is that I'm doing wrong or what I'm not doing - I don't even know. I'm barely getting by God-wise.

It's actually a completely bizarre time to feel separate from God. Life is truly wonderful, and I am constantly thankful to God for providing me such richness of my surroundings - completely priceless friendships, a loving partner, and the nature around me. Prayer is also looking better for me. I find myself subconsciously slipping into silent prayer when I see that someone is nervous, stumbling over speech, or looking dejected or uncomfortable. This is huge for me, because prayer, especially extemporaneous prayer, has always been a battle and has always felt forced.

My favorite line in scripture, which I have blogged about before, is Micah 6:8. "...and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?". Again, sorry for getting all Bibly.

I feel like I'm getting the first two items on Micah's little to-do list (a man after my own heart, of course). It's that last bit. And dude, I'm trying the walking humbly part as hard as possibly can try. It's those pesky "with your God" words that are challenging me the most. Yes, here I am being subconsciously thankful for the gifts that I am so generously given by God, and subconsciously aware of the presence of God, but I just feel like I'm walking next to God, not with God. Maybe a few shoulder widths apart even. Before we go any further, please all of you get the god-awful image of the "Footsteps" poem cheesy artwork out of your head right now. God and I are TOTALLY NOT WALKING ON THE BEACH, and there's certainly no pinkish yellow sunset behind us. We're in like, downtown Los Angeles or somewhere. Okay, got it?

So there's Julia and God, in LA, walking humbly, etc. We're doing all of these great things for each other, but there's just not that feeling of with-ness. I want God to be holding my hand. I don't care if I'm wandering aimlessly or am lost, but I just want to be more spiritually present and feel God more deeply. And I don't know what to do. I feel powerless to change and I can't get Cat Power out of my head.

Lots.

Lots.

Last night, we had a rocking party at our house. It's my birthday in a few days, so we decided to commemorate the occasion by throwing a giant bash. It was probably the biggest turn out of our party throwing history.

My sweet friend Melanie brought a rowdier party mix which stealthily replaced our hand-crafted West Indian Girl/Frou Frou/Moby-esque mix package towards the end of the night. The mojitos were delicious, so by then I was quite mojito'ed and dancing broke out. In our living room, right in front of our dancefloor-ready ~15" television. Awesome.

There were emails sent from my account circa 2am this morning. I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THIS.

I recently found a new perfume, Keiko Mecheri's magically concocted "Damascena" scent. It's one of the more beautiful things I've ever laid nose upon. I now like a total of two women's fragrances in the world, Ann Taylor's "Ann," and this one. The Damascena is significantly harder to find, however, and is not for sale anywhere in San Diego. I promise you I was not dropping hints at all, but my in-laws picked up a bottle from the sweet Catalina boutique gift shop and coffeehouse, CC Gallagher. This last weekend, I would go in there twice a day for lattes or miscellaneous treats, and spritz the gorgeous stuff on my wrists as often as possible. I didn't buy the bottle, and have been kicking myself all week for my misguided moment of sensible frugality. The in-laws showed up this weekend with a bottle. I am happy and very fragrant.

We put an offer on an old craftsman bungalow today in one of the most glorious parts of town. Holy fuck. Hold me please. I might puke or something.

Heh. I could go on and on with much bulleted nonsense, but I kind of like the drama of leaving you there. So that's all for now. We shall not speak of the house until our completely low-ball offer is accepted.

War!

Yay! War!

One of the writers in our group has an oversized George W. Bush photo calendar. A few days ago, Jade, our only male writer and one of my most favoritest people ever, asked me quietly, "dude, did you see August?"

Sure enough, August is a giant blown up picture of GWB giving the thumbs-up.

I'm completely finished having any kind of political discussion with said writer, as she'll always just say, "you're joking!" to every serious statement I say. So Jade and I have taken to silently making fun of the calendar by giving each other the thumbs up sign.

Sometimes, when we're giving each other the GWB August Thumbs Up, we whisper, all enthusiastically: "War!"

Drunkblogging.

Drunkblogging

Tonight, after going to a newly-acquainted coworker's party WHEREIN HE MIRACULOUSLY MADE TWO EARRINGS APPEAR, we went to my sweet Casbah to see West Indian Girl and Turin Brakes.

I might have suggested that my coworker might have had less-than-honorable intentions with your kind and innocent blogger here, but that was all debunked the second he snuck away to his bedroom only to bring back a Geographic Information Systems (GIS) textbook to show off to Erik. Hey, I'm right here! Pay attention to ME! Both of you! Anyway. After things got wild and crazy with the geography textbooks, we had to rush away, but got there right as West Indian Girl was wrapping up.

Turin Brakes was fantastic. We're long time fans, and it was pretty incredible to see them in such a divey small shack of a venue. My ears are still ringing. And so is my body, thanks to the Korean saki I donated to my coworker's house but then drank 1/3 of myself. Mmm, rubbing alcohol. Anyway, this paragraph lets me off the hook for any uncomfortable sentence structure, spellings, or word choices included in this drunkpost.

