Hallelujah.
I have been listening to Jeff Buckley's "Grace" lately. Like probably 95% of the western world, I have this intense adoration for the song "Hallelujah," so that regardless of who is covering it I just completely shut out the rest of the world and hide inside the lines, sometimes repetitively. On the morning of 9/11, I was in fact repeating the song over and over again for my entire commute to work, so I had no idea of what had happened that morning until I got to work and found everyone frantically trying to get internet news sites to load. In a cowardly, escapist way, I was glad to have found this psychic, preemptive solace in the song.
But my renewed affection for "Grace" had me randomly hunting around on the internets, and I found this, via Slightly Lively. When Leonard Cohen was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in March, two of my favorite things collided: Damien Rice and Hallelujah. Watch it on full screen when he sings "her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you." That is music.
Behold:
And I can't embed this one, but while we're treating ourselves with our song, why not watch Jeff Buckley sing it, too?
9.26.2008
9.23.2008
Haystacks, the most beautiful place yet.
Haystacks, the most beautiful place yet.
I haven't blogged much about our England trip yet, mostly because it's taking me months to upload all of the pictures. The Flickr uploader and I have a turbulent, on-again, off-again relationship, you see.
But I have to break the silence to tell you about Haystacks. Haystacks is a mountain above Buttermere, a lake in The Lake District National Park in northern England (my birthplace).
a cairn marking the summit of Haystacks
Our hiking party included Erik, Ollie, me, my dad, my uncle, my brother-in-law, and one of my dad's old friends. I'm going to have to be very vague about this because they got back in touch this year due entirely to google, and holy goodness, if my parents found this blog I might throw up. But this friend happened to be a long-time member of a certain highly esteemed local volunteer mountain rescue squad. Note: try to always hike with your own personal mountain rescue personnel. He had been involved with the rescue squad since before his parents had a telephone, and the local policeman would go knocking on doors of fellow squad members to gather them for the rescue. Awesome.
It's almost impossible to think about Haystacks without invoking the name of one Alfred Wainwright, hand-written trail guide writer/legend. He once described it as the best of all the lakeland fells. Wainwright wrote in "Memoirs of a Fellwalker":
tarn, potentially the innominate one. that bump of a mountain right in the middle, the most distant peak, is Sca Fell, the highest mountain in England
Wainwright's ashes were indeed scattered at the top of Haystacks, by the Innominate Tarn, after his death in 1991. Haystacks is quite a detour from the traditional Coast-to-Coast route (devised and written by Wainwright himself), but many hikers make the pilgrimage to see its glory and pay homage to their rambling hero.
I didn't read that passage or learn about Wainwright's ashes and the fame of Haystacks until a few days later, which in a way helped me better experience Haystacks and the breathtaking Innominate Tarn. I saw it fresh; I felt this crazy energy like I might have been the only person to have ever noticed it and decided it was beautiful.
Haystacks, from the way down, looking out into the Buttermere valley
Speaking of paying homage, I'm going to cheapen up my post here by including this picture, where apparently Tommy himself scrambled up this exact little river in the movie version of the Rock!Opera Tommy. I filled up my water bottle right there and drank in a little Roger Daltrey.
Also-apparently, my dad once camped out in those fields in the valley there in the above picture, just before the lake, for months and months one year with a buddy. It was right after college and they drove in to work every day, for no reason other than to do it. They had otherwise perfectly good housing available to them. The guy we hiked with even summoned this when introducing us to people like the local farmer and his kin. Like, "he was one of the two who camped here for the summer and drove in to [company name]," AND EVERYONE REMEMBERED, without ceremony. We're talking, what, 35, 40 years ago? Greatness.
Ollie at the top, more Sca Fell in the distance
My instinct is to announce that Haystacks is probably the most beautiful place I can remember, and maybe only from my lens of history in the Lake District did it manage to eke out the Yosemite Valley on your right and Half Dome on your left as you head out from Glacier Point on the Panorama Trail at sunrise. But maybe nowhere is more beautiful or more resplendent than any other sacred natural place, and our attempts to compare them are entirely in vain. I certainly thought of nothing else, nowhere else as I wandered over Haystacks, fingertips grazing dewy ferns and skin and soul warmed by the summer sun. Nothing compares to that place, nothing.
I haven't blogged much about our England trip yet, mostly because it's taking me months to upload all of the pictures. The Flickr uploader and I have a turbulent, on-again, off-again relationship, you see.
But I have to break the silence to tell you about Haystacks. Haystacks is a mountain above Buttermere, a lake in The Lake District National Park in northern England (my birthplace).
a cairn marking the summit of Haystacks
Our hiking party included Erik, Ollie, me, my dad, my uncle, my brother-in-law, and one of my dad's old friends. I'm going to have to be very vague about this because they got back in touch this year due entirely to google, and holy goodness, if my parents found this blog I might throw up. But this friend happened to be a long-time member of a certain highly esteemed local volunteer mountain rescue squad. Note: try to always hike with your own personal mountain rescue personnel. He had been involved with the rescue squad since before his parents had a telephone, and the local policeman would go knocking on doors of fellow squad members to gather them for the rescue. Awesome.
It's almost impossible to think about Haystacks without invoking the name of one Alfred Wainwright, hand-written trail guide writer/legend. He once described it as the best of all the lakeland fells. Wainwright wrote in "Memoirs of a Fellwalker":
"All I ask for, at the end, is a last long resting place by the side of Innominate Tarn, on Haystacks, where the water gently laps the gravelly shore and the heather blooms and Pillar and Gable keep unfailing watch. A quiet place, a lonely place. I shall go to it, for the last time, and be carried: someone who knew me in life will take me and empty me out of a little box and leave me there alone. And if you, dear reader, should get a bit of grit in your boot as you are crossing Haystacks in the years to come, please treat it with respect. It might be me."
tarn, potentially the innominate one. that bump of a mountain right in the middle, the most distant peak, is Sca Fell, the highest mountain in England
Wainwright's ashes were indeed scattered at the top of Haystacks, by the Innominate Tarn, after his death in 1991. Haystacks is quite a detour from the traditional Coast-to-Coast route (devised and written by Wainwright himself), but many hikers make the pilgrimage to see its glory and pay homage to their rambling hero.
I didn't read that passage or learn about Wainwright's ashes and the fame of Haystacks until a few days later, which in a way helped me better experience Haystacks and the breathtaking Innominate Tarn. I saw it fresh; I felt this crazy energy like I might have been the only person to have ever noticed it and decided it was beautiful.
Haystacks, from the way down, looking out into the Buttermere valley
Speaking of paying homage, I'm going to cheapen up my post here by including this picture, where apparently Tommy himself scrambled up this exact little river in the movie version of the Rock!Opera Tommy. I filled up my water bottle right there and drank in a little Roger Daltrey.
Also-apparently, my dad once camped out in those fields in the valley there in the above picture, just before the lake, for months and months one year with a buddy. It was right after college and they drove in to work every day, for no reason other than to do it. They had otherwise perfectly good housing available to them. The guy we hiked with even summoned this when introducing us to people like the local farmer and his kin. Like, "he was one of the two who camped here for the summer and drove in to [company name]," AND EVERYONE REMEMBERED, without ceremony. We're talking, what, 35, 40 years ago? Greatness.
Ollie at the top, more Sca Fell in the distance
My instinct is to announce that Haystacks is probably the most beautiful place I can remember, and maybe only from my lens of history in the Lake District did it manage to eke out the Yosemite Valley on your right and Half Dome on your left as you head out from Glacier Point on the Panorama Trail at sunrise. But maybe nowhere is more beautiful or more resplendent than any other sacred natural place, and our attempts to compare them are entirely in vain. I certainly thought of nothing else, nowhere else as I wandered over Haystacks, fingertips grazing dewy ferns and skin and soul warmed by the summer sun. Nothing compares to that place, nothing.
9.11.2008
The Bell Jar
The Bell Jar
My favorite part of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath:
"Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one's ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York."
I bought my copy (first American edition!) in a used book store in San Francisco, back in my slightly-publicized hunt for an authentically used copy of The Dharma Bums. I bought that copy of The Bell Jar not necessarily for the fact that it is a first edition, but because it had DAWN MERCER written in giant lettering on the first page, but then, slipped between the pages, a newspaper clipping announcing that DAWN MERCER and her boyfriend had finally broken up. I'm assuming DAWN MERCER'S boyfriend had some better ideas for her beloved antiquated book collection and they ended up at goodwill with a little calling card. Dawn, what did you DO to him?!
The Bell Jar was a sad, sad read, but when she floats her entire wardrobe off the top of the building, it's such this beautiful, freeing, lunatic moment.
If Jeremy Davies' character in Million Dollar Hotel, Tom-Tom, jumped off a building in his triumphant lunacy moment to a soundtrack of U2, then Esther Greenwood threw her clothes to some scratchy, dark, bass clarinet number with a tired, lilty soulful voice breathing a descant and I might have felt something like hope as I read or watched. But there was none.
My favorite part of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath:
"Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one's ashes, the gray scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York."
