A wintry death

You guys. Snow + my car + my absolute inability to force myself to replace my sad old tires with anything even slightly more snow appropriate = all of these things will lead me to ruin before this winter is over. I love this canyon. I wish I could squash it into a tiny package, wrap it in sunshine and that wonderful smell it has after rain and then stuff it away in a little corner of my heart FOR ALL TIME, but the winter commute INTO the canyon is a completely different story. It's like running down a trail, coming face to face with a bear, the bear seeing you, running towards you, swiping at your face with its massive claws and missing by millimeters. That feeling you would have in your heart? That's how I feel when it's snowing and I somehow make it to work safely.

Off to ponder what other folksy nature-related metaphors I can share with you this morning.....

In the meantime, listen to this:



And then read the famously snarky A.O. Scott's review of Lincoln. It's not unusual for him to be so eloquent, but this kind of commendation and reverence is incredibly unusual coming from him. It is a wonderfully well-written review (I love and appreciate a good movie review), and I'm incredibly excited to watch this movie.

You guys. Brandi Carlile.

Quotes

“In the process of life, we are not always the already-tempered and helpful hammer; shaping and pounding another.  Sometimes we are merely the anvil.” 

George MacDonald

The Civil Wars

For me, right now, this is perfection.

I can't help it.

That awkward moment when your boss asks what you're listening to, and you answer "Karmin", because you've been mindlessly listening to "Brokenhearted" on repeat for an hour, and he says "oh Carmen! Oh that's wonderful, good for you!", and then you don't correct him, and you're not sure if it's because you're embarrassed to be listening to such ridiculous music at work, or because you know he'll never understand what you're talking about if you tell him that Carmen was SO eighth grade for you and that if you're going to listen to opera at work, you'd really rather just listen to the last 3 minutes or so of Wagner's masterwork over and over again these days.

And then you remember that OTHER awkward moment when you entered one of the cave chambers singing opera style at the top of your lungs- because you thought it was empty and also because you're RIDICULOUS- and then saw him turn a corner at the back of the chamber and start walking your way, and you know, in that moment of remembering, that you'll be that crazy opera obsessed employee in his brain for the rest of your days, just as you were, inexplicably, a Disneyland geek in the brain of your last boss.

But there are worse things, right?

“And the end of all our exploring, will be to arrive where we started, and know the place for the first time.” -T.S. Eliot

This I Believe

"The hunt I'll never forget was after I'd moved away. Dad was almost seventy, and I was home for a few days. I had a cast on my leg and couldn't get it wet. Dad carried me--all 195 pounds, plus cast, guns, and plenty of shells--all the way to the blind. "You're not too heavy, Jim," he said.

"I believe that I am the man I am today because of that relationship. I learned to do things simply, to stay with the things that work, to be patient, to appreciate silence. I learned that discomfort is transient. I learned that I was a welcome burden to my dad, that life without burden is a life without weight, a shallow life. I believe we need the encumbrance of challenge. As dad plodded along through the water and over the levee, he occasionally stumbled, but never fell.

"I learned to love my children in this same way. I have created my own refuge with each. Their weight is never too heavy. It is welcome. Sometimes I stumble, make mistakes, but I never fall." (emphasis added, please listen to the entire essay here)

Last Sunday, a man was speaking in church and for whatever reason, mentioned a question that he likes to ask on first dates- "what defines you?" I turned to my friend and whispered "dealbreaker". She laughed. Then I thought, whatamIdoingbeseriousthisischurch. THEN I thought, what would I say if someone asked me that question? What DO I say? Usually something about my hobbies. Something about my education. Something about my army-brat rearing. Something about my religion. Something about my family. But none of those things alone describe nearly who I am or who I hope to be.

Last night, a friend was jokingly talking about her life's mantra- something about ice cream and dessert and if it makes you happy then that's good for your heart so then it's good for you. I don't even know. But in the middle of this silly conversation, I started thinking- if I had to condense my approach to life into just a few words, something snappily quotable, what would it be?

Whenever I think about things like this, I inevitably come back to this essay by James Johnson, a professor at Smith College, for "This I Believe". I know I've shared it here before, but it's been on my mind again lately.  Maybe I put too much weight on this gem by one man about whom I know next to nothing? I don't know. But I do know that right now, at this exact moment, if someone asked me what defined me, what my "mantra" is, I would tell them that, more than anything, I want to create a life for myself that is substantial. I would tell them that I believe a "life without burden is a life without weight, a shallow life". I would try to tell them something that embodies my belief that a necessary and considerable part of life should be confronting, bearing, and overcoming challenges; whether these are challenges I face alone, on behalf of or with someone I care about, or challenges facing my community. Obviously, I have a long way to go, but I hope through this to become someone worth knowing. I hope that, eventually, I can be the one to say "sometimes I stumble, make mistakes, but I never fall."

