A couple months ago I enrolled in a night class my neighbor teaches, entitled "Things that do not work to calm a screaming baby." I had never been super eager to learn these skills, but the course comes with an apartment, which is something I was looking for anyway. Here are my notes from last night.
shut up
be quiet already
stop it already
shut up already
stop it
quiet
shut up
quiet
shut up
be quiet
quiet
shut up
AAAAAAAAAAAA
shut up
I can't take it anymore!
stop crying
stop it
shut up already
you know better than that
calm down
shut up
stop acting like a crazy person!
December 19, 2011
December 14, 2011
not all girls can cook
You know you've lived in Southern California long enough when you start drinking soymilk instead of regular milk for absolutely no reason. And I do. I'm not ashamed of it and at the same time I am very ashamed.
My diet consists mostly of soymilk, edamame, coconut water, Greek yogurt, organic dried mangoes, homemade gluten-free granola, and spinach leaves. Eighteen-year old Brooke hates me. Actually every age of Brooke except twenty-four hates me.
Actually twenty-four-year-old Brooke hates me as well. But it's the purest, most organic soy-hate. It costs three times as much and only stays fresh for two days. Every time I shake my fist with hatred, proceeds go to an attractive turtle in the Galapagos Islands.
The next two pictures were taken while listening to this so they'll probably look best if looked at while listening to it as well.
Macaroni and cheese with chocolate milk instead of regular: good idea or bad?
At least I still eat Kraft macaroni and cheese? Sorry attractive turtles. But I just buy it so I can mix that orange "cheese" sauce with chocolate soymilk and gluten-free brown rice pasta. Sorry people trying to respect me.
My diet consists mostly of soymilk, edamame, coconut water, Greek yogurt, organic dried mangoes, homemade gluten-free granola, and spinach leaves. Eighteen-year old Brooke hates me. Actually every age of Brooke except twenty-four hates me.
Actually twenty-four-year-old Brooke hates me as well. But it's the purest, most organic soy-hate. It costs three times as much and only stays fresh for two days. Every time I shake my fist with hatred, proceeds go to an attractive turtle in the Galapagos Islands.
The next two pictures were taken while listening to this so they'll probably look best if looked at while listening to it as well.
Macaroni and cheese with chocolate milk instead of regular: good idea or bad?
At least I still eat Kraft macaroni and cheese? Sorry attractive turtles. But I just buy it so I can mix that orange "cheese" sauce with chocolate soymilk and gluten-free brown rice pasta. Sorry people trying to respect me.
December 11, 2011
can your lipstick do this?
Today I had nothing on my calendar so I wrote "wear red lipstick" and I walked around town for three hours in silent protest of my shin splints that don't let me run anymore. No word from the shin splints yet but I think they go the message.
About once a week I wear my hair in a weird freakish-looking bun on top of my head, which makes people do this hilarious thing where they say "Hey Brookeeeeee..." When they hit the Br we solidly lock eyes and by the ee's they've trailed up six inches to the top of my head and just kind of rest there.
I feel like I owe it to the rest of my sex, who are greeted with eye contact and a glance twelve inches down no matter how they wear their hair. It's the least I can do.
But today I did the lipstick. Nothing exciting happened except that THREE people asked if I could read things for them because they had forgotten their glasses. That's three more than usual.
One woman asked me to read the size on a shoe she was trying on. She couldn't figure out why all of the shoes were so big. I pointed out she was in the men's section and she got very flustered and thanked me. She really should not be leaving home without her glasses.
One woman asked me to read her horoscope to her. It said she should take more time to herself. Is it just me or are horoscopes and fortune cookies getting fluffier than they used to? What happened to the horoscopes that said things like "If you wear red lipstick on the 10th you will get hit by a car? And if I can't trust a horoscope to let me know something like that, who can I trust? Scary times.
If I do get hit by a car, I have a feeling the woman in the men's shoe section will be driving it.