I bought my copy (first American edition!) in a used book store in San Francisco, back in my slightly-publicized hunt for an authentically used copy of The Dharma Bums. I bought that copy of The Bell Jar not necessarily for the fact that it is a first edition, but because it had DAWN MERCER written in giant lettering on the first page, but then, slipped between the pages, a newspaper clipping announcing that DAWN MERCER and her boyfriend had finally broken up. I'm assuming DAWN MERCER'S boyfriend had some better ideas for her beloved antiquated book collection and they ended up at goodwill with a little calling card. Dawn, what did you DO to him?!
The Bell Jar was a sad, sad read, but when she floats her entire wardrobe off the top of the building, it's such this beautiful, freeing, lunatic moment.
If Jeremy Davies' character in Million Dollar Hotel, Tom-Tom, jumped off a building in his triumphant lunacy moment to a soundtrack of U2, then Esther Greenwood threw her clothes to some scratchy, dark, bass clarinet number with a tired, lilty soulful voice breathing a descant and I might have felt something like hope as I read or watched. But there was none.
9.04.2008
Still I'd be on my feet.
Still I'd be on my feet.
I've been listening to Joni Mitchell's "Blue" this week, pretty much constantly while in the car. It replaced the new Sigur Ros after I had to finally return my spare copy to its rightful owner, and so now I only have one rightful copy of that, and am listening to it pretty much constantly in the house. But, Blue. Ah, Blue. Such a solid album. However, Today I started skipping the depressing songs, so it's a pretty fast listen. A really fast listen.
Blue is undeniably my Number 1 All Time Most Influential Album, ever, and I'm sure I've blogged about it ad nauseum. I was introduced to Joni by my high school friend Zwickler's dad one day when we were in his car the summer after graduation. Zwickler's dad said something like, "Oh, you'll love this. I can't believe you haven't heard of her, Julia." And I felt happy knowing that people cared enough about me to consider my musical tastes. And especially to consider that they were good tastes. Anyway, Zwickler's dad was right and I entered into a decade plus of adoring, worshiping that album.
Since that afternoon, I have also held track 9, "Case of You," as my favorite song ever. Number One All Time. This is occasionally replaced, depending on my mood, with Sufjan Stevens "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is Out to Get Us!" or Iron & Wine "Upwards Over The Mountain," or Sigur Ros "Glosoli," but I always, always come back to "Case of You." I hate having a favorite song, because I feel like professing favorites is just a way to be all: hi, I am really exceptional because I picked out something exceptional that someone else created. But I can't help it.
With all this High Fidelityesque chatter about my All Time Top lists, I'm going to have to describe the song autobiographically to you. I had a strange urge to tell you what the lyrics meant to me, but then I envisioned someone scrolling down the page(s) on their google search results for "Case of You lyrics meaning" and finding this post and invading my thoughts, my version of the song, and that made me feel dirty and stolen. So autobiographical it is. Although "Case of You" has been very timeless to me, making me feel sometimes like I'm not even myself, not the person sitting there listening to it, it still has always had a tremendous hold in my real life. Mostly, in one particular instance.
Once upon a time, a very long time ago, not too long after first discovering Blue, I fell in love with a boy who lived in Kentucky, and I put "Case of You" on one of the many mix tapes I calculatedly constructed for him. I painstakingly figured out how to play it on my beat up guitar so I could sing it to him over the phone. And when he came to visit me or I went to visit him, I'd play it for him in person. He was a much better guitarist than I, but he managed to humor my barely-mediocre arrangement. I mean, wouldn't you? The song is hauntingly beautiful and all tricksy up the neck of the guitar and various octaves and I think I might fall over if someone ever played it for me.
Once, at a restaurant in Cincinnati, I laughed out loud at him and he said, "you know, I've never seen you laugh before," and he sat back and soaked me in for a while but I think he must have realized right then that we couldn't really stay together, apart, if we weren't going to see each other laugh for months at a time, and I must have agreed with him. A couple of weeks later I went home and never saw him again.
Don't get me wrong, the song also went on every other mix tape or CD I made for every other boy I might have been remotely interested in, and maybe even that one I made for my friend Katie, but it was always in a sort of recreation of what that song meant for me in that single strange relationship. I wouldn't even say we shared any special connection to the song; it was just me and Case of You, all aimed at that guy.
But a not so very long time ago, thanks to the Internets, he randomly and unrelated-to-me recited a line of the song: "I'm frightened by the devil, and I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid," and I thought something like, "Oh god, I think my heart just skipped a beat hearing you say a line from that song," but said something a little more put-together, and he said something coolly like, "Oh yeah, didn't you introduce me to that album?" and I wondered what else I had clung to in that relationship and after that relationship that hadn't even phased him, that he'd forgotten.
In a way, it's as if that little interaction has freed the song from his hold, and now it's just mine again, a crazily poetic, glorious song with a distant suggestion of my old sad but pretty story in the background. I am as constant as a northern star.
Sorry my writing is such a disaster. I've been reading Sylvia Plath so I'm feeling all 1960s hurriedly tortured. Which is probably why I dug up the CD in the first place.
lyrics here.
I've been listening to Joni Mitchell's "Blue" this week, pretty much constantly while in the car. It replaced the new Sigur Ros after I had to finally return my spare copy to its rightful owner, and so now I only have one rightful copy of that, and am listening to it pretty much constantly in the house. But, Blue. Ah, Blue. Such a solid album. However, Today I started skipping the depressing songs, so it's a pretty fast listen. A really fast listen.
Blue is undeniably my Number 1 All Time Most Influential Album, ever, and I'm sure I've blogged about it ad nauseum. I was introduced to Joni by my high school friend Zwickler's dad one day when we were in his car the summer after graduation. Zwickler's dad said something like, "Oh, you'll love this. I can't believe you haven't heard of her, Julia." And I felt happy knowing that people cared enough about me to consider my musical tastes. And especially to consider that they were good tastes. Anyway, Zwickler's dad was right and I entered into a decade plus of adoring, worshiping that album.
Since that afternoon, I have also held track 9, "Case of You," as my favorite song ever. Number One All Time. This is occasionally replaced, depending on my mood, with Sufjan Stevens "The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is Out to Get Us!" or Iron & Wine "Upwards Over The Mountain," or Sigur Ros "Glosoli," but I always, always come back to "Case of You." I hate having a favorite song, because I feel like professing favorites is just a way to be all: hi, I am really exceptional because I picked out something exceptional that someone else created. But I can't help it.
With all this High Fidelityesque chatter about my All Time Top lists, I'm going to have to describe the song autobiographically to you. I had a strange urge to tell you what the lyrics meant to me, but then I envisioned someone scrolling down the page(s) on their google search results for "Case of You lyrics meaning" and finding this post and invading my thoughts, my version of the song, and that made me feel dirty and stolen. So autobiographical it is. Although "Case of You" has been very timeless to me, making me feel sometimes like I'm not even myself, not the person sitting there listening to it, it still has always had a tremendous hold in my real life. Mostly, in one particular instance.
Once upon a time, a very long time ago, not too long after first discovering Blue, I fell in love with a boy who lived in Kentucky, and I put "Case of You" on one of the many mix tapes I calculatedly constructed for him. I painstakingly figured out how to play it on my beat up guitar so I could sing it to him over the phone. And when he came to visit me or I went to visit him, I'd play it for him in person. He was a much better guitarist than I, but he managed to humor my barely-mediocre arrangement. I mean, wouldn't you? The song is hauntingly beautiful and all tricksy up the neck of the guitar and various octaves and I think I might fall over if someone ever played it for me.
Once, at a restaurant in Cincinnati, I laughed out loud at him and he said, "you know, I've never seen you laugh before," and he sat back and soaked me in for a while but I think he must have realized right then that we couldn't really stay together, apart, if we weren't going to see each other laugh for months at a time, and I must have agreed with him. A couple of weeks later I went home and never saw him again.
Don't get me wrong, the song also went on every other mix tape or CD I made for every other boy I might have been remotely interested in, and maybe even that one I made for my friend Katie, but it was always in a sort of recreation of what that song meant for me in that single strange relationship. I wouldn't even say we shared any special connection to the song; it was just me and Case of You, all aimed at that guy.
But a not so very long time ago, thanks to the Internets, he randomly and unrelated-to-me recited a line of the song: "I'm frightened by the devil, and I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid," and I thought something like, "Oh god, I think my heart just skipped a beat hearing you say a line from that song," but said something a little more put-together, and he said something coolly like, "Oh yeah, didn't you introduce me to that album?" and I wondered what else I had clung to in that relationship and after that relationship that hadn't even phased him, that he'd forgotten.
In a way, it's as if that little interaction has freed the song from his hold, and now it's just mine again, a crazily poetic, glorious song with a distant suggestion of my old sad but pretty story in the background. I am as constant as a northern star.
Sorry my writing is such a disaster. I've been reading Sylvia Plath so I'm feeling all 1960s hurriedly tortured. Which is probably why I dug up the CD in the first place.
lyrics here.
