red brick everything

someday when my life has passed me by

2012-01-12T20:59:00.001-06:00

I have things to say. And I have memories to document and lists to make.

But there is something to be said for putting the pen and paper down, for procrastinating, for ignoring the details and the proper spelling and the decimals and the chronological order, for listening to new songs you kind of hate just for the experience, for letting sugar melt on your tongue, for tilting your head back and closing your eyes and feeling the air enter your lungs and just living for a minute.

the doctor ordered

2012-01-11T19:48:00.002-06:00

Checking out some honeymoon destinations.

North Korea -- yay or nay?

you've got to pick up every stitch

2012-01-03T21:23:00.000-06:00

The snow is everywhere. There's so much of it. This morning I had to pry the door of my car away from its cold blue body before climbing in, and a long line of cars with blinking turn signals stalled my drive to the office. But it's amazing. Stepping outside is like walking into a snow globe. Every time I feel the crunch of ice under my feet, I can't stop smiling. I want to bundle up in a warm scarf and hat and gloves, and spend all day outside discovering, making tiny, terrified Calvin and Hobbes snowmen. Whatever happened to snow days? I thought that was a thing.

When I was a kid, I thought it would be amazing to live in snow because of what I saw on television. Daytime shows and cartoons where neighborhood kids enjoy snowball fights and elaborate battles with forts and various snow-weapons. Hikers scaling Mount Everest. Romantic scenes featuring couples ice skating and taking leisurely walks together. That bit in Groundhog Day where Phil carves the ice sculptures.

But there are a lot of things that no one tells you about. So, for those of you who haven't experienced the joys of snow, here are a few:

1) It is loud. I mean, it is deafening. For the first few weeks at least, it's delicate and powdery and majestic. But when you set foot on the sidewalk, the noise comes as a surprise -- until your ears have taught themselves to tune it out, it is so peculiar. Each step compresses the flakes until they're packed tight, and unless you're in a noisy part of the city, the crunching sound is all you can hear.

2) It is really, really cold. On TV, people stand around in a flurry to chat and have meaningful discussions and drive the plot of the episode a little. Nobody does that in real life because in real life, the snow hits you in the face and gets in your eyes, and it's hard to have any serious conversation with another human being while being pelted in the corneas with infinite pinpricks of ice. Also, women don't wear short skirts with boots, but no tights. Nobody does that, and if they do, they are FREEZING. If they say they aren't freezing, they are also lying to you. When it snows, people shout "Goodbye!" and then rush to their cars and into diners and seek shelter in any place that looks like it might have heat or at least be sealed off from the swirling snowy wind.

3) As I learned during my first year of living here, snow often hides layers and layers of solid ice, and ice is slippery. And when clumsy people like me encounter slippery ice, we fall. Usually in front of people. And they usually laugh, though it usually causes excruciating pain. America's Funniest Videos has trained our country well.

4) Snowball fights aren't really that much fun unless you enjoy being freezing cold, injured and wet at the same time. (Which no one does.) Although maybe I just haven't experienced a great snowball fight yet. Any takers?

5) The roads and sidewalks become muddy and are quite an eyesore after about three days. I am very grateful to the dedicated citizens of the Greater Cleveland area who spend their mornings plowing the streets and clearing out my driveway so that I can leave my house. Those people are awesome. That is not an easy job. When a plower (Plower? Snow plow driver? Snow plow person? Hmm) clears the roadway, the snow that has been cleared has to go somewhere. It is not like mowing a yard, wherein each blade of grass can be contained in some sort of bin, or shredded into a million tiny pieces and redistributed atop the freshly cut lawn. Instead, the snow turns brown from the dirty tires that have rolled over it, and it gets pushed off to the side of the street, where it piles up and forms a border around the road. If you visit a large Ohio store with ample parking, you will see enormous hills made of dirty snow in the middle of the lot.

6) Snowflakes are truly beautiful, even without being under a microscope.

7) When it starts to melt in the spring, it does not smell great.

8) There are toys that you can use to play in the snow. And I mean there is an entire industry devoted to making toys that people can use to play in snow; there is probably even a trade magazine about it. Just look at this and this! OK, other than the snowball-thrower, it seems just like the kind of gear people use to build sandcastles, but I don't really understand the point of sandcastles, either. Not awesome professional sandcastles, but the little ones people use store-bought molds to construct. If you're not building the sandcastle with your hands and a standard pail-and-shovel combo, you're probably too old to be building a sandcastle. And besides, you're at the beach. You're bored? At the beach? How? Did you know that you're at the beach? Same thing with snow. If you live near snow and you have time to play in it (ahem, children), that is awesome. Play in it. But stay away from the muddy sidewalks. And watch out for the yellow snow. And the freezing-ness of being outside. And snow blindness...hmm.

You know what? Nevermind.

It's a magical world.

the sun's in my heart

2012-01-01T22:08:00.004-06:00

Cutest lookbook ever:

Ahh, ModCloth. How awesome thou art.

I am a traveler of both time and space

2011-12-31T21:34:00.001-06:00

2011 Pros

I went to Louisiana. I got to see my family. I got to see Leigh, Eric, Joe, Christa, Kera, Rayce, Evan, Jordan, and many other awesome people from Louisiana. I went to my cousin Jill's wedding. Bryant and I celebrated our nine-year anniversary and started officially planning our wedding. I got promoted and became a professional editor. I learned how to use Quark. I gained another full year of writing and editing experience to put on my resume. I made my first trip out of the country and went to Germany. I also went to Galveston, Texas; South Bend, Indiana; Washington, D.C.; Chicago; and Gettysburg. I entered a writing contest. I saw Battle: Los Angeles and discovered Grooveshark. I went to a dermatologist. I tried and tried and tried.

2011 Cons

Somehow, I still haven't seen Caddyshack. I lost/messed up/destroyed my cell phones. I didn't see Leslea or Cody or Devon. I didn't vote. I gained weight. I was awful, and I was pathetic at times. I started reading books, but never finished them.

All that I hoped would change within me stayed

2011-12-29T20:50:00.001-06:00

Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, I hope you had a lovely, cold, quiet Christmas.

Pity the fool

2011-12-17T21:21:00.002-06:00

The best cover ever/why you should go see The Muppets movie immediately if you haven't yet:

whatever you like

2011-12-15T18:13:00.002-06:00

!!!

So cute!

I need a reason to kick you

2011-12-08T20:44:00.001-06:00

It's stark here. Quiet. The air is still. It hasn't truly snowed yet, but I know it's coming. I've been coat shopping twice and haven't found a classic black overcoat for those icy mornings when I'll get in my car, pull out into the street and listen to my brakes groaning from the cold. It doesn't feel like December, like Christmas is coming, like September and October and November are already over. But they are.

vanished

2011-12-07T18:00:00.001-06:00

This year, I am thankful for several things, including:

lyrics

my family

telephones

God

coats

rocky road ice cream

Netflix

water

hope

And I made lemonade out of it

2011-11-15T19:34:00.001-06:00

Thanksgiving looms.

It will be a low-key feast this year for Bryant and me, but I somehow still manage to get caught up in the fun of deciding what will be on the menu. As tempted as I am to nuke some leftover Chinese food, open a bag of Doritos and call it a day, this is Thanksgiving, and Thanksgiving is nothing without home cooking and tradition. How am I going to pay tribute to the pilgrims (who came to America so that future generations could have the Internet, build massive corporate infrastructures and sink into what seems like an eternal recession, mind you) if I'm not doing it with an enormous turkey and six side dishes? Since I can't even celebrate with a heaping helping of smalltalk and some good ol' passive-aggressive feuding with relatives this year, the least I can do is fuel our economy with some needless discretionary spending.

Of course, last year I burned my hand before the cooking even started, so Bryant made our entire holiday meal. And I didn't even burn my hand in a blazing fire as I was saving a child from death's grip; I was reaching for a mug that had just come out of the microwave and I forgot that microwaves heat things. So. This year I plan to try and be less spastic, stay away from the microwave, let Bryant relax, and prepare a few dishes in advance.

Mashed potatoes, some kind of sweet potato/pumpkin dish, and other classic fare could easily fall under this making-it-in-advance category. And this looks like an edible take on green bean casserole that would reheat well, so I think it will give it a shot. If you see any recipes you think I should read, email them to me. Or don't. Whatever. Happy November.

your dark eyes don't haunt me

2011-11-07T17:59:00.004-06:00

Daylight savings time is driving me crazy, y'all. I get off work at 5:30, which means that even if I clean my coffee mug, shut down my computer, tell my boss I'm leaving, and make it out the door by 5:45, it is still already getting dark. That is ridiculous. Why do we have daylight savings time? Other than that one scene in Hocus Pocus where the kid tricks the Sanderson sisters by turning on the truck headlights, I can't think of a time when it has come in handy. I think it's time for a revolution.

please write my folks and throw away my keys

2011-10-24T18:39:00.001-05:00

Like falling, scrubbing, shivering and slipping, waiting is never fun.

how the weather used to be

2011-10-20T21:40:00.003-05:00

It has been raining here.

45°F | °C

Shower

Wind: SW at 21 mph

Humidity: 90%

and everyone is gonna dress like me

2011-10-10T22:31:00.000-05:00

There's a boutique I pass every day on my regular route. Every time I look in the window, the mannequins are dressed in awesome outfits that I would totally wear if I were cooler, if I were the sassiest, most stylish version of myself. And every day, as I'm pulling forward in traffic and glancing behind me at that display (very safe), I think "OK, I'm just going to go inside today," and then I never do. I am afraid I'll be the only person in the store, and the salesperson will be too eager to help and that will freak me out, or I'll decide I like something and then peek at the tag and realize there are way too many zeros. And then I'll somehow get so embarrassed and flustered that I'll hand over my credit card like Will Friedle's character does in My Date With The President's Daughter, and I'll end up walking out of the shop wearing an unflattering $700 brown suit from the '70s and a hideous mustard-colored button-down I don't even want. And that isn't even a metaphor! Man, shopping stresses me out.

and suddenly everything's right

2011-09-29T21:34:00.001-05:00

Gorgeous:

But alas, my size is out of stock.

Still. Dreamy!

the dues you've been paying

2011-09-18T11:48:00.001-05:00

I am now an Associate Editor.

Pretty cool.

as long as there's something

2011-09-15T19:12:00.003-05:00

Phillip (the pug) has befriended a corgi that lives on our street, and he is the cutest corgi in the entire world. I am plotting a kidnapping (not really (but seriously)) and if all goes well, I will rename the corgi Neil Patrick Harris, and one of my neighbors will be very confused.

things that make me weak and strange

2011-09-12T18:15:00.000-05:00

I admire the science and progress that has brought us to the point at which we no longer have to hold an actual book in our hands to be able to read a book. Because my fiance loves gadgets, I have walked through stores filled with various devices dedicated to that purpose. Many of them are extremely readable, lightweight, and easy to use. Still, I'm a little uneasy about the idea that someday soon, I might be packing my favorite titles away in a box, having downloaded them all in a digital format. I know it's silly, because most people have done the same thing with CDs anyway, but books are different. It is not just the stories themselves that make them wonderful; it is the moments attached to them.

Do you remember people reading to you, reciting line after line as you turned the enormous pages of Mother Goose collections and Aesop's fables, and Little Golden Books and Steven Kellogg stories, gazing in wonder at the details in every illustration? I recall how grown-up I felt when, after a book fair at my elementary school, I sent out my first-ever mail order for a package, and a boxed set of four Ann M.Martin paperbacks arrived in the mailbox. Judge me, but because my friends and I traded books we didn't have, and I read hundreds of books in that series, including all the special editions, I became interested in language, in communicating and learning. And I read history books and science books and mysteries; I excelled in the Accelerated Reader program and felt at home in libraries and bookstores.

In middle school, a friend and I visited the library, walking through the aisles and whispering to each other in standard this-is-a-library fashion. I told her a secret -- one of the first secrets I had ever told anyone, though it wasn't an important one -- that I loved the smell of new books. "Oh, no, Kelli," she said, "Let me introduce you to Old Book Smell." And she reached up on the shelf and handed me what seemed to me an ancient first-edition copy of My Side of the Mountain, and I hesitantly breathed in. And it was awesome. (Sorry, Jordan.)

In eighth grade I discovered science fiction, admittedly because I wanted to impress my big crush at the time, Matt. I had heard him talking with his friend Bryant (yes, Bryant) about how awesome Ender's Game was, so I wanted to find out why. And I read Orson Scott Card and Isaac Asimov, and they stuck with me.