About once a week I wear my hair in a weird freakish-looking bun on top of my head, which makes people do this hilarious thing where they say "Hey Brookeeeeee..." When they hit the Br we solidly lock eyes and by the ee's they've trailed up six inches to the top of my head and just kind of rest there.
I feel like I owe it to the rest of my sex, who are greeted with eye contact and a glance twelve inches down no matter how they wear their hair. It's the least I can do.
But today I did the lipstick. Nothing exciting happened except that THREE people asked if I could read things for them because they had forgotten their glasses. That's three more than usual.
One woman asked me to read the size on a shoe she was trying on. She couldn't figure out why all of the shoes were so big. I pointed out she was in the men's section and she got very flustered and thanked me. She really should not be leaving home without her glasses.
One woman asked me to read her horoscope to her. It said she should take more time to herself. Is it just me or are horoscopes and fortune cookies getting fluffier than they used to? What happened to the horoscopes that said things like "If you wear red lipstick on the 10th you will get hit by a car? And if I can't trust a horoscope to let me know something like that, who can I trust? Scary times.
If I do get hit by a car, I have a feeling the woman in the men's shoe section will be driving it.
December 5, 2011
what did I do to you
There are a lot of stray cats in the area I run in. And while I still have a lot to learn about them, I have finally gotten to the bottom of one thing: I know why people started thinking that a black cat crossing your path is unlucky.
Cats give you this look, pretty much all the time, and especially when you pass them, a look that says "Oh man, you are NOT going to like what's going to happen to you now."
This is what a thousand words of that looks like:
And now that I'm on the subject of cats I'm so tempted to add some cat videos.
This is what restraint looks like.
Cats give you this look, pretty much all the time, and especially when you pass them, a look that says "Oh man, you are NOT going to like what's going to happen to you now."
This is what a thousand words of that looks like:
And now that I'm on the subject of cats I'm so tempted to add some cat videos.
This is what restraint looks like.
November 28, 2011
my computer doesn't think saggy is a word.
Last week at the grocery store the lines were a nightmare - about fifteen minutes long, and the worst sort of fifteen minutes, where you get stuck behind a lady buying a decade's worth of shampoo because there was a newspaper special. But I struck gold in aisle three. Even though it wasn't labeled "Express" or "No Shampoo-Hoarders," the only person in front of me was an old man covered in tattoos, who I guess no one wanted to stand behind.
A lot of my friends have awesome-looking tattoos, and given the permanence of tattoos I'm assuming they'll still have them when they're old. People always say "oh you think tattoos look cool, wait until you're old and saggy and covered in tattoos - what will your grandchildren say?
Here's the thing about that.
A lot of my friends have awesome-looking butts.
Which will also become saggy. A lot of my friends have awesome-looking hair, which will either turn white and inexplicably short and fluffy, or just disappear. And did you know that your nose keeps growing your entire life? According to my albeit limited research, none of these things are caused by tattoos. You can get old and saggy with tattoos, or old and saggy without them. And I don't know about you, but I don't much care what my grandchildren have to say. I'm going to have things to tell them.
I'll use this paragraph to mention that I don't have any tattoos and don't plan on ever getting any. Yet I will still age.
Tattoos when you're old just mean that when you were younger you were awesome. Or I guess this guy could have gotten them last week. He didn't tell me. He did tell me that the groceries I was purchasing were all available at the dollar store a couple blocks over for just a dollar. I thanked him, and then hid my shame with pretend fixation on a National Enquirer cover. It said Demi Moore was trying to commit suicide. I wonder if Demi Moore ever thinks "Wonder what the National Enquirer is saying about me!" Probably not.
Then I walked my overpriced groceries next door to the drugstore to get band-aids.
Unnecessary detail coming up: I needed them because I have a scab the size of North Carolina right between my eyes, that would have healed weeks ago if I could stop touching it. I've been considering a dog cone or constantly wearing mittens, but then I thought of band-aids, and decided to pick some up a the drugstore.