"Raw experience is empty, just as empty as the forecastle of a whaler, as in the chamber of a counting house; it is not what one does, but in a manifold sense, what one realizes that keeps existence from being vain and trivial. Mankind moves about in worlds not realized... It is the artist, the knower, the sayer, who realizes human experience, who takes the raw lump of ore we find in nature, smelts it, refines it, assays it, and stamps it into coins that can pass from hand to hand and make every man who touches them the richer." -Lewis Mumford

(found here)

Don't mind me, I'm just feeling pretentious...

Have you ever read The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran? I first came across it years ago (and it's funny reading up about it now, apparently it was quite popular in the 60s, and supposedly he's among the top three best-selling poets of all time, but guess what folks, I was born in the 80s and I had never even heard Gibran's name until I found this tiny book on a friend's shelf), and every once in a while it forces itself back to the front of my mind. 

I'm baffled by it. I never quite know whether it's sublime or overwrought. A little of both, I think. Maybe that's one reason why I love it- the sheer beauty of some sections, and the forced, sometimes awkward drama of others is an interesting reflection of the idea of duality that is woven through the entire book. There are some things that ring so true and others that strike me as completely bogus. I don't know. I like it. Look it up.

And until you do that, here are some of my favorite passages (under their respective section titles):

The Coming of the Ship (i.e. the Prophet gets ready to blow this joint)(my words, not Gibran's)
      "...He descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart: How      shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave   this city. 
      Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret? 
      Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets...and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache. 
      It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands. Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst."

On Love (don't judge me for loving this passage, I know it's terribly Marianne Dashwood of me)

     "When love beckons to you follow him, 

      Though his ways are hard and steep. 
      And when his wings enfold you yield to him, 
      Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, 
      Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.... 

        But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: 
      To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. 
      To know the pain of too much tenderness. 
      To be wounded by your own understanding of love; 
      And to bleed willingly and joyfully. 
      To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; 
      To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; 
      To return home at eventide with gratitude; 
      And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips. "

On Children (probably my favorite section, especially those last two lines)
      "You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. 
      The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. 
      Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness; 
      For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable." 

On Friendship
     "When you part from your friend, you grieve not; 
      For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain. 
      And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit."

Also,

As I told my friend today, crushes are HARD. Having them, I mean. Not being crushed by a boulder. That is all.

On happiness

Last night, for about 20 minutes, I was the happiest I've felt in a long time. I'm not saying that I haven't been happy. Last night was just different. I just...things just felt right. Every single thing felt like it was exactly as it should be. I returned the day before from my first camping trip in years (I've had some truly terrible camping experiences in the past- they generally scare me away from woodsy jaunts). Even though I barely slept the entire trip (I don't do so well in the outdoors), even though I felt disgusting by the time I got back, even though some of the fellow campers were slightly crazier than normal, even though I'm absurdly out of shape and hiking kills me, even though a million things, it was a perfect trip. The setting was divine- Grand Teton National Park and Yellowstone. My car mates were wonderful- even though I barely knew half of them before leaving (and one kept calling me the wrong name...I don't think I look like a Becky or a Holly, but apparently I do), and even though we spent dozens of hours riding in a cramped car together over a four day period, there was rarely any tension- any of that "if I have to spend one more second in the car with you people I'll [insert drastic action here]". Well, there was rarely any of that for me, I guess I can't vouch for the others :)

I was able to just enjoy the surroundings, spend some time in silence even though there were so many of us, (I'm a solitary hiker- I have to say I prefer it best when I'm alone and can obsess over small things like flowers and unusual rocks- it's the simple things, right? :), spend lots of time having some ridiculous conversations, some serious conversations, and just enjoy discovering new people and new places.

(Grand Teton, taken from here)

The day after we returned was a state holiday (thank Heaven for Utah and its made-up holidays). I: slept in (wonderful), washed and vacuumed my car (I had forgotten what a pretty deep red it is- I guess colors don't show that well under layers of dirt? Weird how that happens :), spent some time with extended family down South- visiting with cousins I rarely see (one for the first time in 10 years), marveling at the silliness of their kids, eating hot dogs and enjoying the weather. Then I came home to review my notes from ALA for a presentation at work today, but rather than doing it at home, I decided I needed to get out of the house and wander in the mountains. I packed up my notes and some water and hiked the peak behind Ensign, which I've been wanting to do for a long time now.

I'm so glad I decided to check that off my list last night. As soon as I made it to the top, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and deep contentment. I can do hard things. I guess that's the lesson of everything I've been trying to share. If I want to scale a mountain- I can. If I want to have a pleasant time getting to know new people and not make it awkward, I can do that too. If I want to have a charming and delightful visit with relatives with whom there has traditionally been a bit of conflict, I can set that aside and make a conscious choice to improve those relationships. All of that, and in connection, I should stop underestimating my own abilities and set high expectations for myself, having the confidence that I can meet those expectations. Because I can.