8.22.2008
Matilda.
Matilda.
I recently stumbled upon a website where you can announce to the Internets which book got you hooked on reading. It's called First Book and although there's some sort of vote-to-get-books-sent-to-some-place thing going on, that's not really why I'm posting.
My "first book" was Matilda, by Roald Dahl, my favorite children's author. It obviously wasn't the first book I ever read - far from it. But it was the first time that I wanted to bunker down and reread over and over again. Not to mention the fact that I wanted to be able to move objects with my mind tricks. Matilda was probably the first book I was obsessed with, which led me into a Roald Dahl obsession. I read everything he wrote, including his not-really-meant-for-9-year-olds autobiographies. Oh, how I was scandalized by the nudists on his cruise ships! I'm guessing on the age, by the way. I assume I was 9, because that's when my copy (first edition!) was printed. I just checked my book, and it unfortunately must have been past the stage in my life where I documented my age and absolute ownership of the books, writing "This book belongs to Julia, age 7" in everything, in total chicken scratch, and sometimes right below a similar proclamation by my older sister, scribbled out by me *evil laughter*.
I know you've all read Matilda and loved it, but I know I had at least forgotten some of the fantastic details to the story and how perfectly every kid could weave themselves into her world (especially the "gormless" parents bit and wanting to have your sweet teacher invite you over for tea). Here's what is printed on the back cover - it makes me want to read it again right this minute:
[whispers] Twilight doesn't count. It doesn't. Shut up.
I recently stumbled upon a website where you can announce to the Internets which book got you hooked on reading. It's called First Book and although there's some sort of vote-to-get-books-sent-to-some-place thing going on, that's not really why I'm posting.
My "first book" was Matilda, by Roald Dahl, my favorite children's author. It obviously wasn't the first book I ever read - far from it. But it was the first time that I wanted to bunker down and reread over and over again. Not to mention the fact that I wanted to be able to move objects with my mind tricks. Matilda was probably the first book I was obsessed with, which led me into a Roald Dahl obsession. I read everything he wrote, including his not-really-meant-for-9-year-olds autobiographies. Oh, how I was scandalized by the nudists on his cruise ships! I'm guessing on the age, by the way. I assume I was 9, because that's when my copy (first edition!) was printed. I just checked my book, and it unfortunately must have been past the stage in my life where I documented my age and absolute ownership of the books, writing "This book belongs to Julia, age 7" in everything, in total chicken scratch, and sometimes right below a similar proclamation by my older sister, scribbled out by me *evil laughter*.
I know you've all read Matilda and loved it, but I know I had at least forgotten some of the fantastic details to the story and how perfectly every kid could weave themselves into her world (especially the "gormless" parents bit and wanting to have your sweet teacher invite you over for tea). Here's what is printed on the back cover - it makes me want to read it again right this minute:
Matilda is an extraordinary girl. She is sensitive and brilliant. Even before she is five years old she has read Dickens and Hemingway, Kipling and Steinbeck. Matilda's gormless parents are neither sensitive nor brilliant. They think Matilda is just a nuisance, and treat her as a scab - a scab to be endured until the time comes to flick her away.After Roald Dahl, there have been two other times in my life where I've gone and bought everything by a particular author and devoured it. The next was J.D Salinger. Le sigh. And then, Chuck Palahniuk, notably, uh, different than Matilda.
As if this isn't enough, Matilda has to cope with the odious headmistress, Miss Trunchbull, who terrorizes the whole school, including Matilda's beloved class teacher, Miss Honey. When Matilda is attacked by Miss Trunchbull one day, she suddenly discovers she has an extraordinary power and realizes she can make trouble for the monstrous grown-ups in her life.
[whispers] Twilight doesn't count. It doesn't. Shut up.
8.13.2008
Of all the major things I could update you on...
Of all the major things I could update you on...
...I'm going to pick this one. I just watched Season 1 Episode 1 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer ("Welcome to the Hellmouth"). Nelwyn, Adjunct Professor of Buffyology, very generously loaned me her director's cut ("chosen") box set, and by my crude calculations, if we average one episode per night, it's going to take us approximately 5.21 months to plow through it all.
But, I love it so. We're about to watch Episode 2 ("The Harvest") and I just had a dorky little idea of posting my favorite parts of every episode I watch, even if it's just one line at the end of a normal blog post.
So my "Welcome to the Hellmouth" favorite was definitely when the body fell out of the locker onto Cordelia's friend, mere seconds after they were bantering back and forth with "Pos!" and "Neg!" and maybe even a "Neg-ly!" Ah, 90s television at it's best.
One day I will fess up why I happened to start watching Buffy now, in 2008, at the ripe old age of almost-29 (okay fine, I'll fess up now. TWILIGHT is why. Eyeroll.) And another day I'll tell you about how I have two chapters written (very, very roughly) of a story (using the word "novel" makes me cringe). And yet another day maybe I'll write about England and show some pretty green and rainy pictures with Ollie in them.
Until then, I will sum up the last week and a half of my life with one word: VAMP. At least Buffy's vampires aren't sparkly.
...I'm going to pick this one. I just watched Season 1 Episode 1 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer ("Welcome to the Hellmouth"). Nelwyn, Adjunct Professor of Buffyology, very generously loaned me her director's cut ("chosen") box set, and by my crude calculations, if we average one episode per night, it's going to take us approximately 5.21 months to plow through it all.
But, I love it so. We're about to watch Episode 2 ("The Harvest") and I just had a dorky little idea of posting my favorite parts of every episode I watch, even if it's just one line at the end of a normal blog post.
So my "Welcome to the Hellmouth" favorite was definitely when the body fell out of the locker onto Cordelia's friend, mere seconds after they were bantering back and forth with "Pos!" and "Neg!" and maybe even a "Neg-ly!" Ah, 90s television at it's best.
One day I will fess up why I happened to start watching Buffy now, in 2008, at the ripe old age of almost-29 (okay fine, I'll fess up now. TWILIGHT is why. Eyeroll.) And another day I'll tell you about how I have two chapters written (very, very roughly) of a story (using the word "novel" makes me cringe). And yet another day maybe I'll write about England and show some pretty green and rainy pictures with Ollie in them.
Until then, I will sum up the last week and a half of my life with one word: VAMP. At least Buffy's vampires aren't sparkly.
7.17.2008
Holiday.
Holiday.
Oliver and I leave first thing in the morning for England. We'll be back in early August. Erik will follow us on Sunday. We're going with my family, to visit more of my family and attend my cousin's wedding.
Four bags. Plus a carseat. Plus an umbrella stroller. Plus a Beco carrier. And that's just for Ollie and I. One suitcase is entirely diapers. On that note, tomorrow morning will officially break Ollie's streak of being exclusively cloth diapered. *tiny violins*. It's going to be several days before we arrive at the cottage in the Lake District (with washer! and dryer!), so there's absolutely no way we could deal with cloth in the mean time. Well, of course there's a way, but for the love of pete.
We're staying in Cockermouth, the delightful birth place of William Wordsworth and home to a killer vegetarian restaurant. Cockermouth is just inside of the actual lake-y Lake District, as opposed to the coastal developed parts where I grew up. Not that it's at all far away. But 20 miles is a long 20 miles on those roads.
I'm really looking forward to it. It has been a long, long time since I've taken a vacation without worrying about my work load (or even homework load) when I return, or that my coworkers were discovering my absolute lack of organization in my office files, or maybe someone tapped into my internet history. It's going to be very nice. Very nice.
I can't wait to see Oliver run around in the beautiful wild places, the Peter Rabbit landscapes, the secret river banks, the vast tree-flanked lakes, the vibrant green sloped rocky fells (peppered charmingly with "sheep balls," as we so fondly used to refer to sheep poop). I can't wait to take him to Thornhill to walk down our old dirt road past the abandoned railroad and through the fields to the beck. I remember we used to pick wildflowers and tiptoe past cow poo to try to get the cows to smell our little grubby bouquets (they were rarely interested). Maybe we'll just watch the cows from afar instead. "MMMMM"s, as Ollie knows them.
Sign. I'm going home. Or as the cumbrians would say: As ga'an yam.
Oliver and I leave first thing in the morning for England. We'll be back in early August. Erik will follow us on Sunday. We're going with my family, to visit more of my family and attend my cousin's wedding.
Four bags. Plus a carseat. Plus an umbrella stroller. Plus a Beco carrier. And that's just for Ollie and I. One suitcase is entirely diapers. On that note, tomorrow morning will officially break Ollie's streak of being exclusively cloth diapered. *tiny violins*. It's going to be several days before we arrive at the cottage in the Lake District (with washer! and dryer!), so there's absolutely no way we could deal with cloth in the mean time. Well, of course there's a way, but for the love of pete.
We're staying in Cockermouth, the delightful birth place of William Wordsworth and home to a killer vegetarian restaurant. Cockermouth is just inside of the actual lake-y Lake District, as opposed to the coastal developed parts where I grew up. Not that it's at all far away. But 20 miles is a long 20 miles on those roads.