In high school, I read mainly textbooks, but my best friend let me borrow her copy of White Oleander after a speech tournament. I discovered I liked poetry and Calvin and Hobbes.

I once wrote to Markus Zusak and asked him if he'd autograph a piece of paper for me to add to a copy of I Am The Messenger that I was planning to give to Bryant for Christmas. A week later, I went to my P.O. box one day and was delighted to find that the author sent me a signed copy of the book with a personalized message in his handwriting. In college, there were brand-new copies of textbooks, campus bookstore refugees with the bright yellow "USED" stickers clinging to their spines, hard-to-find copies of books by somewhat obscure Southern authors and a whole host of King Arthur books I read and discussed in a gray classroom with my favorite professor and a class full of literature majors. I read James Joyce and Frederick Douglass. And Looking for Alaska, and Jurassic Park and The Lost World. And Devon lent me Catch-22, which I read in a sleepy daze while I sat outside to try and stay awake on early mornings after newspaper layout. And my mom gave me this Maria Shriver book full of advice on how to live a happy life (ouch). In between classes and in the evenings, I sat on the floor of the on-campus library, I combed through the pages of books on crime and ancient issues of Vogue, and I sat crouched in the stacks for blissful hours, reading, absorbing, getting away from my classmates and my computer and my life, which seemed to be happening very fast.

Since then, the books I've read have been few and far between.

Now, when I read, I am on an airplane, hours away from going to a trade show I'm covering for work. Or at a fast-food restaurant, trying to relax during my lunch break, or enjoying a solitary hour on a quiet Saturday morning in the sunroom of my apartment.

But I still love the feeling of picking up a paperback in a store, reading that first sentence and -- importantly -- knowing that if I decide to read it outside and it starts to rain, I'm not going to feel guilty for destroying yet another $100 machine.

Go read something.

don't you remember you told

2011-09-06T21:34:00.002-05:00

Somehow, all the product placement on the show Chuck doesn't bug me at all. It is so ridiculously overt that I expect it; I actually smile and roll my eyes every time it's reached that moment during an episode when a member of the Buy More staff is staring down a submarine sandwich (the company shall remain nameless here, lest it find this blog through one of its regular web sweeps and add my name to the list of people affected by its sneaky, sneaky marketing tactics). Oh, television. Well played.

take your pictures all down

2011-09-01T19:27:00.003-05:00

In two weeks, I will have been at my current job for two full years.

That's something.

drive me crazy

2011-08-29T21:53:00.004-05:00

I have one purse. It is green, and made of whatever material they make purses out of when they are not made of leather, but kind of look like leather. It is small enough that people don't point and laugh at me on the street, but large enough to hold a number of important things at once, including my wallet, keys, earrings, makeup, ponytail holders (is it weird that I still call them by this name although I rarely wear ponytails?), reporter's notebooks, pens, paperbacks, my cell phone, and the address book I keep with me at all times so I can still have everyone's numbers during those inevitable moments when I lose my cell phone.

Fashionable women puzzle me -- the ones who can switch their "handbags" or "clutches" or whatever without hesitation when they want a purse to look cute with their outfit. Maybe it's because I'm not chic. Maybe it's because I never go to places where anybody is going to give a shit about what my handbag looks like. Or maybe it's because it's impractical. I just can't do it.

Every time, I end up losing something, or forgetting that I switched purses. And when that happens, the object in question is usually my driver's license.

When my ID card evades me, I always discover that it is missing when I have already left for work in the morning, and I am at least 10 minutes away from the apartment already. Damn it, I think, because now if I get pulled over I won't even have plausible deniability. I drive cautiously, and then avoid driving when it is unnecessary. I am afraid that a police officer will notice my car, though my car is quite average, and write me a ridiculous ticket that I can't pay. Today I forgot my license at the apartment, and the result was that I stayed in the office for lunch and ate a bag of chocolate-covered almonds instead of actual food.

But missed meals now and then are not the most awful thing associated with losing a license. Yes, friends, losing a license means a trip to the DMV.

Oh, DMV, how I hate you. With your long lines and dirty floors and meaningless paperwork. Beige paint and safety posters. Everyone who is visiting the DMV is furious that they have to be at the DMV, and everyone who works at the DMV wears bright, screeching neon colors that begin murdering your eyes slowly as soon as you walk into the building. By the end of your visit, you're so bored and sick of being there that even the seething hate all around you seems irrelevant. You take your manila envelope (and possibly orders to go back to the beginning of the line and start all over again with the correct form and slightly different instructions) and move on.

Job security.

to anywhere

2011-08-21T12:39:00.002-05:00

Here's to jambalaya, church, board games, Fleet Foxes, memories and a rainy Sunday afternoon.

cocktail waitress who thinks she's an artist

2011-08-18T18:22:00.005-05:00

When I am in the mood to write, I feel talkative. If you walked up to me and asked me a good question, I might find myself launching into a lively conversation or argument with you -- and this is something I don't usually do with people. I feel electricity in the air like there is a storm coming. If I am using a computer, I get this feeling as if at any moment, somebody is going to come and take the keyboard away, so I type very fast and very hard.

Sometimes I'm writing an assignment, but I slide into the groove of the article and I know exactly what tone and shape the story should take. Otherwise, off the clock, sometimes something sparks and I immediately know what I want to write about, or something happens to me and I think, I am going to write about this later. Sometimes I'll get an idea and start to write about something, but then I chicken out, and instead I write the same thing I always write: that life amazes me, and time is going by so goddamn quickly, and I wish I had more of it, and here's a hint at what's going on in my life right now and blah blah blah. But those ideas that I ignore nag me afterward, just as the last dregs of creative energy are leaking from my fingertips; they pull at the skin under my nails, asking, why didn't you write that this time? why didn't you just say it?

Now, I am well aware that writing something down doesn't make it true. But writing it makes it real. It makes the thought clear and bright in your mind. It makes it not just a pesky concept anymore, but a sentence, a subject and a verb, something you can see.

And sometimes I don't want to see.

standing there in twos and threes

2011-08-09T21:41:00.004-05:00

Cool Things

~ improvements

~ storms

~ Jean Reno

~ getting a raise

~ my friend Kera getting engaged (congrats!)

~ Bon Iver

~ accurate synonyms

~ the fresco menu at Taco Bell, which I discovered today on my lunch break

~ piggybanks

~ Party In The CIA by Weird Al

~ Amelie

~ the Uniform Project

~ having a few spare moments in a day to read

Uncool Things

~ forgetting things

~ red lipstick that looks tomato-red in the tube but is actually magenta

~ scales

~ the awful stuff characters do on Mad Men (but it's fascinating! I can't stop watching it.)

~ the number of ingredients on the back of a box of Pizza Rolls

~ realizing something is over

~ rude people

~ getting distracted by Facebook

~ never updating Facebook

~ riots

a fever

2011-07-18T19:24:00.002-05:00

Stuff I should be doing with my time other than watching episodes of Bones:

brushing up on my French
learning a foreign language other than French
working out
playing Terraria with Bryant
practicing copyediting
scheduling a haircut
talking to a friend on the phone or emailing somebody
planning out a budget for the rest of this year and realizing how poor I am
anything, really

taking care of business

2011-07-10T19:46:00.003-05:00

Working in an office that doesn't require wearing a suit can be very challenging. In the winter, it's a dream -- you can combine sweaters, pencil skirts, textured tights and coats for a put-together, but fun look. But during warmer months, the concept of business casual seems to shift into a gray area that includes sandals, ruffly tank tops, inappropriately short skirts, crazy prints, and the most awful of them all, formal shorts.

I'm all for personal expression in wardrobes, but at work, I want to look professional and serious instead of as if I could be going on a date, the beach or a safari at any moment.

Why is it that a guy can go to any department store during any time of year and find a simple, classic dress shirt, pants, and tie suitable for a professional atmosphere -- but a girl looking for a dress shirt can go to numerous thrift stores, department stores, not to mention The Limited, Express, H&M and Banana Republic and have to sift through 900 varieties of shirts with puffy sleeves, too-low necklines, ruffled collars, weird darts, shiny material and sparkly buttons before finding ONE traditional option that looks appropriate for a business meeting?

It's a man's world. And it just ain't fair.

and I don't know how to slow it down

2011-07-07T21:43:00.003-05:00

This summer is warm and windy and fast. I feel it going by when I am driving, when I look in a mirror.

Do you remember your summers as a teenager? To me they seemed to last so long that they eclipse the school year in my memory sometimes; I close my eyes and can visualize the details like yesterday. But as an adult (even if you take vacations), once that escape from school is gone, it just isn't the same. It couldn't be.

So far, though, this year has not completely disappointed. My summer has included all of the following things: starry nights, monuments, sunburns, sand, family, a wedding, Stephen King books, concerts, good food, great kisses, games, catching up, meeting people, some very exciting news from friends, fireworks, Bones, editing, good movies, lame movies, patriotism, one crazed pug and the promise of enjoying the whole rest of July while it lasts.

he is a four-leaf clover

2011-06-06T21:20:00.003-05:00

When things aren't going my way, I try to imagine that later I will look back on the situation and realize that it is totally hilarious. After I get past the experience itself, maybe I will learn something. It will make me stronger, it'll give me a funny story to tell. I could write about it, even.

Or maybe it will be the moment in my life that I finally discover my life is actually just a movie, and this is just one of those low points. And at any moment, Tom Cruise is going to start screaming at me for no reason, and Bill Murray will shrug and offer me a killer one-liner and some scotch, and then Stanley Tucci will be telling me I'm wonderful just the way I am and I need to get a grip. He'll select a fabulous designer wardrobe for me and give me a makeover, and then he'll ship me off to see his dear friend Michael Caine, who will teach me about etiquette (and then possibly murder me with an amputated hand). When it's all over, I'll don an ethereal dress, climb on a horse that I somehow know exactly how to ride (without having any training prior to that day, of course) and dash into the sunset while Natasha Bedingfield sings about how I should keep reaching for that something in the distance, et cetera.

Still, though. That moment sucks.

slick your hair and wear your buckle shoes

2011-06-02T21:30:00.001-05:00

During the past month, my dad came to visit for a few days (and run a marathon, of course), I helped produce an enormous publication, and I attended a trade event for work that left me pretty dang tired. That said, I miss writing for fun and plan to do it more often during the next couple of weeks. Stay tuned!

I'd swim the Pontchartrain

2011-05-04T22:27:00.006-05:00

For the past couple of weeks, I have been craving sunlight desperately. It's gray, gray, gray here. I recently bought a lighter shade of makeup for my skin because I'm so pale. Yes, I'm pale. My Cajun roots have been unearthed, and I don't feel quite like myself these days. I get caught up in day-to-day requirements and work and bills and the rising paranoia that my muscles are sure to atrophy while I sit for hours in front of my computer. And then all it takes is a scent or a familiar name or a regional brand I recognize, and memories rush into my consciousness and I realize how long it has been since I've been home. And that there are things happening to all the people I knew so well in college; they are launching careers and making new friends and breaking up and moving forward and figuring out their lives, and I'm so far away from it all.

So, in the interest of remembering, here is something I wrote in August 2010 while in Louisiana for a brief visit:

I had almost forgotten the way this feels. I’m sitting outside on a bench and my skirt is short. I feel hot metal on the backs of my legs, and the sun is so bright I can hardly see. I look behind me and see something I used to see all the time -- I'm at Front Street in downtown Natchitoches. Though I really didn't come here all that much while I lived here, it suddenly feels as if I have visited this exact spot a thousand times. I remember parking my car and walking here at night, thinking and looking at the stars and wondering why I came. When my mother and I took my grandmother here and visited the Kaffie Frederick General Store, we ended up buying her a beautiful set of wooden wind chimes she admired while we were shopping, and she loved it. Bryant and I strolled on the sidewalk on Saturday mornings and talked for hours. We went to rock concerts and school dances and stood outside after the Christmas festival watching the fireworks with our families and listened to the same band perform "Play That Funky Music, White Boy" and "Hey Ya" a hundred times because those were the only songs in its repertoire.

In the distance, I see two men – one with white hair and one with brown hair, both in jeans and T-shirts; they are fishing off the side of the river. The younger one lunges forward and begins reeling in his line; he has caught a perch. A young woman is leading her tiny son around; they sit. I glance over at the fountain. I don’t know if it has been around the whole time I lived in Natchitoches. It’s huge, spurting water a good thirty feet in the air.