And that's the best feeling I've had in a very long time.

This, right now.

A blog I love

Have you ever looked at the blog "the wild and wily ways of a brunette bombshell"?

I'm slightly obsessed and ohsoimpressed. She combines snapshots of life in New York with wonderful, thoughtful, natural writing. The photo posts satisfy my need for adventure, and the written snippets are almost embarrassingly romantic (embarrassing for me to read I mean, because I feel like an interloper- not in any way because of the writing), but still chill-makingly wonderful. Read this, or this, or this series of "letters to the man who'll make me an honest woman". Everything about this blog feels fresh and honest and wonderful.

Remember that one winter when it snowed like madness in Chattanooga? I do. It was heavenly..

The Preservation Hall Jazz Band and the Del McRoury band played in town this week. WHY WASN'T I THERE?!

I just had a moment of real panic RE: not knowing what the future holds. Being in a temporary job which may or may not become permanent and interviewing (successfully? or not?) for other jobs and really just having no insight into where I'll be living in 3-4 months is exhausting.

I know I've talked about this before, and I know it's not a unique situation. Honestly, I'm grateful to be employed at all, for however short a time. I love my workplace, and I'm excited about the outside jobs that I'm applying for. That's a good thing, right? No matter where I end up, there will be perks and there will be sacrifices. If I leave Utah, I'm giving up a community that I absolutely adore, and a cause that I'm excited about, but I'll be (hopefully) gaining a permanent situation and new challenges (you know I love a challenge), and a new place to discover.

I know I'm being incredibly self-indulgent, but can you sympathize?



(photo- my house courtesy of Google Maps' wonderful 8-bit April Fools version)

Thoroughly Modern Millie

I can't get this out of my head today. I <3 Millie with all of my little heart, and Sutton Foster is INSANELY SPECTACULAR in this clip.

You know

Or at least you should know by now that I love a snarky New York Times movie rating explanation. Though the review for Battleship is bland (as, I suspect, the movie will be), that little blurb at the end does not disappoint.

"Battleship is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). Because even against space aliens, war is hell."

Oh Maurice...

When I was a kid- probably seven or eight- and recovering from an event of unspeakable horror, someone gave me a a copy of Dear Mili, a then newly discovered fairy tale written by Wilhelm Grimm which was printed alongside illustrations by Maurice Sendak. I hated it. I'm not completely sure why. It was a combination of things, I think. This particular copy of the book had (and still has) the most bizarre smell; the story itself comes to a terrible, tragic close (which shouldn't be surprising in a Grimm tale that hasn't been manhandled by modern editors to make it more palatable); most of all, the illustrations were strange to me- full of symbols I didn't recognize or understand, full of religious references that seemed out of place, printed in muted colors that were unappealing to me at the time, with faces that seemed too realistic almost for their stylized surroundings, and noses that were just...massive. Even though I hated that book, I looked at it often.

As time went on and I got older and left certain things behind, I still returned to Dear Mili periodically, to wonder why it had been given to me, to puzzle over the pictures. As time went on, I started to dislike the book for a different reason- for the connection it had to that singular event.

Now, for whatever reason (probably shared history more than anything else) it's incredibly precious to me. I love the story of a mother's sacrifice for her child's safety. I love it for the idea that, even in war and darkness, there's a place where children can be safe, where they can be protected by individuals who are profoundly interested in their welfare. I love it for those illustrations that bothered me so much when I was young- for the imperfect faces with their beautiful noses, for the richness of symbol and for the soft colors that, at an appropriate point in the story, shift into tropical vibrance. Despite its dark end, there's something deep and sweet in the idea that, no matter what we've passed through, we can come home again.

I'm grateful for Sendak's unflinching treatment of difficult, even dark themes. As few authors seem to these days, he respected children and believed firmly in their strength and resilience. "Parents shouldn’t assume children are made out of sugar candy and will break and collapse instantly. Kids don’t. We do." (from TIME Magazine, 1988/12/05). I'm grateful for the generosity with which he shared his monumental talent and trademark wit with the world.

Running running and running running and running running

I just dropped a huge wad of money on real, honest to goodness running shoes. I figured if I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it in style. Oh yeah, and also in a way that won't injure me.

If sinking a lot of money into something isn't a good motivation to keep doing it, I don't know what is. PROOF. I ran two miles tonight. Well, about half ran/half walked. I'm still getting up to speed. When was the last time I ran two miles together? Like in a row? Probably never. Go me!

Royal blues

YES. This is so amazing. I never knew I cared about the Queen's color distribution until Vogue told me all about it.

The dangers of specialization.

