Can't form coherent paragraphs right now. Must rely on bullets and randomness being fashionable.
My little brother has been in the hospital since Thursday, with complications from ulcerative colitis. They had to give him some blood on Saturday, I think, and he seems to be doing better since then. I'm so sad for him though. This is too long to lie alone in a hospital room with nothing to do but think about how much it sucks.
Erik got a new job and started today. He's doing GIS something or other for some city office or something blah blah blah. All I know is he took the Prius and will continue to take the Prius. Farewell, sweet hybrid. It was nice knowing you ever so briefly.
I've ran 135 miles YTD. 8 miles this Saturday in 72 minutes. Not bad, no? I don't think I can keep this up as we start piling on the mileage, but we'll see. My motivation on the long runs is my fabulous running buddy, John. Not the John you all know from here, but John The Marine Lawyer. We can call him John v3.0. He's pretty badass, has taught me to grunt like a Marine to people we pass instead of saying "good job!" all faux-cheery, has a 1 year old baby, and is genuinely concerned about my performance, my livelihood, and if a car is going to hit me when I'm running on the outside of the sidewalk.
I told John v2.0, my dear friend/night-hiking/coworker John you all know and love, that John v3.0 changes sides when I end up on the outside of the sidewalk, and John v2.0 said all grumpily, "yeah, that won't last." He's totally jealous, if you ask me.
Erik is just glad I'm not dragging him out to run 8+ miles.
My parents hardly ever call me. They never come to visit. I'm the only one making an effort. Are they doing this on purpose to teach me a lesson, or do they just not love me anymore? Or some combination thereof? Maybe this is to make up for when I was in college and really only called them when I needed money, had totaled their car, or needed picked up at the airport. Every time I call them now, since I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO INITIATES CONTACT, my mother answers the phone with "what's wrong?"
In our group of friends, we all seem to have Nalgene bottles. This weekend, at Scott and Sarah's house, Grace was able to name each person's Nalgene, matching it up to the correct owner. She has even mastered the possessive, with my Nalgene being called "Ju-ya" [slight pause.] "ssssss." BE STILL MY HEART.
As we were rushing to meet Scott, Sarah, and Grace for coffee one morning, and we mused that when their second baby is born (April), it's going to be so great because we'll totally get to hold at least one of the babies whenever we're with them.
And then I got really, really sad because there's a chance they might move away before the new baby is even born. I know they'll still be a huge, huge part of our lives, and we'll bend over backwards to make sure we're involved in Grace and the new baby's lives, but still. She's totally reading this, too, so I'm kissing up to her a little bit. Anyway, I'm lousy with girlfriends. Really lousy. I seem to feel competitive with everyone, except Sarah -- I'm so comfortable with her and our friendship isn't high maintenance at all. I've never had a friend like Sarah before and don't want to lose her. I really only have a tiny little circle of best-ish friends, and John (v2.0) totally can't step up because whenever the conversation gets heavy at all, he'll snap into some fake accent and say "we're not having this conversation" or "you are being so ridiculous" or "how long is this going to take?"
No really, he does that. Sarah, don't leave me like this! I mean, I wish you guys all the best and will come and visit every other weekend until we can move in.
Just now, Kevin, my own personal minion at work, came into my cubicle and wasn't wearing his glasses. I asked him if he got contacts, and he said, "no, I got laser vision." I think he meant to say "I got laser [surgery and now have better] vision," but I'm glad it came out the way it did. HE CAN SEE MY UNDERWEAR AND ALL THE STUPID THINGS IN MY PURSE. If that were the case, I'd be more concerned about all the stupid things in my purse, FYI. Wait, is laser vision what superman uses to see through things or cut through things?
The Indie Rock Guide To Corporate Living Part I: Home
I promise, you are truly unique, angst-ridden, and independent. Now that we've got that out of the way, we're ready to admit that you also like pretty things and having a fabulous home. Your home should not look as angst-ridden as your emotions. Unique and independent, sure. But angst-ridden is for pubescent bedrooms with black paint and dog-eared Depeche Mode posters. Or Death Cab posters, as may be the MO for today's 15 year olds. Chances are, rather than Depeche Mode posters, you have left-over collegiate futon couches, Monet posters, and a hefty make-out candle collection.
Now you're a smidge grown-up and have a similar-sized smidge of expendable income. But outside of commissioning custom furniture and decor, how can you create a beautiful living space without it looking exactly like everyone else's catalog-page clones?