The magnolia trees and oaks look so majestic to me; I'm usually surrounded by buildings that look like warehouses and steel towers. Glorious, the trees stand in straight lines, springing from the sloped land next to the road. It’s hard to explain how beautiful Louisiana is. Buildings climb here to a safe height of three stories, with wrought-iron fences holding in balconies. American flags hang next to Louisiana flags, which bear the pelican image I remember seeing every day in elementary school when we said the pledge. A horse and carriage are parked on the side of the road, lingering in the shade for as long as possible before the tourists come through this evening. The driver looks disinterested; the fringe, red, hangs from the top of his surrey.

I love this. This feeling, like I have been here forever, like no matter how many I times I leave the state and go exploring, it will stay the same, and it will always be like this, hot and humid and perfect. Wind. A breeze. Sweat rolling down my face. Nervousness and an air of excitement and possibility. I have learned that like my father, I now no longer have the ability to sit still. In college, I’d sit outside for hours, relaxing, thinking, considering the future. There was nothing I wanted more than more time to sit in the second floor closet gallery of the Hanchey art building, staring in silence at a painting and just thinking for hours. Now, I can hardly sit outside for a moment without wanting, immediately, to go back indoors, to write something, to make something. I’m a product of my generation. Twitter, mp3s. It's kind of humiliating.

Cars seem louder suddenly, or maybe it’s just that it’s a weekend and I didn’t come here on most weekends. The old café I used to visit once in a while for a latte is closed. A handwritten sign is glued to one of the windows, it says “Coming soon, Canebrake Café.” Passers-by talk softly to each other, with southern accents, drawling. Someone walks past me, asking, “Is it Lasyones?” She's probably wondering where the best meat pies in Natchitoches are (for the record, it isn’t at Lasyones, it’s at Papa’s on Front Street, and it’s the mini meat pies, not the regular-sized ones. They’re served with ranch dipping sauce, and they are delicious.). A man walks past the little table I’m sitting on outside the café and places a piece of paper on my table – a card advertising The Pink Magnolia’s going out of business sale – and smiles at me before walking away. It’s not pushy or rude the way I might consider it in the north.

But it. Is. So. Hot.

It’s so hot I can’t describe it. I feel like I am melting, shedding water weight I didn’t even know I had. God, it is so hot. You don’t even know. My hair just sticks to the side of my face. I am so sweaty I can’t stand it. My body has lost the ability to absorb sunlight. I do not remember if it has always been like this, but it has got to stop. My skin feels softer. I feel sweat on the back of my neck and every time I feel a breeze, it’s enough to make me want to drop to my knees and praise God. No wonder people in the South are so religious. I use the card the man handed me to fan myself. It works.

Despite the heat, I am amazed by the beauty of my surroundings. Azaleas. The old fashioned lights and lampposts. The sweet smell in the air I can’t place – flowers, I guess. And the feeling like you’ve just gotten out of a swimming pool and are soaking up rays. It's awesome.

All of it, it made me, and it will always be part of me. It's home.

would you be my satellite

2011-04-27T19:00:00.001-05:00

64°F \| °C
64°F \| °C
Current: Cloudy Wind: W at 7 mph
Humidity: 70%

Ughhh.

can't afford a Ferrari

2011-04-21T18:32:00.006-05:00

Today at the grocery store, I saw a hand-painted drawing made by some local elementary school student. It featured a crude rendition of the Earth, all in solid blue and green crayon, and declared:

"SAVE THE EARTH: Before It Can Barely Save Us. . ."

So, happy Earth Day/apocalypse/M. Night Shyamalan movie, everyone. Go plant a tree.

bruise real easy when it comes to love

2011-04-12T20:35:00.003-05:00

A Conversation With Bryant

(After I tried to unsuccessfully convince him that he would love the book The Time Traveler's Wife, if only he would actually read it. By the way, the book is really amazing, and the movie by the same name sucks and barely even covers what the book is about. Don't watch it! Just get the book and read it. Anyway, after I tried to explain the story and how awesome it is, he finally broke down and gave me the real reason for his disinterest.)

Bryant: OK, it's called The Time Traveler's Wife.

Me: ...So what?

Bryant: It has the word wife in it. So you know it's going to be about romance and crap like that. If you put the words 'wife' or 'baby' or anything like that in the title, no dude is going to read that. Anytime you put those words in the title, a man will automatically think it's a book that centers on romance, even if it has nothing to do with that. OK? If it was just called The Time Traveler? Done. Totally readable. But as it is, it's just not going to happen.

Me: Seriously? That's why you don't want to read it?

Bryant: And 'husband,' too. Like, if you see a book called The Good Husband, or The Perfect Baby, you know that's targeted to women, even if it's about something totally different.

Me: So, no using the words 'wife,' 'baby,' or 'husband' if you ever want a dude to read something.

Bryant: I mean, you could qualify it. You could call it, like, Satan's Hellfire Baby. I'd read that.

Ahh, love.

life after

2011-04-07T22:10:00.003-05:00

I have officially completed all of my tax forms.

Winning.

(That was for you, Kera.)

all the things that go

2011-03-30T20:43:00.003-05:00

Things I'm Discovering:

I totally took the sunlight, warmth and humidity for granted when I lived in Louisiana, and I MISS IT. A LOT.
I really, really hate touch-screen devices and will probably never figure out how to use them properly.
There are several movies coming out this summer that look awesome -- including the Captain America movie, the new X-Men, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II, The Hangover Part II and Bridesmaids.
Every year, I say I am going to do my taxes early next year, and that I am going to just bring all my paperwork to H&R Block and let some pros handle it, and that I am going to be more organized the next time around. But I never do.
This blog, which features pictures of a cool chick in awesome outfits (and a pair of beautiful Jeffrey Campbell mary janes that are waaay expensive) http://theclothes.blogspot.com/
It has gotten to the point at which I probably need to set official deadlines/writing goals for myself in my spare time if I want to keep up with this blog. So I will. From now on, I will post once a week! I'm lying. I may or may not post once a week. But I'll try.

get bored and run

2011-03-16T19:10:00.001-05:00

Cool Things

~ my dad coming to visit me!

~ the new movie Battle: Los Angeles (Go see it!)

~ staying up late on weekends

~ taffy

~ colored tights (depending on the color, that is)

~ Star Trek references

~ cute cardigans

~ Mardi Gras beads

~ good writing

~ the theme song for Chuck

~ Febreze

Uncool Things

~ getting up early (ughhhh)

~ the unpredictable and not-warm weather of Cleveland

~ buying shirts on impulse and then realizing they look ridiculous later

~ waiting in lines

~ having to do taxes (ugghhhh)

~ being constantly surrounded by sugary things

~ consistently forgetting to clean out the backseat of my car

~ the lack of sunlight here

~ the knowledge that it's going to be a long time before I get to go to a beach

How I could just

2011-03-11T20:32:00.008-06:00

I just want you to know if you're visiting this blog for the first time or perhaps picking up after a long absence, that I don't usually do the whole "Dear Blogosphere, today I had a bagel with cream cheese for breakfast but I didn't have coffee because there wasn't any and then I drove to the office and then around 2 I had to stop at my doctor's office because I had an appointment, and then he said I was going to have to wait a couple weeks to the bloodwork back so I called Mindy and Mindy said blah blah blah blah blah" thing.

But today I feel like doing something different, out of the ordinary.

I have a friend who is devoting the next 40 days to writing for Lent, and I admire his ambition. While his posts certainly aren't anything like the stereotypical blog post I imitated above, they are very open, entertaining, moving and matter-of-fact, which are all things I wish I had the ability to express better in my own writing. I have another friend who is taking a class on how to write fiction, and when I ask him what he's writing about, he always describes the story by telling me the plot -- the storyline that would be illustrated by an outline or a storyboard if he were writing a screenplay. And that amazes me, that people can concentrate on that long enough to write short stories and books. In journalism, the play-by-play approach makes sense to me; I understand the structure, the concept of the inverted pyramid, the tradition of reporting and using a particular style and describing just what happened in straightforward terms. But when I write "creatively," when I write for this blog or for fun, I tend to focus more on the themes and the feeling I have while I'm writing, on enjoying the language and the way things roll off my tongue when I whisper them out loud.

So today I want to try writing a post about what I do during the day, just a plain old play-by-play. If you don't want to read it, you don't have to. But if you want to, that's cool, too. Here goes nothing.

Cleveland is cold, even in March. I wake each morning and am aware that beyond the warm comforter over my shoulders, it is going to be freezing.

Damn it.

I roll out of bed anyway and get ready for work. This involves the jaws of life, hygiene, and straightening my hair for 10 minutes in a zombielike daze while I wonder where the hell my car keys are. I shimmy into my work clothes and stand in front of the mirror for a minute, usually to assess my outfit and decide my pants, collared shirt and sweater look either boring or like I was blindfolded while I was picking them out, and then glance at the time on my cell phone and notice that DAMN IT, I'm going to be late if I don't leave RIGHT NOW.

So I forget about the outfit, kiss Bryant goodbye, dash downstairs, start my car and dust the snow off my windshield. (Today, actually, there was about a foot of snow resting on the roof of my car. For a moment I thought it was beautiful, but then I discovered that beneath the harmless fluff was a sheet of completely solid ice. I had to pry the door open with both hands to retrieve the long-handled brush I use to sweep the snow off the windows. Damn it.)

My drive to work seems to take longer now that the CD player in my car is busted. I'm not exactly sure how I broke it, but one minute I was rocking out and the next I was shouting at my dashboard. There's always Morning Edition and the station that plays songs from the '30s and '40s, but I find myself bored and browsing the channels, stopping on random disco and hip hop songs, singing along in a hoarse, drowsy voice. I put on eyeliner and mascara while I'm sitting at red lights.

I get to the office. My computer acknowledges me with a whir and the day officially begins. While my email loads, I usually visit Grooveshark to get some background music going, or click on the tab I have saved in my browser for the Louisiana radio station website on which Joe hosts his morning show and talks about things I don't usually understand, but appreciate anyway.

Then, for the next 10 hours, I work.

I find it really hard to write about work. I have read so many articles about how you shouldnever write about it (and especially not on a blog), and yet, it takes up so much of my day that I sometimes feel I have little else to talk about.

I type things and sit in meetings. I answer questions and ask them. Sometimes days are good, and other times they are not so good, but isn't that how everything is? The little things make me smile -- the not-that-funny inside jokes I share with my coworkers and the UPS guy, the chime of a new email in my inbox, the Star Trek postcard and the photo of Bryant that brighten my desk, the occasional compliment on a story I wrote, the high-pitched voices of bubbly public relations girls who send press releases and call the editorial team "just to follow up."

When the day ends and I've finished my assignments, I put on the London Fog coat my mom gave me when I started college in Natchitoches ("it's going to be so cold there in the winter!") and step outside. The drive back is exactly like the drive to work. I come home. I catch up with Bryant and we hang out and eat dinner. Sometimes I write, or edit articles, or call my mom, or we watch TV or listen to music or go out to a concert or see a movie. And in the evening, I set my cell phone alarm to blast "Dancing Queen" or some equally annoying ringtone to wake me up in the morning. And then I do it all over again. And that's it. I'm really pretty boring, y'all.

Weekends are glorious: sleeping in, spending hours hanging out with Bryant, shopping, finally doing laundry, catching up on email and Facebook, reading (yeah, right), zoning out in front of the TV, and watching movies. Side note: Instead of renting DVDs like normal people, I like to watch the same movies over and over.

Most recently, I watched:

the M. Night Shyamalan thriller/horror/environmental activist propaganda The Happening, which I found amusing because it's so ridiculous, but also because I love how much Mark Wahlberg cracks me up (and for awhile I used to get him mixed up with Kevin Bacon, so now every time he is in a movie I tell Bryant I'm really excited about going to see that new Kevin Bacon movie)
the '80s classic Back To The Future (Bryant got the boxed set from his family for Christmas, and I was amazed to learn based on the second movie that in just a few short years, we will all be driving flying cars and wearing self-drying jackets), and
the college-aged-actors-playing-high-school-students flick Easy A, which was OK but I am ranking as awesome right now just because of that one scene where she belts out the song from the greeting card.

OK.

I guess that's all I've got. Again, I rarely write posts like these, so this has been interesting for me and even a little challenging. So thanks for reading this, even if it wasn't stellar.