I think my profession has poisoned my brain. I just changed my profile picture and cover photo on Facebook, then hid the changes from my timeline (stuff like that is boring and I don't think it needs a place). However, as soon as I hid those changes, I thought about someone in 80 years (or some distant future date) trying to learn more about me and what if they really needed to know when I changed the photos?! Now they'd never be able to tell!!!!!

These are the kinds of tiny details that are meaningless to us now, but contribute a lot to understanding a person.

As to why anyone would be trying to learn more about me, I have no idea. My thought processes are just twisted all around by archiving.

A startling realization has been sneaking up on me over the last year. I've been stubborn, refused to speak it out loud, worried that it might not be the coolest of opinions (oh wait, cool is one thing that's never really applied to me. Whew, guess I don't have to worry about that one). What is it, you ask?

I love Salt Lake City.

Like a lot.

Like heartbeatingfasteverythingseemsbrighter levels of love.

I don't know what to do about it.

Projects and things

I just started working on a Wiksten Tova top in a super lightweight gauzy printed cotton. I want a million lightweight shirts for this summer- I have a feeling it's going to be extremely long and burningly hot (like every summer in Utah, let's be honest).

Thinking of summer makes me dream of vacations. I'm trying to decide whether or not to join a group of friends who are planning to hike Hadrian's wall next summer (see my last post on my inability to make long term plans with an uncertain future staring me down).

Not much funny has happened lately. Sorry.

Also, go see John Carter- just because I actually feel sorry for Disney that it was such a monumental financial flop. Honestly, it's completely absurd, but still kind of a fun movie- old fashioned swash-buckle-y-ness...but with lots of CGI and lots of abs. If nothing else, do it for Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Yesterday I saw four mountain goats at work.

Today we're having a snake/safety/awareness training. With real snakes.

My workplace is cooler than yours, freezing cave notwithstanding. I'm just saying.

Also, can we talk about how hard it is to plan for the future when you have no idea where/if you'll be employed in six months? I want to take trips and accrue vacation days and learn stuff and buy a condo (preferably with lots of exposed brick and industrial design features so all of my frilly decorations will look more balanced). I'm learning a lot about patience right now. I think.

Am I crazy?

There's a bike shop in town that fixes up used/vintage bikes and resells them. I drove past last night and there out front was an exact replica of my happy little 1974 Schwinn Suburban, but instead of nondescript copper like my bike, it was a delightful shade of raspberry. RASPBERRY y'all. Would it be strange if I bought it and had two of the same bike?


(Mine looks like this, but with oh-so-shiny copper fenders. I do love it. Photo courtesy of Velospace.)

Midnight in Awkwardland

Today I went to the release party for Shannon Hale's new book "Midnight in Austenland"! It was so much fun! I don't think I've ever been to a book signing before...shocking, right? I went by myself, and it was at a tiny independent bookstore over in Sugarhouse. She told hilarious stories about filming "Austenland" in England over the summer, I somehow ended up standing sandwiched between her parents and her husband, there was an impromptu murder mystery game to be played while waiting for signing, and there were also secret prizes hidden throughout the bookstore- I found one! It's the German edition of my favorite book of hers- "Book of a Thousand Days". Maybe it's a sign that I need to ditch Russian and start learning German instead?


Then I was next in line and after spending my line-time thinking about what to say I stepped up and....couldn't say anything. WHAT?! It was like on that episode of Community where Troy meets his hero Lavar Burton and spends the whole visit not talking and running out of the room screaming when ovserwhelmed. Except...she's not even my hero, just an author whose books I enjoy, and who I think is really intelligent and hilarious and just generally kind of great. I think I just jinxed myself by thinking about it too much? And it was just horrible. She wrote something German in my "Das Buch der Tausend Tage" and she looked at it and said "I hope that's right!" and I "well, I won't know if it's not!" and sounded really ungrateful and then walked away awkwardly as she said "it was nice to meet you!" after me. Omg whyyyyyyyyy.



Anyways, I have my copy of "Midnight in Austenland" and I'm super excited to read it.

On a happier note, something truly charming and delightful happened when I first got to the bookstore and was waiting in line to buy my books. I saw the cutest thing I've ever seen. There was a family in front of me in line- two parents and a girl who was maybe 5 or 6- and she was carrying a book of photos of Gaudi's buildings in Barcelona, and she kept turning the page and saying things like "oooh we were there! How old is this building?" She wanted to buy it but her mom kept saying "but we have photos of all those bldgs from when we were there!" Eventually she gave in (who wouldn't give in to a wee squeaky little child begging for a book about great architecture?), and as the little girl handed the book over to her mom, she said in a reverent voice, "it's soooo awesome!". I almost died. I just wanted to eat her she was so cute. What small child cares about Gaudi? Weird and wonderful.

I just applied for a job posted by a group of museums/historical societies in PA. They're looking for a temporary cataloger for their textile collections. OMGAWESOME. It wasn't until I was describing this job to my Friday lunch group that I realized I may be the only person that gets giddy about a job like that. But seriously, how perfect would it be for me? Me, who can only think about textiles all. day. long. ITWOULDBETHEBESTEVER.