I'm really looking forward to it. It has been a long, long time since I've taken a vacation without worrying about my work load (or even homework load) when I return, or that my coworkers were discovering my absolute lack of organization in my office files, or maybe someone tapped into my internet history. It's going to be very nice. Very nice.
I can't wait to see Oliver run around in the beautiful wild places, the Peter Rabbit landscapes, the secret river banks, the vast tree-flanked lakes, the vibrant green sloped rocky fells (peppered charmingly with "sheep balls," as we so fondly used to refer to sheep poop). I can't wait to take him to Thornhill to walk down our old dirt road past the abandoned railroad and through the fields to the beck. I remember we used to pick wildflowers and tiptoe past cow poo to try to get the cows to smell our little grubby bouquets (they were rarely interested). Maybe we'll just watch the cows from afar instead. "MMMMM"s, as Ollie knows them.
Sign. I'm going home. Or as the cumbrians would say: As ga'an yam.
7.10.2008
Michele.
Michele.
Today, I found out that my friend and former LLS coworker Michele Larson has passed away. I told you about her a while ago, when it was totally unfair that she had developed a secondary cancer, leukemia, as a result of her treatment for her original lymphoma. Since that post, she has had not one, but two additional battles with cancer. Four total. Four. My heart and my stomach ache thinking about the struggles her body knew.
Here is a video of Michele (embedded below), interviewed for a program called "Understanding Cancer."
Maybe in that short clip you might be able to begin to see how beautiful, strong, calm, inspiring, remarkable, and creative she was. She's the kind of person that you would interrupt mid-conversation to tell them how great and cute they are. I had seen this video quite a few months ago when it was first published, and watching it again just now as I posted the video was really hard. Her family members used Michele's email account to send out the details for the services, and a simple "Michele" and this video link were still in her old signature file, along with a quote about faith and impossibleness. That too, was really hard to see.
But, god, you're supposed to be ready for these things, right? When someone is in her fourth battle with something that could very well have killed her the first time around (and almost did), shouldn't you expect her to lose her fight at some point? Shouldn't you be relieved and peaceful that her body is no longer feeling or sourcing her pain? I don't know, I just don't know. All bets are off when you're as young as Michele. All bets are off when you're my friend.
I just sat here for about 10 minutes staring at the screen trying to think of something moving and well-written to write here about Michele, but then it just made me feel so sick to my stomach, like I would be getting some artistic jollies off of her tragedy so I'm just going to leave it alone.
I am so sad. I miss her.
Today, I found out that my friend and former LLS coworker Michele Larson has passed away. I told you about her a while ago, when it was totally unfair that she had developed a secondary cancer, leukemia, as a result of her treatment for her original lymphoma. Since that post, she has had not one, but two additional battles with cancer. Four total. Four. My heart and my stomach ache thinking about the struggles her body knew.
Here is a video of Michele (embedded below), interviewed for a program called "Understanding Cancer."
Maybe in that short clip you might be able to begin to see how beautiful, strong, calm, inspiring, remarkable, and creative she was. She's the kind of person that you would interrupt mid-conversation to tell them how great and cute they are. I had seen this video quite a few months ago when it was first published, and watching it again just now as I posted the video was really hard. Her family members used Michele's email account to send out the details for the services, and a simple "Michele" and this video link were still in her old signature file, along with a quote about faith and impossibleness. That too, was really hard to see.
But, god, you're supposed to be ready for these things, right? When someone is in her fourth battle with something that could very well have killed her the first time around (and almost did), shouldn't you expect her to lose her fight at some point? Shouldn't you be relieved and peaceful that her body is no longer feeling or sourcing her pain? I don't know, I just don't know. All bets are off when you're as young as Michele. All bets are off when you're my friend.
I just sat here for about 10 minutes staring at the screen trying to think of something moving and well-written to write here about Michele, but then it just made me feel so sick to my stomach, like I would be getting some artistic jollies off of her tragedy so I'm just going to leave it alone.
I am so sad. I miss her.
7.02.2008
The only two clean things they played with all weekend.
6.23.2008
Bookish.
Bookish.
I've been reading more lately. This is almost entirely based on the fact that Ollie usually needs to nurse for the entirety of his nap, or at least at the start, middle, and end and it's not like I could get up and leave the room because he's just lying there in the middle of our bed and would probably stand up all excited and run off the bed if he were to wake up alone. And no, he won't go in his crib for naps. So back to reading. Half the time, I nap with him. The other half, I read. I would probably play on the internet but the laptop is too tip tappy and he would probably reach his grabby little paw over in his sleep and hide firefox using only keystrokes, a skill he seems to do all.the.time but I have yet to master.
During today's nap, I finished In The Time of the Butterflies, by Julia Alvarez.
Yes, I'm going to be THAT blogger and link you to Powell's instead of Amazon. Amazon, however, had a cover image of the edition I read, so I had to steal the picture from them. I hate it when a book cover has a still from an adapted movie (like the edition at Powell's). Actually, my favorite book, The Virgin Suicides, has a movie still on the cover and I love it. Ahhhh, Lux.
Anyway, back to The Butterflies. Viva Las Miraposas! I highly recommend this one. Alvarez is a phenomenal writer, even though I just assumed that my college professors liked her because she was Multi-Cultural and Political Oppression-y and that's totally how our lit department rolled. But she's really, really remarkable. Note that I obviously didn't read this book when it was assigned. See also:The Faerie Queen by Edmund Spencer. Yes, that's right. 1,248 pages.
The Mirabal sisters were the hub of an underground revolutionary movement in the 50s/60s Dominican Republic. They were privileged, educated, courageous, and martyred (seriously, I'm not giving anything away there. It's on the back cover. And the first page. And in history.).
I only choked up once, at the end. It's a beautiful story, and completely inspiring. I think the best part about the idea of fictionalizing a historical story so powerful that it has achieved legend status, is that we see that the majority of their courage is just like the majority of normal people's courage: kind of faked. That's a nasty word for a (sometimes) noble thing. These women would not and could not let their sisters, husbands, families, and their country down by showing their fear. It makes it a little more believable, and you quietly understand that you even though you would still probably chicken out were you to be in their shoes, they just did what had to be done.
But did they have to have BABIES? Ay, mama.
Next up: The Faerie Queen? No. But rest assured I still own it.
I've been reading more lately. This is almost entirely based on the fact that Ollie usually needs to nurse for the entirety of his nap, or at least at the start, middle, and end and it's not like I could get up and leave the room because he's just lying there in the middle of our bed and would probably stand up all excited and run off the bed if he were to wake up alone. And no, he won't go in his crib for naps. So back to reading. Half the time, I nap with him. The other half, I read. I would probably play on the internet but the laptop is too tip tappy and he would probably reach his grabby little paw over in his sleep and hide firefox using only keystrokes, a skill he seems to do all.the.time but I have yet to master.
During today's nap, I finished In The Time of the Butterflies, by Julia Alvarez.
Yes, I'm going to be THAT blogger and link you to Powell's instead of Amazon. Amazon, however, had a cover image of the edition I read, so I had to steal the picture from them. I hate it when a book cover has a still from an adapted movie (like the edition at Powell's). Actually, my favorite book, The Virgin Suicides, has a movie still on the cover and I love it. Ahhhh, Lux.
Anyway, back to The Butterflies. Viva Las Miraposas! I highly recommend this one. Alvarez is a phenomenal writer, even though I just assumed that my college professors liked her because she was Multi-Cultural and Political Oppression-y and that's totally how our lit department rolled. But she's really, really remarkable. Note that I obviously didn't read this book when it was assigned. See also:The Faerie Queen by Edmund Spencer. Yes, that's right. 1,248 pages.
The Mirabal sisters were the hub of an underground revolutionary movement in the 50s/60s Dominican Republic. They were privileged, educated, courageous, and martyred (seriously, I'm not giving anything away there. It's on the back cover. And the first page. And in history.).
I only choked up once, at the end. It's a beautiful story, and completely inspiring. I think the best part about the idea of fictionalizing a historical story so powerful that it has achieved legend status, is that we see that the majority of their courage is just like the majority of normal people's courage: kind of faked. That's a nasty word for a (sometimes) noble thing. These women would not and could not let their sisters, husbands, families, and their country down by showing their fear. It makes it a little more believable, and you quietly understand that you even though you would still probably chicken out were you to be in their shoes, they just did what had to be done.
But did they have to have BABIES? Ay, mama.
Next up: The Faerie Queen? No. But rest assured I still own it.
6.20.2008
Wu wei.
Wu wei.
Today I caught myself feeling a little left behind. Left behind myself, or my potential, or what I used to be, or my something else? I'm not really sure. I wave through moods like this periodically, and could probably compile dozens of partially-written blog posts where I give up after the first few paragraphs after I realize that I have no idea what I'm writing or even what I'm feeling. But it's almost like I felt (feel?) simultaneously trapped and freed, inhibited and empowered by being a mother, and that, my friends, is crazy crazy head space.