I hope you have a wonderful weekend.

like justice

2011-02-27T22:02:00.005-06:00

Best dressed at the 2011 Oscars = Mila Kunis. Love this color:

And the back:

to the place I belong

2011-02-15T22:19:00.009-06:00

On February 2, 2011, Groundhog Day, I am sitting on a bench inside a small pub in Cologne, Germany. It's late, and there is no one here except for me, the bartender and my two traveling companions, who don't seem tired at all despite the 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. workday they just endured. I spent the day shaking people's hands, interviewing them, writing down comments, exchanging business cards, taking photos and attending press events. My brain actually feels numb. We collapse onto barstools and shrug off the heavy coats we wear over our business suits. My feet hang motionless from my knees, relieved to have the pressure removed from the straps on my heeled mary janes.

The bartender asks what we're drinking. The woman next to me says, "A Coca Light." I ask for the same thing, and he nods. Sitting a few feet away at the bar, the man we're with requests a beer, and turns to me with an enthusiastic gesture, urging me to watch as the bartender pulls on a tab like an organ player and the gold liquid tumbles into a glass. The filled goblet rests on the bar and the man explains: "He has to let it settle." He then engages in a conversation with the fellow behind the counter, asking about people he knew who used to work at the bar, asking about whether his friends have been in lately. "Tell them I was here," he says, and the bartender doesn't think it's strange -- they have been coming here a few times a year for more than 10 years. He knows everybody, remembers everybody. The bartender hands me my tiny glass of Diet Coke and I sip from it, musing: "Danke schon. Life-giving Coca-Cola." The taste of America. I think of something somebody said to me when I said I was coming here, that it doesn't matter where else you go, nothing compares to the USA. Damn right.

All the while, I am listening as a playlist of remarkably good (though not German at all) songs flood the room: AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, ZZ Top. How badass. "Thunderstruck" ends and I hear the familiar beginnings of "Take Me Home, Country Roads."

"John Denver?" I ask with a smile. I don't know if I'm more surprised by the contrast to the rest of the lineup or by the kismet; John Denver has always been a weakness of mine. ((In a flash, I remember my childhood, I am sitting in the backseat of my parents' car after a long and sunny day at the beach; we cruise past the pink houses up on stilts and my father's voice chimes in with the song on a cassette tape. It is a fond recollection, I can practically taste the salty air from the Gulf.)) And in this room the woman next to me is singing along, too, and I'm sure her own mental snapshots are pasted into the words we both have memorized. Even the man at the bar nods to the beat for a moment, before proclaiming: "Yeah, it's a shame he's dead."

The bartender's eyebrows lift.

"...John Denver is dead?"

We all go silent. "Yeah...It's been a long time now, hasn't it?" "Yes, a long time,"I say. The bartender's surprise is genuine; he actually appears to be upset about this. He says, "You're joking. When?" and I can't help it; I burst out laughing. For a second I think I have offended him, but he laughs, too, and the conversation doesn't lag; they launch into a discussion of how so many great performers have died over the years. And I look over at the man and the woman I came with, and I get the feeling that this kind of trip is what they really live for. This is their "usual." The regular office hours back home are just the obligations that enable them to do it, the business flights and important meetings and hotels and $500 dinners. I observe them and wonder how they fell into this life, how they came to believe this is just the kind of thing people do.

After paying the bill, we walk out the door, and they point to the right and say, "Look, Kelli, it's the Rhine."

I glance over at the glittering water for a moment. I feel like I should be more excited than I am. Someday I'll look back on this experience and wonder why I didn't take more pictures, why I didn't write more stuff down. We all gaze at the river, lit up by the city lights in the distance. Then I look up. "Oh!" The stars are everywhere; they are bright and clear. "Oh, look at the sky," I tell them. "It's awesome! Wait one second..." They look up and then at each other, and are probably wondering why I don't care about the Rhine when all of a sudden I find Lyra.

I found it! It's my favorite constellation, or at least I think that's the right cluster, and if it isn't, who gives a damn, because it's the middle of the night, and I am in fucking Germany on Groundhog Day, one of my favorite days of the year, and I am standing next to the Rhine and the air is unbearably cold and my feet feel like they are about to fall off, and never in a million years would I have guessed that I would be here, and that after looking at the sky for less than 60 seconds, I would find it. Or at least, I am pretty sure I found it. And right then, even though I am not sure, and even though an entire ocean separates me from the ones I love, from my "usual," I feel like I'm home.

and the green finds everything

2011-02-10T18:57:00.003-06:00

My friend Amber takes gorgeous pictures.

More photos at http://amberalvaradophotography.blogspot.com/. You're welcome.

the way you talk

2011-02-10T18:35:00.004-06:00

I should send back the gorgeous shoes I ordered that (even though they are a 7 and 1/2, just like all of my other shoes) don't seem to fit my feet.

I should get organized so that all my office projects get completed by deadline.

I should stop watching so much TV, even though Fringe is fascinating.

I should start working out.

I should decide what I'm getting Bryant for his birthday.

I should fold clothes and find an excuse to wear that awesome vintage dress I just bought.

I should write something.

how they hypnotize

2011-01-18T20:18:00.006-06:00

I love interviewing people for features. I am always nervous at the start of it, at that awkward moment when I have to introduce myself and rattle off a description of the publication I write for, when I shake their hands and focus all of my energy on not stuttering.

But when it gets to the part where I've asked the first five questions and they've eased from their original wary state, having determined that my goal is not to make them look idiotic, people open up and they talk. They tell me about their job, their family, their friends. They share their memories and complain about their bosses. And sometimes, I hear things that are so beautiful I can hardly believe them. People will say the most amazing things if you just give them the chance.

playing our favorite CDs

2011-01-14T18:19:00.003-06:00

I am officially the worst blog updater of all time. So.

THINGS:

- I am going to eat dinner in less than 20 minutes. The immediacy of the Internet prevails again!

- According to Bryant (or at least, according to random "radio station" sources Bryant cited), there's a 7 percent chance that the world is going to end on 11/11/11 at 11:11 (a.m., for the record). His explanation: "One is the loneliest number. And when all the ones get together, the world dies, so everybody's lonely."

- In preparation for my upcoming nine-thousand-hour flight to Germany, I am looking for books to read and new music to listen to, so if you are so inclined, send me suggestions. Traveling internationally for the first time seems like a good time to broaden my horizons and take in a ton of new fascinating information all at once, thus increasing my chances of enlightenment/nirvana and a book/movie/action-figure deal that will consume my life and ultimately destroy me.

- Currently, I do not have a dental plan. Neither, apparently, does Kesha (See xkcd).

- Jordan loves Ritter Sport.

Have an excellent weekend.

silver lining

2011-01-03T18:53:00.003-06:00

There is word! Oh, there is nothing, nothing in the world like the feeling I get when somebody writes back -- when I open a letter and see a sheet of loose leaf paper with familiar handwriting, or pick up my cell phone and see the name of someone I know in a text message, or check my email and recognize a lone address among the hundreds of spam messages.

And as much as I treasure language and put so much stock in the words we say to each other, sometimes, the message is irrelevant. It is enough to know that someone took the time to uncap that pen and press it to the page, seal the envelope and write the return address on the back so I would know the origin of my joy upon receipt. And to know that despite constant daily tasks, despite long work schedules and better things to do, someone I care about glanced at my name for a moment and cared back, if only for a minute or two. Just that. That is enough.

perfect in my mind

2010-12-31T18:57:00.013-06:00

2010 Pros

I went to Louisiana. I got to see my family. I ate King Cake and a sandwich from Darrell's. I watched Joe and Christa get married, and I got to sing at their beautiful wedding. I got to see Leigh, Eric, Devon, Kera, Rayce, Evan, Jordan, and many of my other friends from Louisiana. I fell in love with Bryant all over again, again, and we set a tentative date for our wedding. We celebrated our eight-year anniversary. At work, I caught (and fixed) error after error. I learned how to take a screenshot on a Mac. I gained a full year of experience to put on my resume. I went on my first official business trip. I learned how to cover (and more importantly, navigate) a trade show. I started watching Supernatural, Glee, and Battlestar Galactica. I read On Writing by Stephen King and Ballistics by Billy Collins. I saw The Aquabats, Reel Big Fish, The Old 97s, Stars and many other good bands in concert. I heard the song Leslea wrote. I voted. I saw the vice president and president of the United States in person. Bryant and I survived some very awkward dinners with people. I looked at the stars. I tried.

2010 Cons

I still haven't seen Caddyshack. I lost/messed up/destroyed my cell phones. I started reading books, but didn't finish them. I was rude. Something crazy is going on with my skin, and I put off going to a dermatologist. Leslie Nielson died. I saw the movie Splice. And I lost touch with ma meillure amie.

we can build a snowman and pretend

2010-12-19T11:49:00.002-06:00

You know I haven't updated my blog in awhile when the only thing I can think of to post is a cell-phone photo of myself trying on sunglasses at Walgreens.

I'll have more to say when I'm finished with my Christmas shopping and when I'm taking the time to think of what will be on my list of 2010 Pros and Cons. Stay tuned for blog posts about the following exciting things:

1) movies I saw this year that did not suck

2) Jordan's visit to Ohio

3) kickass astronomers

4) Christmas memories

5) my upcoming trip to Germany (yes, Germany)

frightful

2010-12-12T17:38:00.002-06:00

26°F | °C

Current: Snow Showers
Wind: SW at 20 mph
Humidity: 78%

Sun

40°F | 21°F

Mon

21°F | 16°F

Tue

21°F | 16°F

Wed

22°F | 15°F

Awwww, yeah.

and normally I would just forget that

2010-12-01T21:42:00.008-06:00

Dear Michael Crichton,

How's that whole death thing treating you? Good to hear. I'd make smalltalk, but I know you like to get to the point. So, here it is: I'm reading your book! No, not State of Fear. I think we're going to have to conclude that I am never going to read that one. (Try not to take it personally. Remember Jurassic Park? Huh? That was a good one.) Anyway, I'm reading Travels. It's pretty good so far, though I'm surprised at you; I never knew you were into the whole autobiography thing.

One of the things that I find most confusing is how you just glazed right over your college years. You wrap up your undergraduate life in mere sentences and then skip right on to medical school. And then you slide through medical school like it's nothing -- two, three chapters? Granted, you went to Harvard for medical, so I understand the precedence, but still, I can't imagine that those years had such little impact on your life that they go totally unmentioned, when I feel the things I learned and the choices I made then so defined me and changed me, my perspective, my future.

But maybe you're right. Maybe that first day on a university campus was only the tip of a very large, cold iceberg. After all, I've come to realize that if I went back in time, or if I somehow found myself in Boston, having been born at roughly the same time as you, we probably would never have even crossed paths, let alone become friends. Fate might have placed us in the same writing class, but I would have never changed majors to start studying medicine, like you did. And besides, you were sort of a jerk.

How fortunate, then, that I found you the way I did, that I have forged this connection to you through words alone. With you, I don't have to deal with any confusion or the misperceptions that are tangled up in every face-to-face interaction. What kind of things would you have assumed about me (and I you) had we met in real life, based on things that matter so little in the grand scheme?

Look, I need you (and anyone who is reading this blog) to know that I'm not crazy. I realize the truth: I don't really know you at all. We've never met. You're a dead guy who wrote a bunch of kickass books, and I'm just a twentysomething with a boring blog. And those same misperceptions I mentioned come packaged with a million nonverbal cues that mean (as much as I hate to admit it sometimes) a lot more than words do.

Michael, for all I know, you did write an enormous separate volume about your freshman year, split your sophomore and junior years into three-parters, planned to have your life enshrined in an epic film series like the Harry Potter books. The guy playing you would be using a cane in your graduation scene, Death looming behind him with a scythe. Maybe you wrote pages and pages, but your editor confronted you one day with a strongly worded email, telling you in no uncertain terms that nobody was going to be interested in reading about that, except for college students, and let's face it, they don't have extra money to spend on books anyway. It's anyone's guess.

I'll keep reading and let you know how it goes.

Sincerely,

Kelli

walk through a hurricane

2010-11-26T16:41:00.003-06:00

Lately:

Having: time off work for the holidays
Hanging out with: my wonderful fiancé
Watching: Supernatural, NCIS, Battlestar Galactica and The Walking Dead
Doing: Christmas shopping
Reading: Travels by Michael Crichton
Eating: Leftover turkey
Considering: writing an actual blog post sometime soon

better use of my time on land

2010-11-11T21:23:00.003-06:00

Kirsten Vangsness and Pauley Perrette are awesome. See below...

even I have got it pretty bad

2010-11-05T18:08:00.005-05:00

It's that time again, ladies and gentlemen.

Shoe time.