So...I posted a while ago about a review of the movie "Anonymous" (I would put a picture here if I cared enough about it, but I don't, so DEAL with a pictureless post), and I went to see it as soon as it came out here because, whatever, I love movies, OK!? And even more than movies, I love a good period piece. Y'all know me. Anyways, I just realized that it's been weeks and I've failed to say anything about it (and a million other movies), partly because I was just. So. Disgusted. by it.

So here's the thing. Hopefully you know a little bit about Shakespeare. And hopefully you know a little bit about alternate theories of authorship of his works. One of the most popular (and most perplexing and obnoxious) theories started sometime in the 1920s with someone who said to himself one day "well this Shakespeare fellow was lower class. And poorly educated. And so was his family. So there is NO possible way that he would have been smart enough to pen the most transcendent works of the English language. No effing way, man" (they talked like that in the twenties). So this man set out to figure out who else could have been behind it and came up with Edward de Vere, then Earl of Oxford. He was wealthy, he was smart, he was close to the royal family (well the royal person, Elizabeth didn't exactly have a family...), somebody said one time that he was a poet, blah blah blah, it must have been him!

Fast-forward about 90 years, and, despite the fact that 10 of Shakespeare's plays were not performed or published before Oxford's death (and they could not have been published posthumously because some refer to events that didn't happen until years after his death), the theory only continues to grow in popularity, supported and propogated by celebrities (and why not? they're famous, so that makes them smarter than us, righ?!), despite the best efforts of prominent Shakespearean scholars to debunk this piece of ridonculosity (Shakespeare made up words, so I can too. Werd yo.)

So all this was floating around in my mind before I went to see "Anonymous", but I thought I'd find a pretty good movie despite the absurdity of its premise. Unfortunately, I found myself unable to willfully suspend my disbelief and enjoy the movie for its own sake. Why, you ask? Because, as the film went on, that premise struck me as more and more offensive. What? I was offended by a movie?!?? Yes, apparently I'm not beyond feeling. Or something.

Anyways, what offended me so much is that this whole theory (and the movie that supports it- director Roland Emmerich has become a major proponent, and released with the movie, a documentary by his prodcution company and lesson plans to be sent to high schools so kids could learn about this hogwash) is based on the idea that poor/uneducated/obscure people cannot do extraordinary things. Can you imagine tteaching that to high schoolers? Oh hey kids, do great stuff with your lives, but probably just accept that since you're pretty average you'll never do anything better than average, and if you do, the credit will go to someone else, because who would seriously believe that a kid like you could do anything extraordinary? I don't know why this makes me so mad, but it just does.

Oh and on top of that, the people who made this movie and who support the Oxfordian theory of authorship probably mourned the recent loss of Steve Jobs, designer and entrepeneur extraordinaire, which strikes me as ironic because, like Shakespeare himself, Jobs' early life was rather unextraordinary.

And. AND...should I spoiler this? don't read any further if you don't want spoilers.

According to this movie, Queen Elizabeth was a raging wanton who bore many children who were farmed out to be raised in anonymity by her noble vassals. So she never knew who they were. So we find out as the movie progresses that Oxford had an affair with Elizabeth that resulted in a child. NOT KNOWING THAT HE HIMSELF HAD BEEN ONE OF HER CAST-OFF CHILDREN. WHAT:SODfao;sh;oqw??!~!orh;oh?!?!?!?!??!! Oh yeah and they had a kid together. So Elizabeth had a child with her son. HER SON.

I like to keep an open mind when it comes to history, but this type of historical revisionism, that drags major players down to the gutter without any supporting evidence is just disgusting.

UGH. What a frustrating movie. I actually almost walked out of it. For me to even consider walking out of a movie is...pretty extreme. It is classist, it is disrespectful, and on top of that, probably its worst crime is that it's just not entertaining.

Not. Recommended.

I'm moving to the North Pole.

So I've been applying for jobs. And sometimes I apply for jobs that are longshots, or in places I wouldn't really want to go, because hey, any job is better than no job, right? Or something. And as much as I say I would be willing to go anywhere, there are still some places that I don't include in my definition of "anywhere". Like China. Or Florida. New Mexico. Arizona. Basically any place that is too foreign, or where the temperature regularly tops 110 in the summer.

Anyways, I'm thinking about applying for a job (that maybe I don't fill all the qualifications for, but I've got most of them, and it's worth a try). But you guys, it's in Yellowknife, CA- that's in the Northern Territories. Still not sure where that is? Visualize with me-


IT'S PRACTICALLY IN THE ARCTIC CIRCLE.

Oh, whew, I just checked, it's a full 512 KM south of the Arctic circle. AND it's nickname is "Diamond Capital of North America". SOLD.