I don't know yet how to ascribe the effect motherhood has had on my brain or my soul. I am in no major way the person I was 2 years or so ago. But little remainders here and there of a former girl insist to me one of two conflicting things. The first is that I am the same old, same old, just now arguably improved with lactation and a little person following me around and a little squishier in the middle. The second? I will never be the same again. I pretty much always lean towards the second.
When Ollie was a newborn, some (then-childless) friends of ours asked us "so what else is new," and I was amazed. Not because I might have felt inferior, or bogged down, or out of touch, but because it had not once occurred to me to devote an ounce of my energy elsewhere than on my sweet child and family. Why would I want anything else to be "new" or "up"?
However, I do struggle with frequent yearnings for authenticity, but at the same time catch myself because I can't imagine anything more authentic, more meaningful, more powerful than being a mother. When Ollie was a day old, Sasha described nursing a child as "doing not-doing" and I think of that often. Obviously it's easier to relate to those hour long nursing sessions in the early weeks, but I can definitely apply it to myself now. I don't get to have brilliant conversations with brilliant (well, grown-up) minds all day long anymore. I don't get to shut out the world so that I can focus on some creative pursuit - writing, music, doodling, daydreaming. I can't believe that I don't doodle anymore, for the love of pete! But my time spent with Ollie seems to undulate between really active and conscious parenting, and then those times where you just are there. Whether it's holding him, sitting with him while he insists on trying to get the square peg in the round hole (actually, these days it's the hexagon shaped block into the hexagon shaped hole but just not lined up right), nursing him, or lying next to him while he naps- it's just kind of sitting around and waiting. Doing nothing, so to speak. But the great thing is that it's work. The work of the mother. This taoist sort of not-doing, the wu-wei, is the kind of important work that moves mountains, or at the very least, rears children.
It all kinds of leads me back to my darkest moments this week, my biggest struggles, my weakest parenting, my crappy performance review. Patience. I found myself raising my voice several times this week, all for stupid things, and to no end. You can't yell at a 1 year old! You can't reason with him! It's so much easier to get behind the wu wei doing-not-doing when you can cuddle up with a wrinkly little newborn for hours on end. It's a totally different but just as important deal when they're actually little people doing things and saying things and throwing fits. Not-doing right now calls on the vast depths of patience, and I'm not very good at it. What's amusing is that the two people I'm closest to these days not counting Erik (oh, and Ollie) - Sarah and Nelwyn - both have recently commented that they think I'm really patient. I'm not sure if I'm off-gassing some sort of faux-patience or that maybe by the time they get to me, it's just some incarnation of exhaustion and defeat. But that said, patience is definitely the one thing I keep coming back to time and time again with parenting.
And back to my point. My recent philosophical or nostalgic or whatever stirrings and the week's struggles with patience have crashed into each other full speed and I felt it just now driving home from book club in the 80 degree night with the windows down and Air playing loudly on the radio. And the strange part? I'm just kind of at peace.
I recently saw a grandmother at the park, who is presumably the caregiver for her grandkids while the parents work. I remembered planning on having my parents watch Ollie (for free!) while I went back to work, and realized that holy hell would that not have worked out. To say this is the hardest job I've ever had would be a gross understatement. My days are emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and (most of all) physically draining. And you know what? To kiss my sad, wakened-up baby's head and eyes and cheeks and neck as I carry him to bed in the middle of the night, and then to curl up next to him, wide awake and all not-doing-y, and watch him sleep? Magic. I'm recharged.
Today I caught myself feeling a little left behind. Left behind myself, or my potential, or what I used to be, or my something else? I'm not really sure. I wave through moods like this periodically, and could probably compile dozens of partially-written blog posts where I give up after the first few paragraphs after I realize that I have no idea what I'm writing or even what I'm feeling. But it's almost like I felt (feel?) simultaneously trapped and freed, inhibited and empowered by being a mother, and that, my friends, is crazy crazy head space.
I don't know yet how to ascribe the effect motherhood has had on my brain or my soul. I am in no major way the person I was 2 years or so ago. But little remainders here and there of a former girl insist to me one of two conflicting things. The first is that I am the same old, same old, just now arguably improved with lactation and a little person following me around and a little squishier in the middle. The second? I will never be the same again. I pretty much always lean towards the second.
When Ollie was a newborn, some (then-childless) friends of ours asked us "so what else is new," and I was amazed. Not because I might have felt inferior, or bogged down, or out of touch, but because it had not once occurred to me to devote an ounce of my energy elsewhere than on my sweet child and family. Why would I want anything else to be "new" or "up"?
However, I do struggle with frequent yearnings for authenticity, but at the same time catch myself because I can't imagine anything more authentic, more meaningful, more powerful than being a mother. When Ollie was a day old, Sasha described nursing a child as "doing not-doing" and I think of that often. Obviously it's easier to relate to those hour long nursing sessions in the early weeks, but I can definitely apply it to myself now. I don't get to have brilliant conversations with brilliant (well, grown-up) minds all day long anymore. I don't get to shut out the world so that I can focus on some creative pursuit - writing, music, doodling, daydreaming. I can't believe that I don't doodle anymore, for the love of pete! But my time spent with Ollie seems to undulate between really active and conscious parenting, and then those times where you just are there. Whether it's holding him, sitting with him while he insists on trying to get the square peg in the round hole (actually, these days it's the hexagon shaped block into the hexagon shaped hole but just not lined up right), nursing him, or lying next to him while he naps- it's just kind of sitting around and waiting. Doing nothing, so to speak. But the great thing is that it's work. The work of the mother. This taoist sort of not-doing, the wu-wei, is the kind of important work that moves mountains, or at the very least, rears children.
It all kinds of leads me back to my darkest moments this week, my biggest struggles, my weakest parenting, my crappy performance review. Patience. I found myself raising my voice several times this week, all for stupid things, and to no end. You can't yell at a 1 year old! You can't reason with him! It's so much easier to get behind the wu wei doing-not-doing when you can cuddle up with a wrinkly little newborn for hours on end. It's a totally different but just as important deal when they're actually little people doing things and saying things and throwing fits. Not-doing right now calls on the vast depths of patience, and I'm not very good at it. What's amusing is that the two people I'm closest to these days not counting Erik (oh, and Ollie) - Sarah and Nelwyn - both have recently commented that they think I'm really patient. I'm not sure if I'm off-gassing some sort of faux-patience or that maybe by the time they get to me, it's just some incarnation of exhaustion and defeat. But that said, patience is definitely the one thing I keep coming back to time and time again with parenting.
And back to my point. My recent philosophical or nostalgic or whatever stirrings and the week's struggles with patience have crashed into each other full speed and I felt it just now driving home from book club in the 80 degree night with the windows down and Air playing loudly on the radio. And the strange part? I'm just kind of at peace.
I recently saw a grandmother at the park, who is presumably the caregiver for her grandkids while the parents work. I remembered planning on having my parents watch Ollie (for free!) while I went back to work, and realized that holy hell would that not have worked out. To say this is the hardest job I've ever had would be a gross understatement. My days are emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and (most of all) physically draining. And you know what? To kiss my sad, wakened-up baby's head and eyes and cheeks and neck as I carry him to bed in the middle of the night, and then to curl up next to him, wide awake and all not-doing-y, and watch him sleep? Magic. I'm recharged.
6.19.2008
History.
History.
Tonight, I slipped away and went up to the Bluefoot Bar in North Park, where my friend Mike Angell was having his going-away party. He's off to exotic places such as Utah, San Antonio, and SOUTH AFRICA. Then, to seminary.
Before I go on, I want you to know that Mike is one of the most phenomenal and amazing people I have ever met, and you would think that too. One day, ten years from now, someone will ask me who my Top Ten All Time Amazing People are, and Mike will be one of them, even if I never see him again (I will).
But the big news of the night is that I shook hands and awkwardly small-talked with a man who was just ordained into the Episcopal church last week. I know, a bar full of episcopal priests and seminarians: wild. And also, I want you to know that (to quote this dude), being ordained a priest (or a deacon) is always "significant." This man, though, just happened to be the very first homosexual ordained in the Episcopal Diocese of San Diego, ever*. And this happened last week. I don't want to be awestruck, because this really shouldn't just be starting to happen here in 2008, but I was nonetheless. I mean, I was just standing there with a piece of history while poking the leftover ice in my glass with the three little straws.
I also met someone who is permanent staff at Camp Stevens in Julian (our episcopal camp), and I wanted to be him. He coordinates the outdoor adventure stuff and lives at the camp. HE LIVES AT CAMP STEVENS. And eats their organic grown-on-site vegan food every single day. And I have officially renewed my dream of one day being permanent resident staff at Camp Stevens. Le sigh.
It was a pretty renewing night after all. And, cheap drinks!
_____
* = according to Mike, apparently, years ago, our Not Confrontational At All former Bishop once stepped aside and left the building so that the Definitely Confrontational At All Bishop Spong could fly in from Liberal!Newark! to ordain a gay man from another diocese in our cathedral. I don't think that really counts as being the diocese of San Diego's first; it was just kind of like renting out the building for an out of town wedding or something. But I still love that that happened here. Bishop Spong is a FORCE, man.