That's right, a meaningless post consisting of little besides photos of shoes I would love to own, but will most likely never buy. I am actually in need of a pair of standard black heels to wear to work because my current pair is ripping apart at the seams. So I'll be going out shoe shopping sometime soon, and I'd like to be prepared before I begin the hunt.

And in case you are somehow unaware of this, you should also know that I am a bargain hunter, and I rarely buy shoes at full price, and I rarely shop at stores that aren't mainly driven by sales. I don't know how anyone can justify spending upwards of $100 on just one item of clothing. It seems so wrong. But still, we will press on...

There's these pumps from CutesyGirl:

So cool.

Next up, ModCloth (you should know that practically everything ModCloth sells is amazing.

OK, OK. That's enough for now.

Ahhhh, shoes. Magical...

I don't know what you do but you do it well

2010-10-22T16:45:00.002-05:00

Cool Things

~ new socks

~ house guests

~ falling leaves and wind

~ getting to see Kera tomorrow!!!

~ getting to see Jordan in a few weeks!!!

~ Sonic onion rings

~ pub beer mustard

~ spending time with my amazing husband-to-be

~ Paranormal Activity 2 (which unexpectedly stars my friend Leigh)

~ Stephen King's memoir, On Writing

~ hearing from my family

~ reading really funny food reviews

~ loud music

~ volunteering

Uncool Things

~ lack of motivation

~ arguments

~ rice paper rolls

~ not being able to decide what to be for Halloween

~ trying to find a Halloween costume that is both work-appropriate and not totally lame

~ cold pasta salad

~ having your house broken into

~ flat tires

~ feta cheese

~ when people don't return my calls

~ slipping

to walk and to listen

2010-10-02T09:59:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow is our eight-year anniversary.

I love you, Bryant.

And I love this place, the enormous sky

2010-09-29T18:31:00.007-05:00

I pick up my phone after work and notice I have voicemail from my father. I smile and pick up the mobile device, which I miraculously have not broken yet, and I punch in some numbers and wait for the automated spiel. "You have one new message," she says. But I already know.

Suddenly my dad's familiar voice crackles out of the speaker and I feel like I am sitting in the cluttered, warm living room at my parents' house; I can picture him lacing up a pair of running shoes as he advises me to find a good doctor here as soon as possible because I need to get a flu shot.

The H1-N1 flu, he informs me, takes a particularly severe toll on young people. He is in the middle of rattling off a series of effects -- apparently, I could drown in my own fluid if I get infected with this lovely plague -- and I'm suddenly thankful I didn't eat a big lunch. As he elaborates, I am beginning to imagine that he heard all this from some morning show, a cautioning tale from a plain-faced woman in a lab coat, a little name tag clipped to her collar with the letters M and D clearly visible, when he shouts out, "Humphrey! Get back here!"

Humphrey is my father's newest rescue dog, a whirlwind of fluffy white and black fur with skinny legs and an impractical tail. Apparently, he is trying to stake a claim on a neighbor's front lawn, but Dad won't have that, most likely because Humphrey would probably become invisible to the human eye after about 20 yards. The dog is absolutely tiny. He is tiny because his previous owners stopped feeding him when they took him to the vet and discovered his esophagus doesn't close properly and he has extreme difficulty eating. Dad mixes his food together in a blender, feeds it to him, and pats him on the back when he finally finishes gulping it down. My dad is patient. And the dog is very sweet; just a little jittery.

The rest of the message is a medley of barks, asides to Humphrey, and an eloquent explanation of how the flu killed thousands of Spaniards long ago, and I should really go get a flu shot at Walgreens or something because he would prefer that I don't end up in some random Ohio hospital because I didn't listen to him. I grin and hang up the phone.

I miss home.

and it's a good day

2010-09-21T20:13:00.000-05:00

My horoscope for this week, courtesy of The Onion:

"Fate will give you a lot to do next week, and you had better do exactly as you are told or Fate will start executing hostages."

Symmetrical, analytical

2010-09-15T22:30:00.002-05:00

Cool Things
~ getting a paycheck

~ the Kapow! boot

~ the sound of a train at night

~ Supernatural and Rizzoli & Isles

~ the scene in Groundhog Day where Phil does the bit at the bar, ordering the same drink as Rita and eventually saying a prayer and drinking to world peace. Hilarious.

~ watching Bryant build a computer

~ this song

~ mix CDs

~ free note cards

~ lolcats refrigerator poetry magnets

Uncool Things

~ mannequins

~ roller coasters

~ my skin right now (it's ridiculous, y'all)

~ 7 a.m. alarms

~ my cell phone alarm, which randomly goes off at 7:40 a.m. EVERY morning no matter how many times I try to turn it off (to paint you the picture, the song is "Dancing Queen")

~ the enormous centipedes that come out of hiding during Ohio winters

~ losing things

~ this feeling

Living in a material world

2010-09-08T21:22:00.004-05:00

Because I don't feel like writing right now, here is a pointless list that will not benefit you in any way. No need to thank me.

Things I've Bought Recently And What I Think About Them

St. Ives Oatmeal & Shea Butter Body Wash

Dermatologist tested for sensitive-skinned freaks like me. I have used St. Ives before and it has been fairly successful at not making me break out in hives. And even though oatmeal is something I would more likely eat than use for cleansing purposes, so far I have not been disgusted by its presence in my shower.

Matches

Matches are awesome for making fire.

Pac Man Sours

I bought these for my brother because they are in a Pac Man tin and I remember him playing that game when I was a kid. (His birthday is this weekend.)

Looking For Alaska

This is one of my favorite books. I am not going to explain what it's about because I hate it when people try to explain the plot of a book and they completely leave out the best parts about the story. And I'd give you a list of characters or a list of themes or a list of something if I thought it would make any difference, but instead I am just going to say that I like it, and I think you should read it.

Pink Cardigan

Dig this sweater. The tag says..."Divided, by H&M." I got it at a thrift store for $6, and I expect to wear it often. It is bubblegum-pink and very soft. The stitching seems durable (there's nothing worse than a poorly made cardigan, and when I say "nothing worse" I mean I could probably name a million things that are worse if you gave me an hour, but I am feeling conversational right now and you are totally ruining the mood).

Carrots

I have a love/hate relationship with carrots, meaning I hate them all the time unless they are in cake. So, as part of my current effort to ease into a healthier diet -- one that involves actually eating fruits and vegetables -- I made carrot cake cupcakes last night. What? It's got the word "carrot" in the name. How bad for you can they be? Shut up. Anyway, these were good. And they provided me with an excellent source of fiber, antioxidants and minerals, as well as an excuse to eat some cream cheese icing. Mmmm, nutrition.

More pointlessness to come, I'm sure.

you're allowed to rain

2010-08-30T19:07:00.003-05:00

Last night, I dreamed that I freaked out because I hadn't picked out save-the-dates yet.

Ladies and gentlemen, chalk that up as my first wedding-related dream ever -- unless you count that time when I was 13 and I dreamed I was marrying some preppy blond guy whom I didn't even like. (Keep in mind that this was long before I understood that dreams usually don't make much sense, and that the word "preppy" actually refers to a style of clothing, lifestyle, etc. and not just to a person who I don't really like all that much.) Ahem.

Wedding Checklist

Engaged? Check.

Set the date? Check.

Save-the-dates? No.

Subconscious is now officially aware that I need to consider/design(?)/decide on/order save-the-dates? Check.

Pour the night

2010-08-23T18:13:00.005-05:00

Moments

I am telling you a story. And you are listening, but not really, because you know that by the time I realize I am telling the story, I will get nervous and stop making sense. It won't end well, you're sure of it. The reason that you know this is because you know me. You are well aware that despite my claims of being a writer, I am truly an awful storyteller, and it's better, really, if you just tune me out and watch the way I play with my hands, the way one side of my mouth rises slowly into a smile as I catch you not paying attention. I am loving this moment, how I am beginning to stumble over my words and I can actually see that you're fighting back laughing. And I know that as soon as this is over, when you think I'm not looking, you'll turn away and smile to yourself at how awkward it was.

A mother is having lunch with her daughter. They are having a light argument and the mom is gesturing. "Mom, you just spilled Coke all over the table," the girl exclaims, laughing. She is wearing a pink shirt and her hair is straight and fine. "It's Diet Coke," says the mother. "Anyway, I'm not letting you have a Facebook page. It's not something we're even going to discuss at this point." "Why not?" There's a hint of whining, but she already knows she isn't going to win this fight. "You are absolutely too young. You're 12 years old. What do you need a Facebook page for?" "...I'm 13." "Oh." A pause. "Well, you still don't need a Facebook page."

On the way to work, I am listening to a song on a CD somebody burned for me. The song is repetitive, but in the best way, like Rage Against The Machine; it builds slowly on a point until you finally get it through your head. I remember a college class I took on radio news writing, the mantra we had to memorize: "Tell 'em what you're going to tell 'em. Then tell 'em. Then tell 'em what you told them." Not only do most listeners tune in halfway through a story, but also, people in modern society have developed exceptional talents for tuning other people out. I brake for a red light. Across the street, a girl in a short black dress is posing for a photograph, her hands over her head. It's a little bit awkward. I look over at the guy taking the picture. He is tall, thin, pale, with short dark hair and a big smile. He is wearing a blue and black tartan plaid shirt, with long sleeves even though it's warm out. He says something to her and she laughs. "Gorgeous," he says, and starts taking pictures, the flash shooting sudden bursts of light toward her body. The light turns green and I pause to sneak one last glance at the look on her face, elated.

I am on an airplane, and someone has farted. I feel a sense of quiet rage as I open the Sky magazine folded in the seatback in front of me; I am that desperate to distract myself from the malicious odor creeping around my nostrils. Disgusted, I flip through the pages of travel tips and celebrity interviews. Some passenger on a flight before mine has nearly completed the crossword puzzle on the second-to-last page, and I take notice of the words he or she was unable to figure out: 1 Across, four letters, Hint: "Deep Six." 10 Down, five letters, "Lecherous figure of Greek myth." 9 Down, eight letters, "Isn't completely honest with." 46 Across, six letters, "Absolutely perfect." I feel compelled to fill in a few blanks. 13 Down, five letters, "Drooping," has only one letter missing, so clearly, the answer is "saggy." I notice the headline for the crossword is "Who's Game? (A Few Happy Distractions.)" In what way is sagginess ever a happy distraction? Who could possibly, when offered the opportunity to participate in an event or activity related to the word "saggy" in any way, respond with the words "I'm game!" I mean, I can see how "Pattern named for a Scottish country" or "Cousin of a giraffe" or "Way to a man's heart" might elicit some excitement, but "saggy"? Let's leave the happy distractions to the lecherous figure of Greek myth, crossword puzzle writer. Through all these considerations I still have not managed to distract myself from the noxious cloud of stink hovering in the space around my row of seats. Despite the fact that the man seated across the aisle from me is likely innocent, I am now convinced that he is the culprit. He is wearing blue jeans and absent-mindedly reaching into a bag of salt and vinegar chips, while holding a book upside down to sneak at the answers to his Sudoku puzzle. He senses my gaze and involuntarily glances at me out of the corner of his eye. Yes, unfashionable multitasking stranger who cheats at games, I know you farted. You are wearing a gold bracelet, for fuck's sake. What kind of man wears a gold bracelet? Suddenly I feel bad for doubting this man, for accusing him, so I peek at his arm to assess the accessory. Perhaps I'm mistaken and it is a very thin gold band on a not very masculine, but still tasteful watch. It isn't. It is a fucking bracelet. And the wearer has certainly farted. The stench is unbearable; I consider unbuckling my seat belt (after checking to ensure the sign allows it, of course) and running to the bathroom to avoid it, but then I remember that I am on an airplane, and for a split second an image of a plane crash from some movie or another pops into my mind, then disappears. And one of the worst ways to die would be in the bathroom of an airplane because some jerk ate four burritos before his flight.

Walking across the street, I see somebody I haven't seen in a year and a feeling of joy hits me, fast. I cannot stop the grin spreading across my face, it is something I didn't even expect. You always think about these things when you wake up one day and realize you haven't seen someone you care about in a very long time. What it would be like if you saw that person again? Will you still be the same height and possess the same mindset as before? How has it been this long since we last saw each other? I think to myself. It seems like weeks, like yesterday. Minutes ago. We greet each other and I am amazed at how we both still look the same, our voices are echoes of the way we used to sound, our eyes reflecting the same eyes back at each other.