For reasons I no longer remember I ended up in the first aid aisle, absentmindedly picking up all of the creams and reading the labels. I jumped when I heard a voice behind me.
"If you're looking for hydrocortisone don't waste money on the name brand! Look on the back - they've all got the same ingredients!" The man who owned the voice picked up a box and deftly flipped it around "This one's 3%, cheap, perfect, that's what I want!" and threw it confidently in a basket already filled with medications.
This is actually one of my favorite topics, so I jumped right in. "It's all a marketing game," I explained. "I bet you anything there's just one big factory out there making one kind of cream, and all the companies need to do is decide how they're going to package it and market it to make the most profit."
He liked this idea but topped it: "I got bitten by a poisonous spider last night and now my body is filled with its venom." I asked whether it had been in his house or whether he had been out in the wilderness, and crossed my fingers and silently chanted please say wilderness please say wilderness please say wilderness please say "Right in my own home!" he answered and the drugstore changed the radio from oldies to sinister without missing a beat. "It bit me while I was sleeping. You don't like thinking about THAT when you go to bed at night."
I can definitely work with the topic "Things you don't like to think about at night" and specifically remembered a youtube video I'd seen where someone put a vibrating machine in an old house. The vibrations bothered the spiders who were hiding unseen in the thick hollow walls and came pouring out of air vents and cracks by the thousands.
But I was obviously playing way out of my league and couldn't imagine the stories this guy would tell to top my spiders-in-the-walls video, so I bit my tongue. The momentary pain reminded me why I was there, and I picked up a box of bandages.
"Ah, Band-aids!" (what a great way to start a sentence!) "I buy a lot of those." he continued. He explained that he was 62 and bruised very easily, and pointed out a large raisin-colored spot on the back of his hand. "I'll just be doing things..." (he half-heartedly mimed reaching for a box of band-aids) and if my hand gets tapped it will bruise." I asked if band-aids helped prevent bruises - as soon as I said it the idea seemed stupid, but I couldn't think of any other reason.
"No, I wear them to cover my bruises when I go out, because I don't like people having to look at them." He looked down sadly at his hand, and the excitement of talking about spiders and how marketers were screwing with us was gone. My raisin-friend sighed. "I hope that doesn't happen to you when you're older."
Something about a man hoping a complete stranger would be able to avoid all the inevitable pitfalls of age, just because she had interesting opinions on pharmaceutical products and a healthy respect for spiders was so sweet to me that I couldn't think of a better response besides something stupid like "It happens to everyone." Would you hope the same thing for someone so clueless and naive? I remember when I was 15 my younger sisters would always tell me how disgusting my pubescent self was. "You're so gross! You're covered in spots!" and I would think just you wait. Just. You. Wait. The point is I'm not half as good as this man is.
And then I wished my scab were twice as big, because even though that would make it so large it would obscure my vision, it could remind him that these things don't matter. I had a scab the size of a state known for its fantastic wood furniture right in the middle of my face, and now that I'm at home typing I have an off-brand band-aid in the middle of my face, and at the end of the day that is not the most important thing about me. It's a shame that people see our bruises and our tattoos and our horrible self-infliced facial disfigurations before they have time to ask us what we know about spiders or what we're most scared of or what our favorite aisle in the drugstore is. Everyone has things they're not proud of about the way people see them.
And according to most people, all of these things are caused by tattoos.
Hello everyone who skipped to the bottom. Here is a song by the Magnetic Fields. If you're waiting for some water to boil you might want to watch that instead of the visuals in this video.
And here is me with a band-aid on my face. You probably don't get the reference.
A lot of my friends have awesome-looking tattoos, and given the permanence of tattoos I'm assuming they'll still have them when they're old. People always say "oh you think tattoos look cool, wait until you're old and saggy and covered in tattoos - what will your grandchildren say?
Here's the thing about that.
A lot of my friends have awesome-looking butts.