Tonight, I slipped away and went up to the Bluefoot Bar in North Park, where my friend Mike Angell was having his going-away party. He's off to exotic places such as Utah, San Antonio, and SOUTH AFRICA. Then, to seminary.
Before I go on, I want you to know that Mike is one of the most phenomenal and amazing people I have ever met, and you would think that too. One day, ten years from now, someone will ask me who my Top Ten All Time Amazing People are, and Mike will be one of them, even if I never see him again (I will).
But the big news of the night is that I shook hands and awkwardly small-talked with a man who was just ordained into the Episcopal church last week. I know, a bar full of episcopal priests and seminarians: wild. And also, I want you to know that (to quote this dude), being ordained a priest (or a deacon) is always "significant." This man, though, just happened to be the very first homosexual ordained in the Episcopal Diocese of San Diego, ever*. And this happened last week. I don't want to be awestruck, because this really shouldn't just be starting to happen here in 2008, but I was nonetheless. I mean, I was just standing there with a piece of history while poking the leftover ice in my glass with the three little straws.
I also met someone who is permanent staff at Camp Stevens in Julian (our episcopal camp), and I wanted to be him. He coordinates the outdoor adventure stuff and lives at the camp. HE LIVES AT CAMP STEVENS. And eats their organic grown-on-site vegan food every single day. And I have officially renewed my dream of one day being permanent resident staff at Camp Stevens. Le sigh.
It was a pretty renewing night after all. And, cheap drinks!
_____
* = according to Mike, apparently, years ago, our Not Confrontational At All former Bishop once stepped aside and left the building so that the Definitely Confrontational At All Bishop Spong could fly in from Liberal!Newark! to ordain a gay man from another diocese in our cathedral. I don't think that really counts as being the diocese of San Diego's first; it was just kind of like renting out the building for an out of town wedding or something. But I still love that that happened here. Bishop Spong is a FORCE, man.
6.16.2008
Name change.
Name is to be changed.
I want you all to know that I really want to change my blog name, and have wanted to change it for years now. But I left the raw photoshop file for the banner you see there on my old, old work computer (not that I was redesigning my blog from work, nope, not at all!) AND I no longer have PS on here since the great powerbook death of '08.
But the name is so annoying to me that I really feel the need to disclose my annoyance, just in case you think I relate to it much. But I DO still and always will relate to DADGAD guitar tuning. But I picked the blog title when I was in this wispy dreamy tense-y phase of my life just before getting married, blah blah blah, and now it's just kind of annoying to me to feel pinpointed to a single line in a single Sixpence None The Richer song. But DADGAD, I love you! DADGAD is to be loved!
Anyway, I don't want to just go about changing the title or picture to something lame, so we're just going to have to deal with it for now. I tried just getting rid of the picture/banner altogether and using minimalist plain text as the title but my blog looked so naked and text-y. So until then, just pretend.
I want you all to know that I really want to change my blog name, and have wanted to change it for years now. But I left the raw photoshop file for the banner you see there on my old, old work computer (not that I was redesigning my blog from work, nope, not at all!) AND I no longer have PS on here since the great powerbook death of '08.
But the name is so annoying to me that I really feel the need to disclose my annoyance, just in case you think I relate to it much. But I DO still and always will relate to DADGAD guitar tuning. But I picked the blog title when I was in this wispy dreamy tense-y phase of my life just before getting married, blah blah blah, and now it's just kind of annoying to me to feel pinpointed to a single line in a single Sixpence None The Richer song. But DADGAD, I love you! DADGAD is to be loved!
Anyway, I don't want to just go about changing the title or picture to something lame, so we're just going to have to deal with it for now. I tried just getting rid of the picture/banner altogether and using minimalist plain text as the title but my blog looked so naked and text-y. So until then, just pretend.
6.10.2008
Selective Stereotyping.
All Firemen Have Mustaches And Other Selective Stereotyping.
Two parents:
"Here, Ollie, here's the fireman!"
"Firefighter."
"[stare]. Okay, Ollie, here's the FIREFIGHTER."
"No need to reinforce unnecessary stereotypes, you know."
"[pause]. Anyway, it doesn't have a mustache, so it *must* be a girl-firefighter."
Two parents:
"Here, Ollie, here's the fireman!"
"Firefighter."
"[stare]. Okay, Ollie, here's the FIREFIGHTER."
"No need to reinforce unnecessary stereotypes, you know."
"[pause]. Anyway, it doesn't have a mustache, so it *must* be a girl-firefighter."
6.02.2008
How To Be A Rude Barista.
How to be a Rude Barista.
1. Line forms behind us. Barista doesn't make eye contact. Barista talks to her friend.
2. While we (finally) order, a baby in a small family starts whining. Flustered barista says to me, "Sorry, I don't have kids yet, I'm like, what is that HORRIBLE noise?!" And yes, I'm holding Oliver, horrible thing that he is.
3. We sit around and stand there and notice that people previously behind us in line are getting their drinks made before us. Granted, we have an order of 4 drinks so I could understand dispensing someone a quick drip coffee, but no, we're talking full on espresso drinks.
4. She pauses a half dozen times during the making of those drinks ordered after ours to talk to friends.
5. I go and stand near the counter, and see she's looking at our cups. But wait! Someone just walked in the door! "You want nonfat, right?" she asks the person who came in. She makes that person's latte. Nonfat. Then she rings them up, and asks them what's new.
6. Finally, other employees get there (who actually remember and like us). One employee takes over making our drinks and is having trouble reading the rude, stressed out person's handwriting on the scratch paper. I lean in and ask if I can help and ask her which one is decaf (for shawna)? And the rude barista butts in. And says, in all caps but not yelling: "I WROTE DOWN EVERYTHING YOU SAID. SHE IS MAKING THEM TO YOUR SPECIFICATIONS." like, totally deadpanned. And she doesn't even look at me as she chastises and condescends a paying customer. Oh, the swear words circling my brain right now. Sorry I gave you money and asked for something. Sorry for putting you out.
But, OMG. "Specifications"? I know I personally have a slightly demanding drink (that complicated soy!), but the rest of what we ordered was, like, "mocha."
I should also add that half of the doors were still locked (at 9:30 am), the sign wasn't even out on the sidewalk, and all of the patio chairs were stacked inside the cafe. Hello, disaster! Well, certainly not for her friends or the people in line behind us. They were happy. I normally love love love this place so I won't bastardize it's name on the internet unless you really want to know. I'll just hope that they fire this girl.
1. Line forms behind us. Barista doesn't make eye contact. Barista talks to her friend.
2. While we (finally) order, a baby in a small family starts whining. Flustered barista says to me, "Sorry, I don't have kids yet, I'm like, what is that HORRIBLE noise?!" And yes, I'm holding Oliver, horrible thing that he is.
3. We sit around and stand there and notice that people previously behind us in line are getting their drinks made before us. Granted, we have an order of 4 drinks so I could understand dispensing someone a quick drip coffee, but no, we're talking full on espresso drinks.
4. She pauses a half dozen times during the making of those drinks ordered after ours to talk to friends.
5. I go and stand near the counter, and see she's looking at our cups. But wait! Someone just walked in the door! "You want nonfat, right?" she asks the person who came in. She makes that person's latte. Nonfat. Then she rings them up, and asks them what's new.
6. Finally, other employees get there (who actually remember and like us). One employee takes over making our drinks and is having trouble reading the rude, stressed out person's handwriting on the scratch paper. I lean in and ask if I can help and ask her which one is decaf (for shawna)? And the rude barista butts in. And says, in all caps but not yelling: "I WROTE DOWN EVERYTHING YOU SAID. SHE IS MAKING THEM TO YOUR SPECIFICATIONS." like, totally deadpanned. And she doesn't even look at me as she chastises and condescends a paying customer. Oh, the swear words circling my brain right now. Sorry I gave you money and asked for something. Sorry for putting you out.
But, OMG. "Specifications"? I know I personally have a slightly demanding drink (that complicated soy!), but the rest of what we ordered was, like, "mocha."
I should also add that half of the doors were still locked (at 9:30 am), the sign wasn't even out on the sidewalk, and all of the patio chairs were stacked inside the cafe. Hello, disaster! Well, certainly not for her friends or the people in line behind us. They were happy. I normally love love love this place so I won't bastardize it's name on the internet unless you really want to know. I'll just hope that they fire this girl.
5.31.2008
Dharma Brand Baby Formula or Adoptive Lactation?
Dharma Brand Baby Formula or Adoptive Lactation?
I don't know if this is spoilery or not because it's such a small plot line, but if you're waiting for the DVDs don't blame me if I ruin anything for you in the next two paragraphs. It's pretty much your own fault for not sacrificing your social life and family every Thursday or Wednesday night for the last 3 years like the rest of us. No offense, Tessa and Chris.
Fact: "LOST" is such an insanely-detail oriented show, weaving flashbacks with flash-forwards and intricate plot twists, often digging up details and nuances many of us barely remember from past seasons. Which makes it even more infuriating that Baby Aaron hasn't eaten in like 3 episodes now.