"How was your weekend?" The obligatory Monday-morning inquiry rolls out of my mouth with little thought or effort. Shuffling papers, I am letting the last moments of Sunday evening -- Battlestar Galactica, relaxing on the couch with Bryant, browsing a book of poems selected by Garrison Keillor -- drift out of my head. He pauses and replies: "On Friday night, some old guy cockblocked me at the park." My laugh escapes in a burst and I look over. He smiles, and I know this will be good. Slowly, he unfolds the story: Walking through the park, he noticed a girl -- light red hair, jeans, a tattoo of a cluster of stars on her back -- and struck up a conversation. She was playing a game and he joined her, asked her name. They were hitting it off when a man of about 60 joined them and started telling a story about the birds nearby. Educating them. Repeating the same information about flight patterns and feathers, droning on and on. My coworker couldn't take it. So he left. I ask him to tell me about the girl and he pauses for a moment before quickly rattling off a series of adjectives describing her, from her physical appearance to her general demeanor to the way she spoke, and concludes that unless he sees her again and talks to her, he will consider her as "not remarkable." "Really?" I ask. He nods. Sure of himself, of her. I watch his eyes closely, how they glance off to one side, as if reexamining his decision before returning to my fascinated gaze. Unless something changes, he says, he will not have to put any effort into forgetting her.

Bryant walks in the door of our apartment and hands me a plastic bag. "What's this?" I ask. I reach into the bag and pull out the package of newly developed photographs from Walgreens. I immediately think of our friend Jordan, who (quite possibly at this very moment) is developing pictures at Walgreens himself. Bryant gives me a kiss on the cheek as I open the envelope and my next sentence catches in my throat as I pull out six photographs of my mother. They're duplicates of a couple of photos I've always loved of her, but were tinted red from overexposure: 1) a snapshot of her leaning against a tree with her arms folded; 2) a portrait of her face, she is gazing off into the distance with a hopeful expression and the lightest, clearest eyes I've ever seen. Bryant has spent hours (in truth, it might have been half an hour or less, but I imagine it would take me hours) painstakingly editing them for me, taking out the redness and sharpening the edges, attentively adjusting the color of the grass in the background until everything appears natural. I compare the new prints to the original photos and the result is amazing. I thank him, and I know he can tell how happy I am, but I still feel like I need to keep thanking him. It has always been this way. And I still can't figure it out, but I quit trying a long time ago because I don't want it to stop. I can't believe he's wasting all this time on me.

We are upright, pumping our legs on ellipticals, working hard to get nowhere. We wear casual shirts, cotton sweatpants, shoes made from rubber. I grip the sides of the machine as a bead of sweat begins to trickle down the back of my neck. She is asking me questions as we gaze out at passers-by on the street; I am answering them while skillfully avoiding any political or personal comments (she does control my salary and benefits, after all). I grow silent as she suddenly opens up, telling me about her life, her history. Her father was a professional musician, she says, playing many instruments and traveling with known bands. The clarinet, the saxophone. I ask if she plays, too. No, but she has wanted to play the piano all her life. She has a keyboard, is thinking about taking lessons now. I ask if her father ever taught her. No, she replies, a strangely familiar expression betraying her laugh. "It's a lot easier to teach other people's kids," she exhales, pumping her legs in their clean white tube socks. I glance back at the console in front of me, the strange red digital numbers telling me I've reached my target heart rate. As the machines begin beeping and slowing our pace for the cool down, I catch my breath and try to figure out who it is she reminds me of, someone I can't quite place.

Through distance and time we lose

2010-08-19T22:31:00.004-05:00

As summer comes to an end, I find myself thinking I wish it would last longer -- which is strange, especially considering I am no longer a student. When you're in school, summer holds the promise of day trips and exciting events and glorious time off from classes, but as an adult it seems none of those things are in store if you work a typical 9 to 5 job. As Ohio slips into winter and my tan gradually fades into oblivion, I will start to miss the sun and the free outdoor concerts associated with summer. Aside from the ending season, all is well. The wedding I went to was great. I just haven't taken the time to sit down and write. Check back for a blog post this weekend! In the meantime, a picture:

A bientot...

what you were wearing

2010-08-08T19:19:00.000-05:00

What's "snappy casual"?

stay there

2010-08-06T21:45:00.005-05:00

Things I'd Like To Mention

1) I have lived in Cleveland for a whole year.

2) Today I won tickets to see The Temper Trap! I rarely win things, so it was very much a surprise. And awesome! If you don't know who The Temper Trap is, you should really listen to this song, because I love it.

3) Two friends of mine are getting hitched soon, and I am going to be singing Ave Maria at their wedding. And I am totally, totally nervous about that. Though I didn't cry when I sang at Leigh's wedding, there is still always that terrible fear that mid-gratia plena, I am going to give in and choke out a sob. Considering a segue into Mustang Sally if that happens. Stay tuned.

4) Last, but never least, Billy Collins is excellent:

"But don’t get me wrong.
It’s not that I cannot live without you,
cannot sit under an ordinary green tree
with no desire to reach for the pen in my pocket,
or lie contented on a couch all day,
one hand over my mouth.

It’s not like I have a crush on you
and instead of writing my five-paragraph essay
I am sailing paper airplanes across the room at you—
it’s not that I can’t wait for the lunch bell
to see your face again.
It’s not like that. Not exactly."

making spirits bright

2010-08-02T21:49:00.003-05:00

This year, I have decided to start my Christmas shopping extremely early. I always, always wait until the last possible second to begin choosing gifts for my family, and it always ends with me deciding to get very predictable, relatively inexpensive gifts: a new shirt and tie for my dad, a few chick-flick DVDs for my mom, a T-shirt or action DVD for my brother, and a card with money in it (with which to buy manga) for my sister. Let the excitement and rapture unfold.

Now, I don't just get any old thing. For my mom, I'll pick a new movie maybe she hasn't seen, or an awesome movie we've watched together, like "You've Got Mail" or "P.S., I Love You." For Dad, I'll get a nice wallet to replace the old one falling apart in his pocket, or a book about past presidents. And I always get everybody two gifts -- one big and one little -- and some candy that I know they'll like.

But being away from them for 95 percent of the year means that if I'm going to send them a cardboard box instead of buying myself a plane ticket home for the holidays, I better make it count. So I am planning to get creative this year by making a list of anything and everything I see that might serve as potential new, improved and most importantly not-lame gifts for my family members. I've taken the liberty of starting said list already, but I will not be posting any of those musings here, just in case one of them stumbles upon this and discovers what will be awaiting them beneath the tree (or, more likely, awaiting them inside of a still-unopened "if it fits it ships" box) on Christmas morning. But if you have any suggestions for presents for my family, who you probably know nothing about, please send them to me via email.

Yours, sincerely yours

2010-07-30T17:39:00.023-05:00

Today I am writing thank-you notes to people who do not read my blog. Random? Yes. Completely unproductive? Yes. Entertaining? Mildly. Sit back, relax, and enjoy being confused about who these people are.

Dear Norm, Who Works At Mr. Hero,

Thank you for always remembering my name (before I give you my debit card, even) and my sandwich preference. Though I know practically nothing about you and for all I know, you could be a serial killer or a huge fan of Deadliest Catch (which is not to say that the two are linked; I just don't understand why anybody watches that show), you always make me smile. I hope that your busted knee heals soon, and that you and I can continue our neighborly relationship consisting of you telling me hello and me giving you money in exchange for a turkey combo with waffer fries and a Diet Pepsi.

Dear Tim, Who Used To Co-Host A Political Show On KNWD:

I miss you. Thank you for always making me feel fabulous. Thank you for telling me wonderful stories, for being opinionated and unapologetically loving -- and displaying a true understanding of -- bands that other people hate. :-) Most importantly, thank you for being honest, and for that time during my junior year when you taught me a valuable lesson about what kind of goals I should strive to accomplish and avoid in my work, and what kind of qualities I should aim for as a person.

Dear Lyndsay, Who Attended My High School,

Thank you for being an early example of effortless style and grace to me. You did it all -- singing, acting, even surviving cancer. Though I certainly wouldn't say I'm a fashionable person or that I have achieved even close to the level of finesse and wisdom you did before you were even my current age, I learned a lot from you. Your performance of "Picasso's Women" in the finals round of some tournament in Lafayette was one of the most memorable, beautiful, mesmerizing things I've ever seen. Thank you for inspiring me to wear rockin' shoes, show genuine kindness toward strangers, treat people with respect, and sing loud.

Dear Evan, My Future Brother-In-Law,

Thank you for the thank-you note you sent me after Bryant and I came to Louisiana to see you graduate. I know it's weird to thank someone for thanking you, because if you continued the process you'd get caught in a neverending cycle of thanking, but it made me laugh out loud. You're awesome.

Dear Adam, Who Works At My Office And Is Cool,

Thank you for not only editing the hell out of my stories and entertaining me and MB with endlessly funny stories about your weekend antics, but also for being my musical mentor the past few months. You've truly opened my ears to things like structure and "polyrhythms" and how slight changes in a song can make it so much better. I appreciate your guidance through a list of artists that I otherwise would never have listened to. And, of course, thank you for sitting within six feet of me every day and managing not to kill me.

Dear Whoever Makes The Chocolate Ganache Cake At Dewey's Pizza In Cleveland,

You, sir or madam, are a complete genius, and I yield to your excellence.

Dear Snooki(e?),

Thank you for being named Snooki(is there an e?), because that is a word that's extremely fun to say. But what is UP with your hair? Is it a Bumpit? Why? Why do you do that to yourself? I don't understand. And you're so...orange. I don't even watch your show, and I couldn't guess your last name, how old you are or even what the name of your show is, but I know enough to know that you look weird, honey. Get some help.

Dear Girl At Wendy's Who Told Me That Adding Lemonade To Diet Coke Makes It Taste Exactly Like Regular Coke,

You are incorrect. But thank you for trying to make conversation.

Dear Kevin, Who Sat Next To Me On The Trip To Kansas City,

Thank you for showing me you don't have to speak your mind in absolutely every situation. There were a lot of times when people would get in heated debates about things that ultimately didn't matter, but you were always patient and didn't jump into the conversation just for the sake of hearing your own voice. When you did chime in, your comments were always eloquent and/or hilarious. Thank you for demonstrating that sometimes, the smartest thing to do is reserve your opinions for when they matter most.

Dear Bryant, Who I Want To Spend The Rest Of My Life With,

Did you know it has almost been eight years? And you still never cease to amaze me. I don't even have the words to tell you how I feel. There aren't words. Or at least, I haven't learned them yet. But this is to say thank you for always being there, for always being you, for dutifully listening to my terrible stories and for loving me. I am also grateful for those times when you wave your hands around all excited and talk to me about computers even though you might as well be speaking Swahili. Thank you for being hilarious, interesting, wise, smokin' hot and totally awesome. Thank you for all you are and all you aren't.

I can't get out of what I'm in

2010-07-29T22:19:00.004-05:00

Instead of giving you an update on where my life stands or sharing a story with you about one of the many exciting things happening to me these days, I am going to redirect you to Four Things. This wonderful series, written by my friend Jordan, is hilarious and thoughtful and worth reading out loud to my fiance. (He avoids actually scanning personal blogs himself, but loves listening to talk radio, so I often lure him in by reading it aloud. I'm no Michele Norris, but it seems to have worked so far.) Jordan, who (among other things) has a fantastic singing voice and has somehow accomplished my lifelong goal of someday working at Walgreens, is documenting four sometimes amazing, sometimes dreary, but always fascinating things that happen to him each week. Well, except for last week, but still, you should totally read it.

sleeping on the balcony after class

2010-07-22T19:17:00.001-05:00

out of my head

2010-07-13T21:24:00.001-05:00

Just discovered The Saturdays -- and this cover song/video. Love it!

Straighten my tie and say, "What's the damage?"

2010-07-10T19:18:00.007-05:00

I have never had a passport, and (as I'm sure you could deduce from that statement) I've never traveled outside the country before. There are a few reasons this has been true for the last 23 years -- for starters, I can't afford such a trip, let alone the passport itself. It's like $135. I know, right? Ridiculous. Aside from that, I just haven't reached a point in my life where I absolutely must go somewhere else, or I feel like I've seen all there is to see in the U.S. or something. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy traveling. Sometimes. As long as the trip isn't longer than three days...OK, I'll be honest; I don't really enjoy traveling. But I can stand it, and covering events for work means that I'm going to be doing it more often.

And getting a passport.

So.