Which will also become saggy. A lot of my friends have awesome-looking hair, which will either turn white and inexplicably short and fluffy, or just disappear. And did you know that your nose keeps growing your entire life? According to my albeit limited research, none of these things are caused by tattoos. You can get old and saggy with tattoos, or old and saggy without them. And I don't know about you, but I don't much care what my grandchildren have to say. I'm going to have things to tell them.
I'll use this paragraph to mention that I don't have any tattoos and don't plan on ever getting any. Yet I will still age.
Tattoos when you're old just mean that when you were younger you were awesome. Or I guess this guy could have gotten them last week. He didn't tell me. He did tell me that the groceries I was purchasing were all available at the dollar store a couple blocks over for just a dollar. I thanked him, and then hid my shame with pretend fixation on a National Enquirer cover. It said Demi Moore was trying to commit suicide. I wonder if Demi Moore ever thinks "Wonder what the National Enquirer is saying about me!" Probably not.
Then I walked my overpriced groceries next door to the drugstore to get band-aids.
Unnecessary detail coming up: I needed them because I have a scab the size of North Carolina right between my eyes, that would have healed weeks ago if I could stop touching it. I've been considering a dog cone or constantly wearing mittens, but then I thought of band-aids, and decided to pick some up a the drugstore.
For reasons I no longer remember I ended up in the first aid aisle, absentmindedly picking up all of the creams and reading the labels. I jumped when I heard a voice behind me.
"If you're looking for hydrocortisone don't waste money on the name brand! Look on the back - they've all got the same ingredients!" The man who owned the voice picked up a box and deftly flipped it around "This one's 3%, cheap, perfect, that's what I want!" and threw it confidently in a basket already filled with medications.
This is actually one of my favorite topics, so I jumped right in. "It's all a marketing game," I explained. "I bet you anything there's just one big factory out there making one kind of cream, and all the companies need to do is decide how they're going to package it and market it to make the most profit."
He liked this idea but topped it: "I got bitten by a poisonous spider last night and now my body is filled with its venom." I asked whether it had been in his house or whether he had been out in the wilderness, and crossed my fingers and silently chanted please say wilderness please say wilderness please say wilderness please say "Right in my own home!" he answered and the drugstore changed the radio from oldies to sinister without missing a beat. "It bit me while I was sleeping. You don't like thinking about THAT when you go to bed at night."
I can definitely work with the topic "Things you don't like to think about at night" and specifically remembered a youtube video I'd seen where someone put a vibrating machine in an old house. The vibrations bothered the spiders who were hiding unseen in the thick hollow walls and came pouring out of air vents and cracks by the thousands.
But I was obviously playing way out of my league and couldn't imagine the stories this guy would tell to top my spiders-in-the-walls video, so I bit my tongue. The momentary pain reminded me why I was there, and I picked up a box of bandages.
"Ah, Band-aids!" (what a great way to start a sentence!) "I buy a lot of those." he continued. He explained that he was 62 and bruised very easily, and pointed out a large raisin-colored spot on the back of his hand. "I'll just be doing things..." (he half-heartedly mimed reaching for a box of band-aids) and if my hand gets tapped it will bruise." I asked if band-aids helped prevent bruises - as soon as I said it the idea seemed stupid, but I couldn't think of any other reason.
"No, I wear them to cover my bruises when I go out, because I don't like people having to look at them." He looked down sadly at his hand, and the excitement of talking about spiders and how marketers were screwing with us was gone. My raisin-friend sighed. "I hope that doesn't happen to you when you're older."
Something about a man hoping a complete stranger would be able to avoid all the inevitable pitfalls of age, just because she had interesting opinions on pharmaceutical products and a healthy respect for spiders was so sweet to me that I couldn't think of a better response besides something stupid like "It happens to everyone." Would you hope the same thing for someone so clueless and naive? I remember when I was 15 my younger sisters would always tell me how disgusting my pubescent self was. "You're so gross! You're covered in spots!" and I would think just you wait. Just. You. Wait. The point is I'm not half as good as this man is.