Catalogs are Devilish, and We're Not Into That. First of all, cancel all your subscriptions to catalogs. Just call the numbers on the last page. This serves many purposes - simplifying your life, reducing waste, etc. - but primarily, we all know that you can't have a stack of Pottery Barn and Crate and Barrel catalogs sitting on your indie rock coffee table. And we also all know that the internet is by far the indie rockingest option anyway. Just make sure you call the companies after each online purchase to yet again remove you from the hardcopy catalog mailing list. They're sneaky like that.
As helpful as it may seem to thumb through the pretty pages looking for inspiration and ideas, don't fall prey to their evil schemes. Shopping online has less of a "buy everything pictured here to mimic this entire room" vibe to it, unless you accidentally wander over to the potterybarn.com "Rooms" section. STAY AWAY.
All in all, catalogs are to be avoided at all costs. Recycle what you have, or cut them up and make a collage cover for your latest mix CD.
Paint I'm sick of people saying "paint is cheap and easy!" and "paint is the quickest way to transform a room." Clearly they've never tried to stick blue tape to textured walls. It takes too long to set up and clean up and worst of all, pick out colors. However, plain white walls are so modern-apartment-living. You do need some color in your house, so choose carefully and hopefully you might only have to do it once.
Paintish things to watch out for:
Overused colors. Everybody has sage green bedrooms and brick red dining rooms these days. Branch out.
Trying too hard to be different. Orange paint has several purposes on this planet, and most of them involve traffic and construction.
Dark colors, like red and dark brown. These colors, while lovely and edgy and not yet absolutely everywhere (except red dining rooms, see above), are going to be a pain in your ass. Be sure to prime thoroughly, but keep in mind you'll still end up giving your walls three coats to get the colors even.
Trim. Don't paint the same color on the trim as on the walls, but also avoid bright white. An off-white works best. Even still, white-ish trim is totally Pottery Barn. Try sanding them down and staining the wood, or installing new large ones yourself. If you live in a very old house, you might already be lucky enough to have funky trim.
Hue. It may look like a deep red in the can, but on your walls it's kind of raspberry-colored. Raspberry is so 80s-pop. Wait, I think 80s-pop is probably right over the horizon as The New Indie Rock, so you might want to just leave the paint alone.
Furniture and Decor Items That Not Everyone Else Has You've successfully purged your scary yuppie catalog collection, but you're still going to need to buy lamps, book shelves, pillows, dining tables, etc. You're also going to need to hang things on your walls and have little decorative trinkets here and there (i.e., picture frames, candles, antique teapots). Here's your golden rule: It's okay to shop at trendy places, just don't buy obvious signature pieces that look like they're from said trendy places. This includes any and all artwork. Find that elsewhere, make your own, or mix and match frames and purchased prints. Do not, I repeat, do not, under any circumstances, buy any art piece from Ikea. Everybody will either already have the same thing, or know exactly where you bought it and how much you paid for it. Similarly, take very special care when buying vases, picture frames, bedding, candle holders, etc., that the pieces are different enough.
Display somewhat artsy photographs you've taken, of objects, places, happy friends, etc. Either be really good at photography or photoshop them to look lovely and muted. I recently took a "oops I left the flash on" black and white close up of a flower than ended up looking amazingly see-through. I cropped the picture, and got it enlarged and printed onto a 24 x 24 canvas and hung it in the dining room. If Photoshop isn't going to happen for you, find a creative friend, thumb through her art or photography, and sweetly ask for a hook-up.
And for goodness' sake, display your CD collection with pride.
The Kitchen And Other Difficult Things The kitchen is a tough room to get looking off-beat, in the good, different drummer way. (Think: Meg White and Phil Selway.) Your kitchen can easily look like everyone else's, especially if you have recently married or are bethrothed and currently planning your kitchen via the Crate and Barrel registry barcode scanner. One night, Erik and I went over for dinner with some old college friends, and were slightly ashamed to see our dishes and the Newlywed Standard Tivoli Mixing Bowl Set gracing their kitchen countertops. It was our kitchen, just in different cabinets and a slightly different floor plan. Once I got over the nausea, I think that might have been the moment I (briefly) swore off Crate and Barrel.
Luckily, those standard, boring items that you absolutely need are now available in a variety of lovely styles, forms, and colors, i.e. the Majestic Yellow Kitchenaid Artisan Stand Mixer, kitchen towels, mixing bowls, dish racks, and even cabinet hardware and cabinet doors. Mix it up as best you can, but try to keep things unified and un-cookie-cutter at the same time. Find pieces in random boutiques, antique stores, or estate sales. True indie rock culinary success is the kitchen that others want to imitate, not something you imitated yourself.
Oh, and make sure your alcohol cabinet is stocked with a variety of beers, old-man drink fixings, and gorgeous barware.
Attitude Now that you've done your best to keep your decor stylish yet indie, polish the look with your very best indie rock sensibilities. Give it some attitude.