(Also, I'm counting on a disproportionately high man to woman ration. I like the odds of that.)

More NYTimes movie review ratings:

"'Jack and Jill' is rated PG (Parental guidance suggested). Poop jokes."

Classic. Needless to say, I won't be seeing this movie.

Sometimes...

Sometimes, when I'm putting my makeup on in the morning, I accidentally powder my eyeball instead of my face and it hurts. HURTS, y'all. And then I have to wait for the tearing and irritation to subside before I can put on my eye makeup. And then I lose time.

ALSO, I have these boots that I love. Just love. Today I wore them with tights. I usually wear socks as well. When I was walking out of the house, I noticed that one boots felt noticeably looser than the other. Then I realized I had only put on one sock. Did I turn around and go back inside to put the other sock on? Obviously not. I'm too lazy for that. I'd rather play loosey-goosey boot day than be normal.

Basically what I'm trying to say is that today is an all-around win. ALREADY.

Anna Bolena

Last night I dreamed that I was baking cookies or something totally mundane like that. Not that exciting, right? What if I told you that I was doing it in a modern kitchen, but there were tons of people around, and we were all dressed like it was the 1530s?

This is what happens when I watch opera too late at night. Btw, if you have even the slightest interest in opera, do yourself a favor and find a theater nearby that shows the Metropolitan Opera's performances. They. Are. SPECTACULAR. I've never left one feeling less than amazed. Even if, going into it, I think to myself "well, I don't really know this opera at all or like this composer, or the story just doesn't sound that interesting, but it's the Met so I guess I'll go", I'm always completely won over by the end. Completely.



Last night I watched "Anna Bolena", Donizetti's take on the story of Anne Boleyn. I wish I had something intelligent (ANYTHING intelligent) to say about opera, but I don't, so bear with me. I was mostly bored by the music in the first act, but the set was mind-blowingly clever, and the costumes wonderfully rich AND historically accurate (much more so than the opera itself). I can't help but be completely green with envy for anyone who works in the Met's costume shop. The level of detail they manage to achive (even when very few people will ever see the costumes up close) is really inspiring.

All that was well and good, but what really won me over was Anna Netrebko's performance as the beleaguered Queen Anne. By the end of the second act (when she has some temporary, heart-rending madness and finally bucks up, pulls her hair to one side, and heads out to face the executioner), I just wanted to throw my hands in the air and shout "Amen!" (you know, like the same way you feel whenever Mercedes sings on Glee, only stronger because it's so much better than that, and classier, of course, because it's opera :) ) Not only is she one of the best singers around, she's also an amazing actress (a skill which is sadly lacking in many singers).

Anyways, like I said, I don't really have anything super smart to say about it, except that I have a sneaking feeling that I just watched one of the best performances I'll ever see. Anywhere. In my whole life.

(But, let's be totally honest here, we all know the real reason I love watching these broadcasts is so I can crush on Russian Baritones, like Mr. Ildar Abdrazakov in the photo up there.)

Orcas are not people

Um...well...I don't even know what to say to this article(pause while you read it), except that I'm not *quite* sure training Orcas is the same as enslaving human beings. But it will certainly get PETA some attention.

(And while human slavery is still a problem, I think it's irresponsible to draw so much attention to something that, comparatively, does not matter)

Er...

Um. I don't know how to begin this. But this really happened.

I drove to work today. I KNOW I shouldn't have but it was cold and I was feeling lazy. When I left just now at the end of the day, I got into the Conference Center lobby (the Conference Center is the building across the street from the library. I park under it. On the very rare occasions when I drive. Most other people park under it as well) at the same time as a girl I know who also works at the library, though in a different division. She was in conversation with a tall, slightly attractive man. She saw me and started trying to include me in the conversation because she's nice like that. Problem: it's nearly impossible to come up to speed on a convo that's already been going on for a while when your only involvement comes when someone turns to you and says "Isn't that right? Don't the teams always need us?" WHAT TEAMS?!

Anyways, I did my best to fake my involvement. We got on the elevator and somehow I ended up between these two, still carrying on their conversation. She was getting off on P2, he and I on P4. After she got off, I started making small talk because, as I mentioned, he was not unattractive, OK?!

We arrive at P4. We take a few steps out of the elevator, still chatting. All of a sudden, it hit me. I'M ON THE WRONG FLOOR. I parked three floors up, on P1. So what did I do? Excuse myself and jump back on the elevator like a normal person? Don't make me laugh. I KEPT WALKING.

Not wanting to embarrass myself, I carried on the conversation halfway through the garage. Now. Consider. The Conference Center takes up an ENTIRE city block. I made it halfway through before I came up with a plan and took my leave. Luckily, we arrived at his car just as I made my decision. What was The Plan, you ask? Obviously, I did the only thing I COULD do.