I had a passport photo taken on Friday, and it was unpleasant. I don't know if you know about this, but you aren't supposed to smile for a passport photo. Oh, no. You're just supposed to stand still, stare blankly into the camera and assume an expression of apathy. I guess it's so that if you travel internationally, the government has at least one photo of you that makes you look like a total creep. That way, if they need to track you down for whatever reason, they can paste that photo on a flier with the words "If you see this serial killer, please call the police" and get an immediate response from anyone who spots you as you're standing in a line somewhere, looking all nonchalant, waiting to hand over seven dollars for another atrocious passport photo or something.

So, I'm at Giant Eagle, which is a grocery store; apparently that's where you go when you need a mug shot. And while the hideous image of my plain, disinterested face is being printed, I'm reading (and mentally editing) the photocopied signs explaining how to use the DIY Kodak kiosk: "THIS MACHINE ONLY PRINT'S COLOR COPIES!" Spelling errors, random apostrophes thrusting themselves into each sentence. And I think about the person who typed those words and paid no attention to whether they were correct or concise, because it didn't matter at the time. And really, it's of no consequence now. She wasn't disappointing any readers or putting her journalistic integrity at risk, she was just trying to get those pesky words out of the way so that she could get to her real work.

And it dawns on me that the only reason I'm here is because of work, because I have to be, because someone told me to do this. I'm officially a Person Who Goes On Business Trips. If and when I do travel internationally, I'll be asked whether my trip is for business or pleasure, and I will respond, "Business," and I won't be making a joke about mullets or singing a Flight of the Conchords song. I guess I'm a grownup.

I don't know how that happened, but it must have.

Blue Bell wants you back

2010-07-05T21:14:00.005-05:00

A Conversation With My Beloved

Me: What are your feelings about Scrappy Doo?

Bryant: He SUCKS.

Me: ...

Bryant: I always felt like I wished he was dead.

Me: Harsh.

Bryant: No one likes Scrappy Doo.

Me: What if somebody did like Scrappy Doo?

Bryant: I think they're probably in prison. That's like saying, "I like to burn myself." Saying you like Scrappy Doo. Really? Well, you need help, obviously. That's like saying, "I think that dude who nobody knows was the best James Bond." I don't even know the dude's name...but he was in like two movies, and he sucked. Not Roger Moore. Not Sean Connery or Pierce Brosnan or Daniel Craig. He's that Other Guy. Hey, Other Guy who did James Bond. What are you doing now? Nothing.

Me: Just like Scrappy Doo.

Bryant: Just try to imagine when Scrappy Doo appeared in the series and then figure out how many seasons came after he made his appearance. And then that gives you your answer of why there's no more Scooby Doo. Did they add Scrappy Doo to that new series with all the wonderful music by A Simple Plan? I don't think so.

Me: Aww, c'mon. He must have been in like, A Pup Named Scooby Doo.

Bryant: No, no, he wasn't. He can't be, because Scrappy Doo is supposed to be young. He's like his nephew or some crap. Which doesn't make sense. Dogs don't have nephews.

I've got the world

2010-07-04T09:05:00.000-05:00

Bryant and I have been engaged for a full year.

until you can't

2010-06-24T21:04:00.004-05:00

Hello, person who is reading my blog.

You're awesome.

Well, maybe.

Time can take its toll on the best

2010-06-13T13:30:00.007-05:00

Also:

I saw Stars play last week.

It rocked.

That is all.

you got me into this

2010-06-13T09:58:00.004-05:00

I'm sick.

It's that time of year when my immune system wakes from its long, deep, comfortable sleep and says, "You know what, sister? You haven't been paying enough attention to me for the last 364 days. I'll show you!"

My head is plagued by a constant ache, and a strange dizziness overwhelms me at random times during the day. I sneeze and cough and go through a bag of Ricola cough drops and drink Simply Orange because I can never find that amazing brand of valencia orange juice that I discovered while I was in college. (It was sweet and cold and so unbelievably delicious, like nectar, like liquid gold. God, so good. But it's gone. It's as if it never existed; it dropped off the face of the earth or some genius caught on to its majesty and said, "This is too good for the general public! It must be conserved!" and so now there are barrels of the precious drink being stored in some enormous safe underground. Or the manufacturer stopped making it, or it just isn't in stock anywhere anymore.) And allergy medicine is helpful, but not solving.

I'll be fine. Being sick makes me whiny, you know.

Other than the sickness, things have been OK for the most part. Here are some things that have been helping me cope:

1) Bryant (duh)

2) Puffs tissues

3) Netflixed episodes of Supernatural and Weeds

4) NPR's ongoing Bonnaroo coverage (thanks, Cody)

5) sleep

6) the World Cup -- JUST KIDDING. Who cares?

7) Huey Lewis And The News, Patsy Cline, Katy Perry and Stereolab

Also, this is a very serious warning: I don't even know if this movie is in theaters anymore, but I've been meaning to send out this message to the interweb for some time. If someone asks you to go see/rent the movie Splice, SAY NO. Trust me. It is terrible. And not terrible in the fantastically awful, so-bad-it's-awesome manner of movies like Jennifer's Body, but terrible as in Oh-my-god-i-can't-believe-that-producers-and-actors-and-editors-and-screen-test-audiences-saw-that-shit-and-nobody-stopped-it-from-going-to-the-big-screen-and-hand-me-that-popcorn-bucket-because-I-think-I'm-going-to-throw-up terrible.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend.

So much

2010-06-03T18:27:00.007-05:00

As a reporter, I spend a lot of time talking to people, asking them questions ranging from what the suggested retail price of a new product is to how a deal will impact the industry to what they've learned from their 15 or 20 or 30 years in the trade. And the people are all different, of course, and their responses vary, but in general, my questions are simple ones.

Lately, I've been doing a lot of thinking. And that's no easy feat, considering I've been traveling for two weeks and working nonstop and trying to keep myself from thinking. But there are so many things I am supposed to be considering, like where Bryant and I are going to get married, and what styles I liked when I went wedding dress shopping with my mom in Louisiana, and what kind of ceremony we want to have and so on and so on, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

And I am just going to say it.

I don't really care about wedding stuff.

Don't get me wrong, weddings are beautiful. And I cry at them, and I think it's a wonderful thing to have a wedding. And I definitely want to marry Bryant, and there are some things that are important to me about the ceremony -- I want to get married in a Catholic church, and wear a pretty dress and have family and friends there. In a couple of days, I'll be missing my cousin's wedding, and that's a shame because I'm sure it is going to be great.

But I am not excited about making a million decisions about the dress and the flowers and ribbons and tulle and food and music and who we're going to invite and where we're going to seat Bill Murray and whether we're going to do that dumb cake thing where they push it into each other's faces. When I get married, what difference will it make if we don't use an inner and outer envelope in the invitations? Or what kind of cheeses we serve? Or whether we have champagne at the reception, or whether there is a lot of dancing or no dancing?

On another day, you might ask me about this, and I might gush about my caterer or some fabulous centerpiece I just saw (and you should probably start carrying a squirt gun around with you now in preparation for that moment). But what matters, what I actually give a damn about, is that somehow, in a world of billions and billions of people, I managed to not only locate, but also get to know and fall in love with a man who ended up liking me enough to ask me to marry him -- a risk that many men won't be able to bring themselves to make in their lifetime, let alone at 22 years old.

I have been asked a question that is, unlike a lot of others, not just a matter of stringing some random noises together in the hopes of hearing a favorable response. It's a question with immense meaning and value behind it, and it is overwhelming. And it is love.

And it is amazing.

Grasping

2010-05-28T20:35:00.003-05:00

So, I've just returned from trips to Lake Charles, Natchitoches and Chicago. It was a very long two weeks, but I'm glad I was able to go. I plan on spending the next few days sleeping, cleaning up the apartment and trying to relax. More later.

ignite

2010-05-19T12:45:00.000-05:00

Remember what you told me

2010-05-14T21:37:00.002-05:00

Cool Things

~ vacation

~ very good haircuts

~ King of the Hill

~ sugarfree Red Bull

~ dancing

~ this song

~ the movie Iron Man 2 (though there was not nearly enough hot Scarlett Johansson in it)

~ getting my first press badge and going to my first trade show

~ seeing Here Come The Mummies live at the House of Blues

~ long road trips with the wonderful Bryant

~ reliability

~ Lady Gaga's music (though some of her videos kinda freak me out)

~ html

~ guys in business suits

~ the smell of cigarette smoke

~ the song Dirty Laundry by Bitter:Sweet

~ going to Louisiana

Uncool Things

~ actual dirty laundry

~ breaking my headphones

~ missing my amazing best friend and being jealous of her access to the Amazing Seattle Yogurt From That Place With The Name I Can't Remember. (If you are ever in Seattle, get frozen yogurt. Seriously. And if you aren't sure where to go, just stop some people on the sidewalk who are wearing colored tights, Ugg boots or plastic glasses -- because they are most likely locals -- and tell them to point you in the direction of The Yogurt. You will not regret it.)

~ not being able to find my mp3 player

~ being in the basement with no lights on

~ room-temperature coffee

~ judging music without actually listening to it first

~ horseradish

~ forgetting to write back

~ cages

~ being naive

things that made me nervous

2010-05-11T20:26:00.002-05:00

I have that fall feeling.

Like something is about to change, like I'm about to wake up and realize I am just coasting without really paying attention to what's going on around me. Somebody at work said it recently about another matter, but it struck me: "Something's going to go wrong. Things have been going too smoothly." That's how I feel.

It's like when you wake up and look at the clock and you've overslept. Or you pick up a soda can and drink from it, but it's from yesterday and the flat taste doesn't leave your tongue. Or you open your mouth to say something stupid and try to play it off when you're halfway through, but everyone already knows you've fucked up. Or you are about to walk out of a building and suddenly you get this sickly sense that you have forgotten something, that you were supposed to tell someone something dreadfully important or you can't find your cell phone or you left a door unlocked somewhere.

Oh, well.

sinking like a stone

2010-05-09T23:07:00.002-05:00

This is my "Working

Nonstop, Probably Losing

My Mind" haiku. Bye.

stop where I want to

2010-05-01T20:37:00.000-05:00

I must have this.

connect and radiate

2010-04-30T19:33:00.007-05:00

A year ago, I was a whirlwind.

I moved too fast and was busy every second of every day, and each moment was consumed by thoughts about what would happen (not to mention where I was going) after graduation, and the extent to which my life was going to change. Community coffee, friends, Chef Wok, love, fear, The Weakerthans and Tuesday nights kept me going. And somehow, I managed to pull myself together long enough to walk across a poorly constructed wooden stage and shake the hand of the president of my university (a university that people I meet constantly mistake for another famous school by the same name, and it happens so often that at this point, I don't bother to correct them anymore unless I know them personally) and stride away with a degree in my hand.

Now I'm a 23-year-old writer who secretly wishes she could spend all her time copyediting. I'm a fiancee, a Cajun living among the Yankees. I'm basically the same. My hair is almost down to the middle of my back again. I've started listening to new music, mostly recommendations from coworkers and friends from college.

Friends from college. That's weird. But there it is.

And I still write down stupid things and overanalyze every minute detail and invent reasons not to open my mouth. I still have way too much stuff in my purse, and you don't even want to know what kind of shit I have in my car, and I still curse like a sailor and work on the weekends. And even a year after my last month of school, even after spending the past eight or nine months away from the state I love so much, I miss a lot of people, maybe even you.

Have a good night.

the use in playing it safe

2010-04-23T21:33:00.007-05:00

Following in the footsteps of Fearless Leader Leigh, I am going to use my blog to do something I rarely (*cougnotreallycough*) do: make a list of a few things I covet.

And how do we first begin to covet, Clarice?

Google, of course!

Ahem. First on my list:

1. Shoes! No surprise there. This is a lovely two-toned pair from PinUpGirlClothing. My search for this style of shoe began more than a year ago, but I still haven't found something that's a) priced right and b) has the right heel height. These are four and a half inches, which is a tad bit high for wearing to work. Speaking of work -- or at least working it:

2. I also want earrings like these emeralds Angelina Jolie wore at the Academy Awards last year (was it really just last year? Seems like a long time ago). Now, normally, I don't give a damn about jewelry, but I really love this color, and they're just so unexpected. I certainly don't want real emeralds, but I've been looking for a plastic version of these since I first saw them. Gorgeous!

3. Not going to lie, I really want to see the movie Runaways. It stars Kristen Stewart and Dakota Fanning (whom I have always disliked because she creeps me out, but I have to admit she acts well), and it is either going to completely suck or be totally awesome.