Basically, this means calling your delightfully lanky and poetic friends, dimming the lights a little, pouring some Chimay or a stiff manhattan, and hitting the indie chill-out music on your through-the-house stereo. Rock on.
The running is going well, except for my freaking heels. I think I'm getting plantar fasciitis. Meh. Treatment involves not going barefoot around the house, icing for two 15 minute periods each night, and stretching the fuck out of my calves. Actually, stretching the fuck out of everything. Funny I used that analogy because I've been too tired for sex of any kind for the last I don't know how long. I'm sure Erik has been counting, though. Anyway, that's not my point. Sweet Emily, also a budding long-distance runner, taught me that plantar fasciitis is primarily caused by tight calf muscles pulling against the heel. Gross.
I also just found out this morning that my sweet recluse of a little brother is really ill. Some ulcerous something or other. I wish I could remember the actual name of the condition to facilitate a WebMD search. That's probably for the best. Last night, I searched on WebMD for "chills" or something similar, and received a long list of brand name prescription drugs as my search results, and a few diagnostic results that pretty much told me that I'm dying. WebMD has officially jumped the shark. It's always been a hypochondriac's wet dream, but now it's just a pharmaceutical corporate tool.
Interestingly, WebMD is quite professional and un-YOU ARE DYING A LONG AND PAINFUL DEATH when you search for "plantar fasciitis," which sounds way more forboding than "chills." They even have helpful diagrams of the foot.
However, they were also sure, once they had lured me in with the nicely scientific looking foot, to recommend a bunch of much more serious conditions that I might be mistaking for plantar fasciitis, including nerve entrapment syndrome and sciatica. From the sciatica information page, "In rare cases, sciatica can also be caused by conditions that do not involve the spine, such as tumors or pregnancy." TUMORS! PREGNANCY!
Since, according to paragraph 1, I'm certainly not pregnant, I therefore must have a tumor. Farewell, my loves. Farewell. Don't cry for me.
These things are too good to not be in a bulleted list.
Saturday night, Erik whisked me off to dinner and "somewhere else by 8pm." We pull up to UCSD, my alma mater, and he asks my opinion on where to park for the Price Center Ballroom. Still competely clueless as to what we're doing, I guide him to the best parking spot and run through some options in my head. I figured it might have been a lecture or something like a swing dancing night, and I was completely not in the mood for swing dancing. I'd just stuffed my face full of northern Indian food, specifically, the bread. Anyway, we walk into the ballroom, show our tickets, and go to get seated. Still oblivious. I realize that they're handing out programs back at the door, so I walk back and grab one only to see, in giant lettering, "AN EVENING WITH IRA GLASS." Ira Glass is the creator, host, and producer of This American Life, my favorite thing on any kind of airwave. I adore the syncopation in his voice, the stories he tells, and those moments of hilarious profundity that you'd miss if you dared not pay your full attention to every word he says.
I love Ira Glass, but not nearly as much as I love my husband for knowing exactly what would make me the happiest person in the world.
At work, there's a total boys' club THAT ONE DAY I WILL INVADE, MUAHAHA. A bunch of older guys here are complete and utter cycling freaks, and also have tea and bagel+avocado+hotsauce breaks mid-morning and mid-afternoon. They go out on lunchtime rides throughout the week and long rides on the weekends. I can't even imagine what their wives think of this "hobby." They probably just roll their eyes, resign themselves to several hours of alone time (which isn't a bad thing) on Sunday afternoons, and quietly wonder if their husbands are gay.
My favorite one, Oliver*, was just talking in the breakroom with his other cycling boyfriends while I was making my breakfast and pouring some coffee. I wasn't listening much, until he said, "her show sometimes makes me cry." Sensing my amusement, he explained that he was talking about Oprah. Of course, he was talking about the much-hyped Lance Armstrong appearance. These guys are as obsessed with Lance as they are with the sport itself. Then they went back to telling stories about past bike rides they'd done and all the fun times on the trails and hills. It was really sweet and made me want to dust off my rusty bike and put some air in the tires.
Wait, I'm not even sure I have a bike.
I might need to figure that out if I ever want to break into the boys' club.
I can't really verbalize it, but I just don't like Lance Armstrong all that much.
Sunday, we were babysitting Grace during her Critical Afternoon Nap Time, and when she woke up, she sat on my lap in that shy post-nap haze, facing me, with her blankie in one hand, eating some honey graham crack-sticks with the other, and resting her forehead on my forehead. That may well be the greatest feeling ever.
*=names not changed to protect the guilty.
[by julia 5:17 PM]
2.11.2005
Year To Date.