I know the idea of adoptive lactation or re-lactation is a little much for a major network, but they could have at least tried to show a case of Dharma (TM) Formula or maybe a bottle? Or fashioning island-made formula out of coconut milk and sea vegetables or freshly-milked Dharma (TM) goats? Or them digging through the salvaged passenger luggage for formula? FEED THE BABY. Babies are rarely "fine, not a scratch!" after not eating in at least a night and a morning.
Otherwise: good show, good show!
I don't know if this is spoilery or not because it's such a small plot line, but if you're waiting for the DVDs don't blame me if I ruin anything for you in the next two paragraphs. It's pretty much your own fault for not sacrificing your social life and family every Thursday or Wednesday night for the last 3 years like the rest of us. No offense, Tessa and Chris.
Fact: "LOST" is such an insanely-detail oriented show, weaving flashbacks with flash-forwards and intricate plot twists, often digging up details and nuances many of us barely remember from past seasons. Which makes it even more infuriating that Baby Aaron hasn't eaten in like 3 episodes now.
I know the idea of adoptive lactation or re-lactation is a little much for a major network, but they could have at least tried to show a case of Dharma (TM) Formula or maybe a bottle? Or fashioning island-made formula out of coconut milk and sea vegetables or freshly-milked Dharma (TM) goats? Or them digging through the salvaged passenger luggage for formula? FEED THE BABY. Babies are rarely "fine, not a scratch!" after not eating in at least a night and a morning.
Otherwise: good show, good show!
5.27.2008
Oh, Oprah.
Oprah!
My husband just sent me this forward, so I feel like I should probably comment on the matter. He wrote, "did you see this already?" and I just wanted to flail my arms about and maybe kick a little. YES I have heard already.
Oprah! Vegan!
Let's back it up a little. I have a not exactly love-hate but more like admiration-irritation relationship with Oprah, as does, I assume, the rest of the country. She does a lot of good. A lot. She's also filthy rich and well-appointed so she'd better do a lot of good. Still, I understand that she gets too much grief, some of it from me.
When Oprah started a book club and started putting her little "O" sticker on the front cover of so many of my favorite books, I got a little defensive. But still, let's read, America!
When Oprah ran a marathon in 4 hours and 29 minutes, I got a little defensive. I can do that, I said to myself. "If Oprah can do it..." the familiar refrain echoed through so many of our training runs that season. People even had shirts heralding her finishing time or something like "Beat Oprah." Note: P.Diddy actually did set out to beat Oprah and succeeded. As the training runs got longer, and we all got slower, the 4:29 pace seemed to be quickly slithering away from us. "Well, sure, she had a staff of dozens training her, cooking for her, advising her, etc. If I had her staff then sure, I'd be able to do a 4:29 marathon, blah blah blah" became our new refrain. I missed her finishing time by exactly 15 minutes, but because 4:44 (and 16 seconds) was still a respectable finishing time and you know how I am with the awkward compliment-taking skills, I quickly summoned Oprah to deflect a little. "Next time I'll hire a personal trainer and maybe I'll beat Oprah?"
Oprah always just sort of symbolized The Masses to me. Whatever Oprah does, The Masses will follow. And I'm no longer obscure and angst-ridden for loving that formerly-obscure but still angst ridden book that nobody had heard of before the O Sticker. And that, technically, is the only side effect of Oprah.
But! Visiting Farm Sanctuary! Going vegan (temporarily)! My own going-vegan story is almost as Hollywoody and gimicky, but I just don't get paid as much nor do I inspire millions to do the same. But with a personal staff...! I kid. But maybe she read my blog when I decided to try veganism for 30 days but kept going for 4 years! "If Julia can do it!" she said to her producer one afternoon as she strained her eyes to read my annoying font, and then she tried to subscribe to my RSS feed so that she would remember who inspired her to go vegan for a few weeks, but couldn't figure out how to do it so she gave up and forgot all about me.
Anyway, it's officially time for me to Give Oprah Credit. Go vegan, my friends. Not because Oprah and her personal chef and personal nutritionist can do it, but because someone reputable and non-PETA-y is finally shedding light on some serious environmental and ethical consequences associated with raising animals for food.
Rhubarb wheat-free crepes for breakfast? Maybe not, but hopefully The Masses will now be more likely to think about clearing a space on their plates for plants. While reading an angst-ridden, gorgeously-cover-ed novel. While stretching before their long run.
My husband just sent me this forward, so I feel like I should probably comment on the matter. He wrote, "did you see this already?" and I just wanted to flail my arms about and maybe kick a little. YES I have heard already.
Oprah! Vegan!
Let's back it up a little. I have a not exactly love-hate but more like admiration-irritation relationship with Oprah, as does, I assume, the rest of the country. She does a lot of good. A lot. She's also filthy rich and well-appointed so she'd better do a lot of good. Still, I understand that she gets too much grief, some of it from me.
When Oprah started a book club and started putting her little "O" sticker on the front cover of so many of my favorite books, I got a little defensive. But still, let's read, America!
When Oprah ran a marathon in 4 hours and 29 minutes, I got a little defensive. I can do that, I said to myself. "If Oprah can do it..." the familiar refrain echoed through so many of our training runs that season. People even had shirts heralding her finishing time or something like "Beat Oprah." Note: P.Diddy actually did set out to beat Oprah and succeeded. As the training runs got longer, and we all got slower, the 4:29 pace seemed to be quickly slithering away from us. "Well, sure, she had a staff of dozens training her, cooking for her, advising her, etc. If I had her staff then sure, I'd be able to do a 4:29 marathon, blah blah blah" became our new refrain. I missed her finishing time by exactly 15 minutes, but because 4:44 (and 16 seconds) was still a respectable finishing time and you know how I am with the awkward compliment-taking skills, I quickly summoned Oprah to deflect a little. "Next time I'll hire a personal trainer and maybe I'll beat Oprah?"
Oprah always just sort of symbolized The Masses to me. Whatever Oprah does, The Masses will follow. And I'm no longer obscure and angst-ridden for loving that formerly-obscure but still angst ridden book that nobody had heard of before the O Sticker. And that, technically, is the only side effect of Oprah.
But! Visiting Farm Sanctuary! Going vegan (temporarily)! My own going-vegan story is almost as Hollywoody and gimicky, but I just don't get paid as much nor do I inspire millions to do the same. But with a personal staff...! I kid. But maybe she read my blog when I decided to try veganism for 30 days but kept going for 4 years! "If Julia can do it!" she said to her producer one afternoon as she strained her eyes to read my annoying font, and then she tried to subscribe to my RSS feed so that she would remember who inspired her to go vegan for a few weeks, but couldn't figure out how to do it so she gave up and forgot all about me.
Anyway, it's officially time for me to Give Oprah Credit. Go vegan, my friends. Not because Oprah and her personal chef and personal nutritionist can do it, but because someone reputable and non-PETA-y is finally shedding light on some serious environmental and ethical consequences associated with raising animals for food.
Rhubarb wheat-free crepes for breakfast? Maybe not, but hopefully The Masses will now be more likely to think about clearing a space on their plates for plants. While reading an angst-ridden, gorgeously-cover-ed novel. While stretching before their long run.
5.24.2008
Things to do.
Things to do.
I used to be a compulsive list-er. I made to-do lists to pass time and sometimes I would even start my lists with "1. Make to-do list" just so I could have a momentous taste of achievement by crossing that one off and it's kind of like how some writers say that you should start writing a new song/book/whatever by writing down something you already know or have memorized first until your pen and thoughts take off somewhere else.
Since I became a mother I've felt like the number of big picture wish list items or even simple tasks has increased tenfold. However, I hardly ever make lists anymore. In that spirit, I'm going to force myself to make some right now. My favorite lists always involve big ideas next to day to day things like "rice milk" or "call Shawna*."
So whenever the mood strikes me I'm just going to unload a handful of items. Maybe 25 at a time like everyone else on the internet? You all know I don't have that kind of self-discipline, so let's all be happy with what we get. I think I'll start with 10.
Things to do before I die or run out of rice milk:
1. Actually, we're totally out of rice milk.
2. Hike the Coast-to-Coast trail across northern England.
3. Find my green card.
4. Get a scoop of compost worms from Diane.
5. Hang house numbers above the front door.
6. Hang caterpillar hook in Ollie's room.
7. Home-birth a baby.
8. Buy 2 more big floor pillows for living room.
9. Archive 3886 never-to-be-read unread messages in gmail.
10. Listen well.
Oh, sweet list of neatly numbered items, it is so hard to stop at just 10 but I must. I missed you so.
__
* - I am kind of cheating here because I really do need to call Shawna, and I didn't even use up one of my 10 items to remind myself! O, thy sneaky fox. But look how honest I was with the rice milk.
I used to be a compulsive list-er. I made to-do lists to pass time and sometimes I would even start my lists with "1. Make to-do list" just so I could have a momentous taste of achievement by crossing that one off and it's kind of like how some writers say that you should start writing a new song/book/whatever by writing down something you already know or have memorized first until your pen and thoughts take off somewhere else.