I walked past his car, even further into the garage abyss, and, knowing he would be passing by on his way out of the building soon, and not wanting him to see me turning around, I chose a random car and pretended to unlock it until he was out of sight. I did no more or less than any reasonable person would have done.

Obviously.

I love the New York Times movie reviewers because...well, for lots of reasons, but because, while being oh so smart, they're not afraid to just lay it all out there. Each review ends with the movie's rating, and the reasons for that rating. Usually the reasons have been tweaked.

The coda to A.O. Scott's delightful review of "Anonymous" (you know, that movie that puts forth the old theory that Shakespeare's plays were written by a well-heeled noble supporter?) reads thusly:

"“Anonymous” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). Swordplay, bodice ripping, bawdy speech and the cold-blooded murder of the truth."

Spectacular. With just that last sentence, Scott simultaneously rips the movie apart AND increases my desire to watch it.

I have a really passive aggressive desire to post only about quilting and other..."domestic" hobbies that take up my time from now on, but for now I will resist.

I spent my lunch break today reading Lovecraft's "At the Mountains of Madness". It's October (I thought I'd let you know just in case that fact has escaped your notice for the last 26 days), so I wanted something slightly Halloweeny, and what says "Halloween!" more than H.P. Lovecraft? Nothing.

Anyways, I just started and had only gotten through 4 pages over the last few days, but after today I am COMPLETELY HOOKED. It was quite a trial to tear myself away and go back to cataloging. Have you ever read it? Or any Lovecraft? You probably should, he basically invented the horror genre. But he wrote horror as it should be, not trying to substitute gore for horror. I think true horror should focus more on suspense, on the terror of the unknown, than on known, conventional villains (like any slasher story). I. Can't. Take. Slasher films.

I don't really have anything intelligent to say about any of this. Mostly just, if you haven't read any Lovecraft, you probably should (especially if you're looking to read something scary that will still let you sleep at night). Once you do, you'll start seeing references to him all over the place. Christopher Nolan's Batman movies (well, anything from anyone about Batman really- for some reason Lovecraft pops up a lot), Guillermo Del Toro references Lovecraft all the time, I feel like anything involving a protagonist turning to old musty archives for answers to their deepening fear is a reference to Lovecraft (I don't know where that meme started if not with him). If I paid more attention to things, I could go on longer. But I don't, so I won't.

I know this is really goofy, but one of the quilts I'm working on right now...I really want to back it with this fabric. It's the right color and I love that it's vegetables for some reason. Maybe you saw the picture I posted on Fb? The top is all black and white and grey with some pink and green touches. But none of it has anything to do with vegetables.

I was also thinking about using this as a backing. The grey version of this print is one that I used in the top and I really love this print.

Or I could potentially use any of these because I used about half of this fabric collection in the top.

I wish I had a picture of the top to share, but it's really just kind of boring. And it's not done yet.

AND ALL THAT I CAN THINK ABOUT ALL DAY LONG IS QUILTING AND FABRICS THAT I WANT TO BUY. It is like a disease. I really have no idea where this came from because I never used to care.

So. My brain is weird, but you knew that already. A few weeks ago, I won a free dozen cookies from this amazing Etsy shop in a giveaway on a friend's blog. Seriously gorgeous cookies. I got to pick my choice and I decided on the Halloween Black Lace cookies, but the Autumn Flor ones were the runners-up. Seriously I've never seen such gorgeous cookies. So I've been waiting for them, they're supposed to get here today or tomorrow. Last night, I was thinking about and anticipating receiving my beautiful cookies (yum!) and I ended up having a dream that I received them. When I opened the box, they were sooooo disappointing. I was expecting these gorgoeous, intricately decorated red and black cookies, and what I got was red-frosted cookies with lazily applied black swirls and stripes- kid stuff that I could have done myself. I was *seriously* disappointed.

Yes, I dream about cookie regret.

I love that I can look at this picture and recognize the landmarks. I've walked through that gate. I stood, completely bewildered, on the street corner in front of that church. It was noisy. It was spectacular.

I can't wait to go back.

(photo taken from National Geographic)

Overheard at the reference desk (we are not a lending library)...
"Hi, can you check books out from the library?"
"No, but you can sit at one of these tables and read them."
"Oh, they just have numbers on them, so I wondered..."

How silly of us to put numbers on books if we're not going to allow them out of the building. There's no other reason imaginable why we would give them barcodes and/or call numbers. There's not any reason why we would need to keep track of them ourselves.

So lately I've been kind of (I mean completely) obsessed with quilting. This is A HUGE PROBLEM for many reasons, but mainly because I usually lack the follow-through to actually stick with such a large project from start to finish. The result? A build up of quilt tops and of unused fabric. The actual quilting and binding are always super daunting to me.