As of this morning, I've ran 90.25 miles this year. Well, since January 6th. Close enough to use the pretty "YTD" abbreviation for my logged mileage.
I'm feeling pretty good. I look forward to running, even this morning in the dreary rain and blustery wind. I feel wrong on the days I can't run, or am supposed to be taking a rest. I'd say these are all good signs, other than the brand new (6 miles ago) minor irritation just outside of my knee tendons, but I knew that was coming. Ice and advil should help, but I'm not sure how to prevent that kind of thing.
I'm looking forward to my second run with the team on Saturday, which will probably be 6 miles.
This is a really boring post. If it's any consolation, my stats have soared over the last few days, solely from search result hits for "mr and mrs pacman wedding superbowl XVI" and "ashlee simpson haircut." I guess it's not really about writing the right things to be a high-hit blogger, it's just about using the right words. A notable previous spike was when I wrote about brazilian bikini waxes. Apparently, I need to rev up the celebrity name dropping, Simpsons references, and dirty language.
I never really told the Internet about the time many moons ago that my dear, hilarious, evil friend Haisley called me at work PRETENDING TO BE SARAH HATTER wondering why I no longer link to her blog. (Well, except for the link just then.)
My pulse quickened and I quickly inventoried everything that may be inadvertently available to the savvy internet stalker. How did Sarah Hatter find where I work? And extension? It was like a bad dream, complete with the associated randomness. Of course, my friend knows my work number, and clearly knows exactly which buttons to push to adequately freak me out.
A brief period of cuteness between varying stages of awkward.
Several points of interest in this picture:
My Ashlee Simpson haircut. Thanks, evil parents. Actually, it's better than the standard bowl-cut featured throughout the rest of the photo album.
The flowers are IN MY MOUTH. I think I was asked to smell the flowers for the picture, but clearly I just got carried away.
John thinks he could charge people big bucks for grown-up versions of their childhood clothes. I was skeptical, until I unearthed this picture. I would indeed fork it over for an embroidered "Orange" t-shirt. Also, he wants me to stop giving away his ideas on my blog.
I didn't have to photoshop it a lick. Old photographs totally have the sweet warm lighting and deep yellow saturation.
However, the way I remember it, the whole moment was warm and yellowy and saturated. It's not a trick of the camera or aging photo paper. I love the freeness of my childhood, spent running around fields, splashing in rivers and puddles, picking flowers and weeds and not really considering the difference, and trying to give tiny wilting wildflower bouquets to cows. (Don't ask). Those days were saturated and that makes me want to move out of a city and somewhere beautiful, unscarred, and slow. With a fabulous cafe and preferably a Trader Joes.
This is one of two adorable childhood pictures of me. The rest really illustrate my notably-not-cute, awkward childhood. Especially the one of me with short spikey hair, glasses with a white eye-patch sticker over the right lens, hot pink t-shirt, black miniskirt, and RED SHOES riding down the street on my BMX bike.
Chances are, that picture will not be shown on the internet. It doesn't really have much in the way of yellow-saturation and warmth.
Last week, I accidentally left my latest vegan cookbook, the kind with six chapters' worth of diatribes and nutrition analysis in the front, in the upstairs bathroom. Please, no comments.
This week, Erik suddenly decides that we're going to cook Green Tea Sesame Noodles and then an elaborate vegan Spinach Florentine Eggs Benedict-y dish. He had gone to the store and everything. I just sort of pressed buttons on the blender and stirred pots when he told me to. It was glorious and very delicious. Tomorrow night we're having "Stroganoff Seitanski." On Thursday night, we're going to try a variation of my very tried and very true Thai Peanut Sauce recipe that includes coconut milk.
Also, while we were out running last night, Erik told me that he's going to stop eating any dairy products that aren't organic - seriously stop, not just cut back. Keep in mind that Erik eats fish. He told me that he thinks that dairy products are probably worse than meat, and I tend to agree. Human beings are the only species that drinks milk after infancy (and the only species that drinks another species' milk). Anyway, this is a big step, because this means he'll have to give up fish tacos with all that delicious creamy white sauce stuff dripping out of them. I digress. It ended up being a really great run, about four miles, but we didn't even notice that we were running because we were chattering back and forth so much. I love that.
I promise I didn't think about the repercussions of leaving my own reading material in the bathroom. However, in the future, you can bet your ass it won't be an accident. And I have to be sure that there are no better alternatives, so he simply has to read my selection LEST HE SIT IN THE BATHROOM IN A READING MATERIAL-LESS HELL and that's really not fair for anyone.
"Sweetie, I was looking through that glass bead jewelry catalog in the bathroom and I think that green one would look really pretty on you so I ordered it."
2.28.2005