4. More time to spend on important things -- and also to waste on the mostawesomethingever.com site. It compares two things and you get to choose which one is more awesome. Seriously, check it out. So worth it.

5. Rain. I love it, I miss it. It's still too cold here to stay outside for long when it rains, so I've missed out on several opportunities to dance through the street and confuse passers-by a la Gene Kelly. And there aren't any good thunderstorms here, like there are in Louisiana. If you're reading this in Louisiana and it's raining, you suck. Not really. But maybe. More later.

ain't no rest for the wicked

2010-04-17T09:59:00.006-05:00

My lovely friend Kera wrote about this on her blog, but I'm just going to say it, too: Man, having a job where you write all day really makes you not want to write in your free time. Don't get me wrong, I still love writing, but when you do it so often, it makes you want to watch a lot of TV and sleep and hang out with people and talk on the phone and wear really inappropriate things during your free time because those are things you can't do at work. Also, I tend to forget things if I don't write them down, so when I'm on the clock and an idea for something to write about comes to me, I usually just shake it off so I can concentrate on my work. So, if I had to pick an excuse for why I've been blogging less often lately, there you have it.

That being said, right now I am lazily doing nothing in the living room while Bryant prepares me a breakfast of Cocoa Roos (generic Cocoa Puffs that surpass Cocoa Puffs in every way possible). Phillip is taking a nap with his face about one inch away from me. In a few minutes, Bryant and I are going to go see the movie "Kick-Ass," which (among other things) features Nicholas Cage dressed up like Batman. I am also looking online at wedding dresses and trying to decide which styles would make me look the least hideous. In conclusion, you should go see the movie and get a pug. Please leave any suggestions in comments (unless you're that bastard who has been leaving spam comments with a fake Japanese username).

If I took those words away

2010-04-13T18:27:00.003-05:00

XKCD is awesome:

http://xkcd.com/725/

Also, kudos to Homeaway.com for using a usage joke in one of their commercials -- complimentary vs. complementary. I love words.

of my decline

2010-04-11T10:17:00.002-05:00

I'm 23.

a washer and a dryer

2010-04-02T17:34:00.004-05:00

Cool Things

~ popcorn

~ YouTube

~ the show Weeds

~ the show True Blood

~ editing pages while listening to Pandora radio

~ Little Shop of Horrors

~ Steve Martin performing in my hometown

~ incredibly long and wonderful emails

~ the song How You Like Me Now by The Heavy

~ Huy Fong Spiracha Hot Chili Sauce

~ the giant box of Easter candy we got from Bryant's parents

~ the sun finally being out

~ The Knot website

~ getting a half day off work for Good Friday

Uncool Things

~ bills

~ me missing Steve Martin performing in my hometown

~ writer's block

~ missing my friends, who are awesome and are also not in Ohio

~ John Green not coming to Ohio on his new book tour

~ not having any good concerts to go to here. Hey, The Weakerthans, what gives? Come to Ohio. (Sensing a pattern?)

~ the iPad, mainly because of the name

~ cancer

~ pickles

~ people sunbathing in their front yards here because the sun is finally out (um, awkward)

~ paper cuts

~ writing "uncool things" posts too close together

into superstition

2010-03-29T17:36:00.003-05:00

Stop the presses! Ladies and gentlemen, La Vida Loca.

careless with a delicate man

2010-03-24T18:45:00.004-05:00

Criminal Minds is a great show. It's thought-provoking and very creepy, and the characters are interesting. There's Garcia and Hotch and all the crazy villains. Also, there's Reid:

And recently, Bryant and I discovered that the mysterious Gideon (played by Mandy Patinkin):

...is also Inigo Montoya:

"Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

So, if you're not watching it already, you should be.

Everybody's looking for something

2010-03-20T11:26:00.003-05:00

Bryant: I had a dream last night that I opened a cabinet and saw I had an extra processor. And I checked the receipt and it was the last day to return it. I thought, Oh my God, I have to return this or I won't get my $200 back. But I didn't have the box. I had the box for another processor, but it was the wrong size, so I couldn't put it in that box. I was really upset. I didn't know what to do. And then I woke up.

take a look

2010-03-18T18:26:00.007-05:00

I love libraries. When I walk into a library, I feel a sense of subtle anticipation. Each library has a distinct design and scent and air of mystery. I climb the stairs to the second floor and glance at the staff picks, then stroll over to the novels or to the science fiction section. Well, hello, there, Issac Asimov. Pleasure to meet you, Arthur C. Clarke. I wander through the aisles, occasionally reaching up to graze the spine of a hardcover with my index finger. Once my arms are filled with a stack of books I probably will never finish, I begin to navigate back to the checkout downstairs, through the maze of nonfiction and periodicals. The layouts of library shelves also never fail to amuse me. I find it too convenient that the Mathematics section is so close to Etiquette and Fashion; I can picture the librarians scheming, trying to place the long division nerds as close to the supermodels as possible. Forcing their worlds to collide even for the briefest moment as they pass each other while looking for a reference tome. The American Poets are squeezed together on one aisle, though they probably all hated each other. The graphic novels face outward, with their striking texts and bold illustrations attempting to grab the attention of whomever walks by. Self Help, on the other hand, is tucked away in a poorly lit corner of the library, so that no one has to be embarrassed if he or she is checking out How To Stand Up To Your Adversaries or Women Who Love Men Who Are Mad. And when I get to the counter and place my books beneath the self-scanning machine and then leave, I know that every evening for the next two weeks or so, nobody will care that I am only 22 or that I don't go out much, or that I'm really a terrible dancer. I'll be able to meet amazing historical figures, save the human race from killer robots, and travel to Texas and Iran and Billy Collins' writing room and 1992 and even 1861 if I want.

Read something.

weekend full of nothing to do at all

2010-03-13T20:17:00.005-06:00

Being far from home brings out my Southern side. I find myself wanting to sing country music (currently addicted to this song), speak French and wear cowboy boots as often as possible. With the obvious things I miss, like my family, aside, I also desperately miss boudin, Mardi Gras beads, Cajun sausage, Popeye's and passing familiar landmarks like the Hibernia tower and Cormie's Grocery. I miss the NSU campus and Front Street, too. No exaggeration, I think would even willingly attend Contraband Days right now if the opportunity presented itself. I mean it. I'd surround myself with mosquitoes, drunk hicks, carnies and bikini-wearing women who really, really should have reconsidered their tattoo choices if it meant I'd be in Louisiana again amid the humidity and bon temps.

scheming with the damage deposit

2010-03-13T11:47:00.004-06:00

From the amazing mind of Jordan:

"I've decided to test myself by actually reading the paper for once and reporting upon an article in each section that I read. This was no easy task, as I couldn't read a local paper because there is absolutely no news in Lake Charles. For example I first looked into the articles of a local weekly here called Lagniappe whose biggest article boasted the title "Why Women Live Longer and What Men Can Do About It". Which I'm guessing had a deleted subtitle of "How to Murder Your Wife in Ten Minutes or Less". And there was nothing to be found in our daily The American Press unless you want me to tell you about the double wides that people are trying to unload for two hundred dollars. If you are in the market for a collapsible home, I circled an ad for you. There was one late eighties model that was being sold "as is" with no flooring or lighting fixtures. Myself, like this trailer am also a late model from the eighties, and all of my floors are intact. I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean but I was not expecting it to sound so sexually charged..."

you're ever welcome with me

2010-03-11T19:10:00.005-06:00

Cool Things
~ sleeping in

~ The Academy Awards (though I didn't particularly enjoy The Hurt Locker)

~ Hard Candy makeup

~ clementine oranges

~ the snow finally melting

~ checking out The Modern Bride Survival Guide and Wedding Chic (and a book about dragons, just for good measure) at the local library

~ people who read Leigh's blog

~ getting flowers from Bryant "just because"

~ newspapers

~ interviewing people from all over the country

~ Pretty much everything at Modcloth
~ Fleet Foxes

Uncool Things

~ not being in choir (I miss it!)

~ Lindsay Lohan suing over that stupid TV commercial

~ that stupid TV commercial
~ this discrimination

~ the knowledge that I never learned to play piano

~ bills

~ Plane tickets increasing by price the closer you get to your departure date (and no, that's not a metaphor)

~ war (good God, you all)

like the cover of a magazine

2010-03-08T19:28:00.002-06:00

If you haven't seen this yet, you're welcome:

searching in the night

2010-03-04T18:38:00.000-06:00

If I were directing a movie, Stephen Wright would be the narrator. He would describe my protagonist's rise and fall in his laid-back monotone, and the audience would all but be lulled to sleep by his apathetic explanations of my characters' problems. I'd use a lot of contrast in colors in the camerawork. Like Kill Bill, or American Beauty. And no, I didn't italicize those. On purpose. Take it.

In my movie, the clothes would be completely unrealistic -- sculpted high heels, suits and ties for all the men, fantastic gowns for the formal scenes. But they would be purposeful and interesting, not just there for the sake of spending a ton of money. My actors would be dedicated and funny, but sad somehow. They'd have depth and they'd be genuinely invested in their craft. They'd know their lines inside and out. And the script would be immaculate.

But all of those things would be utterly overshadowed by the music.

Music is amazing. It can make or break a scene. I remember taking a music appreciation class once where my teacher talked about all the movies that have been defined by their musical accompaniments -- "Jaws," "Star Wars," "Psycho." In film, it's subconscious, but it seeps in and becomes part of your memory of the film. Each note is powerful, each pause. Song connects people in a way that nothing else can, in a way I can't even begin to try and explain. And it means different things to different people, yet it means the same thing to everyone.

What I'm getting at here, of course, is that I will not be directing a movie. The soundtrack would take far too much time. I would probably spend at least 50 percent of the rest of my life trying to decide what song I'd use to open the movie. So many options! A rock song? A ballad? There's always a score, you know. But what kind of score? And who would compose it? Does John Williams work with unknown 22-year-old directors who have no experience in film? It would consume me. And I don't have time for that.

the little things

2010-03-02T17:58:00.002-06:00

Je voudrais:

Courtesy of ThinkGeek and Zombieland.

But you can make decisions, too

2010-03-01T20:55:00.003-06:00

If you are awesome, you will click on the link below and vote for "And So It Goes" as the next song that the amazing Katie Todd Band will cover:

http://bit.ly/8dQrZf

It takes half a second, and it will make me smile.

to the park at dawn

2010-02-27T17:06:00.003-06:00

This is Phillip.

He is a 4-year-old male fawn pug, and he is very cute. He enjoys long walks, eating snow and sitting in front of the heater in our apartment. Among his many talents are sitting, shaking hands (or paws) and jumping up on people when they come into the room. He is slightly overweight (but very cuddly), he constantly makes little snorting noises like a pig, and it is impossible to say no to him when he wants to get up on the couch with us and he's making his "Please?" face.

Now that you've met him, I suppose I should tell you that it's not easy to get a dog, at least not in Ohio. There are applications and adoption forms you have to fill out, and telephone interviews, and home visits (as in, they come to your house before you even meet the dog so that they can make sure you don't plan on keeping him in a tiny kennel or introducing him to your collection of antique land mines or whatever). In particular, we wanted a rescue dog, so that made the process even more challenging. But in the end, someone finally decided that we were worthy of his presence, hence, Phillip moved in.

The first couple of days were a little rough, but now I'm at least 85 percent certain that I'm not going to wake up to a pug standing over me with a knife. It's cool, having a dog. He's always really excited when I come home from work, and Bryant plans on teaching him to play Halo 3 on Xbox live soon. I'll keep you posted.

gonna hit this city

2010-02-26T22:47:00.007-06:00

all of a sudden
i had an urge to do a
haiku blog again

snowflakes crunch under
my feet on the sidewalk, each
tiny moment crushed

blank CDs are like
canvas ready for the things
too awkward to say

rain, out of nowhere!
rapture! you cannot even
imagine my joy

Things dogs consider:
food, treats, whether 'tis nobler
to sniff or dismiss

"Yeah, polar bears are
disappearing from the South
pole." "North?" "Whatever."

five in the morning
i wake knowing you're somewhere
hopefully sleeping

my deadline nears, red
pen swept over each page, time
to explain each mark

the same sandwich once
a week, the same guy has my
order memorized

leather boots. kickass
earrings. jokes. she's a riot.
"Is it five thirty?"

watching Criminal
Minds, just realized it's the one
about chili. Sick.

a time when I did
not know you seems far away
nonetheless, it's there

so, The Weakerthans
are coming out with a new
DVD. I'm psyched.

if you're reading this
then I think it's safe to say
you're disappointed