I'm feeling better about it now because I'm actually quilting and nearly ready to bind the first of this recent spate of quilts. After that I've got one finished top, one pile of fabric already cut and ready for sewing, and then a pile of uncut fabric ready to be turned into something fabulous. So that's four. BUT (and this is part of the thing that keeps me hopping from project to project) I get distracted by new patterns and fabrics very easily. My latest obsession? I reheheally want to make this pattern:

With these fabrics:

Oooooh preeetttyyyy.

Make me stop please.

Today on the Diane Rehm show, they were talking about medical insurance- do you need it, don't you, how companies are different, etc...

This guy called in to say "I don't have any health insurance, I haven't for a long time, I just don't think it's valuable to me- I've always been careful to use lots of preventative care, eat right, and I've been going to a chiropractor since I was like four."

Seriously? First, chiropractic care is not preventative care. Second, who takes a four year old to a chiropractor for heaven's sake?!

Also, no matter how careful you are, how well you eat, there is always the possibility that you could be in an accident or develop something terrible. Who's going to pay for that man's care if he gets in a serious car accident or discovers a malignant growth (or any one of a million things happens)? Because no one has that much cash.

Idiot.

I wrote a whole post about how I'm awkward but then tried to upload this gif to lighten the mood. And it did. By somehow deleting ALL of the text. He may look cute in a suit, but he is DEADLY.

I know this is my second post in a short time about Les Mis, but I can't help it. I have a Pandora station that started as "Wicked" radio and has been morphed by my careful curation until it only plays music from the following: Wicked, Beauty and the Beast, Little Women (the musical!), The Light in the Piazza (a musical that flopped but has an amazing score), and lots and lots and lots of Les Mis. AND I LOVE IT. There is nothing with which I would rather fill my brain while cataloging. NOTHING, DO YOU HEAR ME?!

You guys. Today I was on the reference desk and someone was trying to make a joke about me being the captain on the bridge- referencing Star Trek. Then he said "oh wait, you're too young for Star Trek". I assured him I wasn't too young to have seen an episode or two. What's weird about this? He is probably the same age as me, AT MOST 3 years older. I'm glad I skew young? I think.

Oh my word, you guys, I don't know what is wrong with me, but I think I just offended someone in the elevator again. WHY?!

So I got on with this really sweet woman who works in library services, and we said hi, and then to fill the silence, I guess, she said "You're wearing red!" Because I am. I'm wearing a really bright red sweater.

And I couldn't think of a response to that, so I looked at her (she's wearing a dark pink skirt and a lighter pink shirt with a khaki blazer) and said "so are you....sort of!" Meaning, of course, that she's wearing pink, which is sort of red. And she said "oh you know, I'm not really into that sort of thing" which puzzled me. And then I thought that she thought I had been referring to her mismatching and was insulting her, which obviously I didn't mean to.

And, you know what? As soon as I finished typing this, I realized that today the employee's association is having a "tailgate" party for lunch, and we're supposed to wear our team shirts. AND SHE THOUGHT I WAS WEARING RED BECAUSE I'M A UTE FAN. Which is even worse than inadvertently offending someone. I mean, I would never want to be mistaken for someone so uncouth as one of *them*.

(but I will let the previous story stand as a monument to my own ineptness in social situations and/or my attempts to interpret them)

haHA!

Success! So remember the last post I wrote about not recognizing the Director of Libraries here?

Well, today I had basically the SAME EXACT encounter with him that I had the other day. He didn't remember me, you guys! Not one whit! And so, it was JUST LIKE "Groundhog Day" where I got to repeat the situation until I got it right (which only took one repetition in this case).

And this time, "getting it right" meant (1) knowing who he is, and (2) not asking inane questions and slinking away like Gollum.

This day is an ALL-AROUND WIN. (because of that and also because of this- http://thebloggess.com/2011/09/dear-portlandia-really/)

Number of fire drills at work so far this week: 2
Percentage of which were legitimately planned exercises or started by actual fires: 0%

Fire alarms echoing in hallway covered in hard, echoing surfaces = DEAFENING.

Strobe light flashing above my desk incessantly for 10 minutes afterwards = seizure inducing.

Why do I do these things?

ALSO. I am an idiot. It's official.

I was waiting for the elevator and there was a man waiting as well who turned to me and said "I don't believe we've met, I'm [so and so]", and we went through the introduction thing.

He asked me where I work. I told him.

Then I said "and what do you do, [so and so]? I know I've seen your name on emails, but I can't remember off the top of my head."

His response? "I'm the director of the library".

Cue elevator door and my ashamed retreat.

Idiot.

(I really should have known, but in my defense there are so many levels of management and I've just never had reason to interact with him. But still. Idiot.)

UPDATED: Also, I just browsed the org chart (we have this really cool interactive one on the intranet) and realized that he's not over the whole library, he's director of a division that's basically parallel to mine. That alleviates some of my shame.