And then I wished my scab were twice as big, because even though that would make it so large it would obscure my vision, it could remind him that these things don't matter. I had a scab the size of a state known for its fantastic wood furniture right in the middle of my face, and now that I'm at home typing I have an off-brand band-aid in the middle of my face, and at the end of the day that is not the most important thing about me. It's a shame that people see our bruises and our tattoos and our horrible self-infliced facial disfigurations before they have time to ask us what we know about spiders or what we're most scared of or what our favorite aisle in the drugstore is. Everyone has things they're not proud of about the way people see them.
And according to most people, all of these things are caused by tattoos.
Hello everyone who skipped to the bottom. Here is a song by the Magnetic Fields. If you're waiting for some water to boil you might want to watch that instead of the visuals in this video.
And here is me with a band-aid on my face. You probably don't get the reference.
November 24, 2011
I brought you something special
It's Thanksgiving, which means a year ago I was explaining to my French flatmates what early American settlers did to the Native Americans while they stared at me in horror and disbelief.
"I'm sure they didn't know the blankets had small pox. I'm sure there was some sort of... misunderstanding. Americans would never do that on purpose."
"They would." I answered. "And they did."
I just realized this might explain why all the candy I brought back for my flatmates after the holidays went uneaten.
And we've arrived at Reason You Should Travel #51: if you don't give the world a way to see Americans, I'm going to do it for you. And you might not like the way I do it.
The best turkey in the world would be a sorry consolation for not getting to spend Thanksgiving in France with amazing flatmates who put up with my antics. But the best chicken in the world would be just fine.
"I'm sure they didn't know the blankets had small pox. I'm sure there was some sort of... misunderstanding. Americans would never do that on purpose."
"They would." I answered. "And they did."
I just realized this might explain why all the candy I brought back for my flatmates after the holidays went uneaten.
And we've arrived at Reason You Should Travel #51: if you don't give the world a way to see Americans, I'm going to do it for you. And you might not like the way I do it.
The best turkey in the world would be a sorry consolation for not getting to spend Thanksgiving in France with amazing flatmates who put up with my antics. But the best chicken in the world would be just fine.
November 19, 2011
He just wants to be close to you, but he can't, because his legs don't work so well.
Have you thought about enough sad things today?
I hadn't, so I searched for adoptable senior dogs in my area. Life has not been fair to these dogs. And animal shelters keep the trend going by giving them temporary names like Mufasa, Gibble, Laverne, and Rasputin.
I hadn't, so I searched for adoptable senior dogs in my area. Life has not been fair to these dogs. And animal shelters keep the trend going by giving them temporary names like Mufasa, Gibble, Laverne, and Rasputin.
November 16, 2011
No one likes them so they must be good for you.
Two more running stories.
I was running by a yard that had an unleashed chihuahua in it, who felt threatened enough to start barking and take off running toward me. The exciting thing about an angry chihuahua running toward you is you have no idea what is going to happen, but you know it can't be that bad. The combination of thrill and safety is the best feeling in the world.
The apricot-sized dog latched his lumpy gross self onto my right shoe, and held on for a couple paces before losing his grip and flying off behind me, and once he realized his mouth was free again he kept barking. He didn't even leave teeth-prints.
Goodness I can't stand chihuahuas. I really love dogs, but I've done some research and chihuahuas are actually in the rat family, so not standing them is ok. My research consists entirely of one incident where a chihuahua bit my shoe.
The apricot-sized dog latched his lumpy gross self onto my right shoe, and held on for a couple paces before losing his grip and flying off behind me, and once he realized his mouth was free again he kept barking. He didn't even leave teeth-prints.
Goodness I can't stand chihuahuas. I really love dogs, but I've done some research and chihuahuas are actually in the rat family, so not standing them is ok. My research consists entirely of one incident where a chihuahua bit my shoe.
And then today, a squirrel threw a pinecone at me. He missed by a lot, but if I had been wearing my heart rate monitor I'm pretty sure it would have exploded.