Since I became a mother I've felt like the number of big picture wish list items or even simple tasks has increased tenfold. However, I hardly ever make lists anymore. In that spirit, I'm going to force myself to make some right now. My favorite lists always involve big ideas next to day to day things like "rice milk" or "call Shawna*."
So whenever the mood strikes me I'm just going to unload a handful of items. Maybe 25 at a time like everyone else on the internet? You all know I don't have that kind of self-discipline, so let's all be happy with what we get. I think I'll start with 10.
Things to do before I die or run out of rice milk:
1. Actually, we're totally out of rice milk.
2. Hike the Coast-to-Coast trail across northern England.
3. Find my green card.
4. Get a scoop of compost worms from Diane.
5. Hang house numbers above the front door.
6. Hang caterpillar hook in Ollie's room.
7. Home-birth a baby.
8. Buy 2 more big floor pillows for living room.
9. Archive 3886 never-to-be-read unread messages in gmail.
10. Listen well.
Oh, sweet list of neatly numbered items, it is so hard to stop at just 10 but I must. I missed you so.
__
* - I am kind of cheating here because I really do need to call Shawna, and I didn't even use up one of my 10 items to remind myself! O, thy sneaky fox. But look how honest I was with the rice milk.
5.22.2008
Walkie Talkie.
Walkie Talkie.
Ollie has been "walking" for over a month now, taking steps ever since a few days after his birthday, but he really started to opt for the two legged method as his primary mode of transportation just about two and a half weeks ago. And you're just hearing about it now. I know. I never write, I never call.
His language has also taken off. He's kind of gotten lazy with the signs lately, which is slightly frustrating because I'm like a freaking puppet sometimes with all of my examples of signs. I have to stop myself from saying "look at mama!" all the time trying to get him to look at me doing the sign. Listen, self, it's more important that he enjoy the tree than watch you wave your arm about, my less-interesting, flesh-colored tree. Actually, he can sign "tree," so that was a lousy example. But I think he's making up for signing with actual words. I'm happy with either. Actually, I'm 100% content with the "baapdabaaavvffba" he says after interrupting himself nursing to look me straight in the eye, and then he gives me a giant sloppy kiss on the mouth. Oh, my heart. I baapdabaaavvffba you too, little man.
So, since language is both verbal and sign-y at this point, I'll list all of his words in both forms.
sign language (asl) he will do himself
- nurse (milk)
- more (although he's more likely to point at what he wants to eat)
- eat (again, he's just going to point. but we have seen this sign)
- stars (oh god, this one is adorable) (and kind of much more useless than the above signs? but for some reason, it comes up ALL THE TIME).
- car
- dog (we use a non-ASL sign (panting), and is always coupled with a loud DOG ("DUH")).
- mouse (kind of. he moves his finger over MY nose)
- tree
- hat
- music (again, non-ASL. I do use the ASL sign all the time, but ollie just stands in front of the silent stereo/instrument and "dances," indicating that he wants the music turned on.)
- drum (I don't think this is an ASL sign)
- airplane (kind of - he doesn't quite do the intricate finger work)
- light
verbal words
- cat (although he hasn't used this one in a while)
- hat (sounds exactly like cat)
- hot
- ball (repeatedly, all day long with the ball-ing)
- dog (repeatedly, all day long with the dog-ing)
- woof woof
- toes/toast (these things are exactly the same in his mind)
- shoes (it sounds like "shits") (i'm totally serious)
- mama
- dada
- rock
- pup
- bat (he said this once)
- water (more like wawa, of course)
I'm only partially bragging. I'm mostly just writing it all out so I'll remember.
Ollie has been "walking" for over a month now, taking steps ever since a few days after his birthday, but he really started to opt for the two legged method as his primary mode of transportation just about two and a half weeks ago. And you're just hearing about it now. I know. I never write, I never call.
His language has also taken off. He's kind of gotten lazy with the signs lately, which is slightly frustrating because I'm like a freaking puppet sometimes with all of my examples of signs. I have to stop myself from saying "look at mama!" all the time trying to get him to look at me doing the sign. Listen, self, it's more important that he enjoy the tree than watch you wave your arm about, my less-interesting, flesh-colored tree. Actually, he can sign "tree," so that was a lousy example. But I think he's making up for signing with actual words. I'm happy with either. Actually, I'm 100% content with the "baapdabaaavvffba" he says after interrupting himself nursing to look me straight in the eye, and then he gives me a giant sloppy kiss on the mouth. Oh, my heart. I baapdabaaavvffba you too, little man.
So, since language is both verbal and sign-y at this point, I'll list all of his words in both forms.
sign language (asl) he will do himself
- nurse (milk)
- more (although he's more likely to point at what he wants to eat)
- eat (again, he's just going to point. but we have seen this sign)
- stars (oh god, this one is adorable) (and kind of much more useless than the above signs? but for some reason, it comes up ALL THE TIME).
- car
- dog (we use a non-ASL sign (panting), and is always coupled with a loud DOG ("DUH")).
- mouse (kind of. he moves his finger over MY nose)
- tree
- hat
- music (again, non-ASL. I do use the ASL sign all the time, but ollie just stands in front of the silent stereo/instrument and "dances," indicating that he wants the music turned on.)
- drum (I don't think this is an ASL sign)
- airplane (kind of - he doesn't quite do the intricate finger work)
- light
verbal words
- cat (although he hasn't used this one in a while)
- hat (sounds exactly like cat)
- hot
- ball (repeatedly, all day long with the ball-ing)
- dog (repeatedly, all day long with the dog-ing)
- woof woof
- toes/toast (these things are exactly the same in his mind)
- shoes (it sounds like "shits") (i'm totally serious)
- mama
- dada
- rock
- pup
- bat (he said this once)
- water (more like wawa, of course)
I'm only partially bragging. I'm mostly just writing it all out so I'll remember.
5.11.2008
The best mother's day mama could ever dream of.
The best mother's day gift mama could ever dream of.
I can't write much, because I'm working on a deadline, but I just went through to the kitchen and ERIK HAS CLEANED ALL THE DISHES AND CLEANED THE COUNTERTOPS. Let me give you a little backstory.
Two people love each other very much and have a baby and live in a charming house with no dishwasher. Baby is hard work. Housework suffers. One person puts in 12 hour days (well, 9 hour days + 3 hours of train riding). Other person edits (interesting! but time-consuming!) dissertations whenever the baby is asleep. Two people also watch the Twin Peaks DVD box set whenever possible; I'm just throwing that in there so you don't think I'm a robot. Dishes, they pile. Pile pile pile. Charming house is less charming with no dishwasher. Craigslist is stalked for dishwashers. Dishes are pile-ier. Take-out is purchased. Rinse. Repeat. Comb in conditioner.
You're probably thinking, "oh, so what. He did a load of dishes? Whatever." No, my friends. Our cabinets were empty. Empty! Empty, because there were no clean dishes to put in them. Because they were all piled not only next to the sink, but on almost every inch of countertop space. I don't think anyone can really understand except for Lorien, who unassumingly stepped foot into the dish carnage yesterday. (Thank you for the cough pellets!) Don't try and pretend that it wasn't so bad in there.
I had originally intended to have a dreamy, sappy mother's day post wherein I waxed and waned on and on about sweet wee Oliver and how nothing is cuter than a slightly chubby baby scrunching over so that he can peek at and poke at his own belly button, but instead we get a dishwashing post. Happy Mother's Day '08! Clean dishes!
I can't write much, because I'm working on a deadline, but I just went through to the kitchen and ERIK HAS CLEANED ALL THE DISHES AND CLEANED THE COUNTERTOPS. Let me give you a little backstory.
Two people love each other very much and have a baby and live in a charming house with no dishwasher. Baby is hard work. Housework suffers. One person puts in 12 hour days (well, 9 hour days + 3 hours of train riding). Other person edits (interesting! but time-consuming!) dissertations whenever the baby is asleep. Two people also watch the Twin Peaks DVD box set whenever possible; I'm just throwing that in there so you don't think I'm a robot. Dishes, they pile. Pile pile pile. Charming house is less charming with no dishwasher. Craigslist is stalked for dishwashers. Dishes are pile-ier. Take-out is purchased. Rinse. Repeat. Comb in conditioner.
You're probably thinking, "oh, so what. He did a load of dishes? Whatever." No, my friends. Our cabinets were empty. Empty! Empty, because there were no clean dishes to put in them. Because they were all piled not only next to the sink, but on almost every inch of countertop space. I don't think anyone can really understand except for Lorien, who unassumingly stepped foot into the dish carnage yesterday. (Thank you for the cough pellets!) Don't try and pretend that it wasn't so bad in there.
I had originally intended to have a dreamy, sappy mother's day post wherein I waxed and waned on and on about sweet wee Oliver and how nothing is cuter than a slightly chubby baby scrunching over so that he can peek at and poke at his own belly button, but instead we get a dishwashing post. Happy Mother's Day '08! Clean dishes!
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