So, tomorrow, I'm going to dedicate at least an hour's worth of our drive to the Long Beach ferry terminal to West Indian Girl, since we missed their set. And then we're off to Catalina for a long weekend of napping in the sun, pretending to kayak, and hiking as far as we can go. The in-laws will be there, including my sister-in-law's new-ish boyfriend who is about to be shipped off to Iraq. All I know is that he's younger than me but was quoting Star Trek when I first met him, and even though I've never really watched a full Star Trek episode in my life, he totally won me over right then.

See you all soon. Must briefly sleep and detox.

You're my favorite thing that I hate.

You're my favorite thing that I hate.

Last week, we went to a Padres baseball game and managed to sit near the type of guys who actually go out of their way to be rowdy and annoying. I overheard them swapping "kicked out of ballpark" stories.

We were also with a group of Cardinals fans (FOR SHAME, I know), so this fueled their little annoying baseball fan act.

At one point, the Cardinals made several phenomenal double plays in a row, all courtesy of their shortstop, #22.

The rowdiest fan yelled out, "I HATE YOU NUMBER 22!" And then, maybe catching himself on his negativism and the fact that the neural pathways associated with anger, hatred, and negative thought were being reinforced as permanent bridges rendering him less able to undergo positive thought and love-type emotions (according to What The Bleep Do We Know, which I just watched last night) he yelled out a second time: "NUMBER 22, YOU'RE MY FAVORITE THING THAT I HATE."

Sentences like that never fail to make my day.

Flick, rrr.

Flick, rrr.

Yeah, it's only just beginning. But here I am on flickr - "_julia_"
Look for the cute blonde kid avatar, and then instantly wish she was still that sweet and unmanipulative.


inside st. paul's cathedral, london, dec 2004
picked for the blog link entirely due to the coloring, because i'm shallow like that.

Our scanner is currently malfunctioning (actually, nonfunctioning. I give it too much credit), so we're sequestered with old stuff and puny pictures from the puny Gateway digital camera that, I promise you, is literally falling apart. After a brief and unsuccessful attempt FROM SOMEBODY IN MY IMMEDIATE HOUSEHOLD WHO'S NOT ME to take the camera apart to, you know, check the battery, the camera body no longer completely screws shut. A screw even hangs halfway out.

Meanwhile, the 80s Nikon and the fabulous purloined Autocord are sitting here making beautiful matte finish pictures (courtesy almost entirely of Chrome labs and courtesy only slightly of me accidentally framing shots and pressing buttons). But you can't see any of the recent ones until I find the scanner install disks or find some time to do some good old misappropriation of resources at work.

Happy flickring.

Ve-toe.

Ve-toe.

Eleven months after the horrific toenail injury I sustained on this famed night hike, the mangled toenail has finally left me. It took it's demise quietly yesterday evening, as I sat down in the desk chair only to feel something different with my toe. Sure enough, part of the toenail was just sitting there on the bamboo floor. Luckily, since it had been eleven months and somehow, by the grace of god, this fidgety, picky, obsessed toenail owner didn't forcefully remove it, I had a little baby toenail growing beneath the dead disgusting mangly mess. I have saved thousands of unsuspecting, law-abiding citizens and residents of this fine land from accidentally glancing at my feet only to see the shiny stump of a toe where a toenail used to live. At least I have something there. From afar, my feet don't look any grosser than your average long distance runner's.

I can't believe it survived the marathon. I can't believe it survived this one cute pair of shoes I got from Moo Shoes that are really about 3/4 of a size too small. I can't believe it survived just being painted over and forgotten.

Technically, it didn't really survive the marathon. It completely blackened after not even the first month of training, and stayed that way. I actually talked to my coach about it because I was afraid I should be doing something to prevent nail loss (which was only slightly less mortifying of a conversation than the time I asked him about poop schedules for marathon day). I'd go into more details, but really, who wants to hear toenail details? Exactly. Nobody. Although if anyone has any similar toenail stories, you know damn well that I'm all about hearing them.

Sufjan Stevens

Sufjan Stevens

Friday night, we went to see the spectacular Sufjan Stevens at the Belly Up Tavern. First of all, Sufjan, will you be my boyfriend?



Anyway, this show bumps something I really can't think of to enter my Top Five All Time Shows category. I think it's even #2, right after Radiohead at the Santa Barbara Bowl. One day I'll make a post where I list the other three, but first I will need to figure out what they are.

This man is a creative genius. His songwriting is so beautiful, so poignant, and so bizarrely adventurous. For the love of god, the man wants to do an album for every state. So far, he's done Michigan and Illinois. His earlier works range from the freakishly experimental orchestral to spiritual and gentle songwriterly sketches. This tour was the "Come on feel the Illinoise" tour, and they wore Illinois cheerleading costumes and even had pompoms and did some intermittent cheers. Another reason to love this man: he plays oboe and english horn, as does your friendly blogger here. And he's episcopalian. And he loves drywalling.

"Sufjan's other interests include graphic design, painting, running, knitting, crocheting, weaving, quilting, cleaning, photography, haircutting, and dry wall installation."

Honestly, you should all run to your nearest small venue to see if he's playing there this summer/fall. I promise you an incredible, beautiful show, complete with hand-claps, cheers, costumes, and some of the most remarkable stories that make you feel like you totally haven't lived yet or made any real mistakes or had your heart or body broken nearly enough. At the very least, just buy the CDs and listen to what Illinois or Michigan sound like in musical form and secretly* wish you were in his band.

* = announced publicly on the internet.