October 26, 2011
why I run fast
Yesterday on my neighbors' (real) lawn there were no fewer than 100 huge black crows, just staring at me as I sprinted by.
Crows here are about the size of dogs here.
Crows here are about the size of dogs here.
October 24, 2011
how I manage to embarrass myself before seven am
Last night one of the girls I babysit (a lot of people have been asking if it's cool or not cool for 24-year-old college graduates to babysit so I'll clear this up right now: it's very cool.) asked if I would read her a bedtime story. Since I love reading and since I was pretty exhausted from an hour pretending to be a money-laundering vegetarian FBI agent who worked at a five-star restaurant, I said I would read any book she wanted.
So she she pulled out the big guns and grabbed High School Musical: Our Yearbook!. Usually when asked to read a book this terrible to a child, I'll make up my own improved story that loosely follows the pictures. But there was something so train-wreck fascinating about a multiple-chapter book that followed a Disney movie so religiously that I read every single word to her. With voices. This isn't the embarrassing part yet.
This is not the cover but it looks just as bad.
Then last night I dreamed the entire plot of High School Musical: Our Yearbook!. For those of you who haven't read the fabulous book or seen the movie it's supposedly based on, Troy (played by Zack Efron) couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to try out for the musical, because theater rehearsal would really cramp his style when he should be practicing basketball (Go Wildcats!) and it would really be such a devastating loss to the world of theater and the world of sports if he quit either, and if you're wondering if I'm at the embarrassing part yet, I'm not.
When my alarm went off, I HIT SNOOZE just so I could go back to sleep and see if Troy would follow his heart and try out for the musical.
And that's how you embarrass yourself before seven am.
So she she pulled out the big guns and grabbed High School Musical: Our Yearbook!. Usually when asked to read a book this terrible to a child, I'll make up my own improved story that loosely follows the pictures. But there was something so train-wreck fascinating about a multiple-chapter book that followed a Disney movie so religiously that I read every single word to her. With voices. This isn't the embarrassing part yet.
This is not the cover but it looks just as bad.
Then last night I dreamed the entire plot of High School Musical: Our Yearbook!. For those of you who haven't read the fabulous book or seen the movie it's supposedly based on, Troy (played by Zack Efron) couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to try out for the musical, because theater rehearsal would really cramp his style when he should be practicing basketball (Go Wildcats!) and it would really be such a devastating loss to the world of theater and the world of sports if he quit either, and if you're wondering if I'm at the embarrassing part yet, I'm not.
When my alarm went off, I HIT SNOOZE just so I could go back to sleep and see if Troy would follow his heart and try out for the musical.
And that's how you embarrass yourself before seven am.
see people they don't understand
What if there were a prostitute that was really good at magic tricks? And she would say "Is THIS your card?" and she would light the deck on fire and pull your card out of the pile of ashes, completely intact, but people would just yell "Take your clothes off!"
It would be too bad because I bet they're really good magic tricks, she's just got the wrong audience.
It would be too bad because I bet they're really good magic tricks, she's just got the wrong audience.
October 21, 2011
is there grass in heaven?
Here's a tour very few people have been on: let's visit the disturbed mind of the guy who was evicted from my apartment before I moved in.
The one who scratched his genius musings into the walls of my bedroom.
Sometimes I wonder if they're some sort of code, that if I deciphered would lead me to a buried treasure.
Who knows what sort of things he might have stashed.
We owe the fact that we have brand-new carpeting to him. And I cover the creepiest scratches with my own notes. Like this one for my roommate that will make you glad you're not my roommate:
I changed the name of the place I ran to because it's the best route and I don't want it to get crowded. With stalkers who will tie me to train tracks.
The one who scratched his genius musings into the walls of my bedroom.
Sometimes I wonder if they're some sort of code, that if I deciphered would lead me to a buried treasure.
Who knows what sort of things he might have stashed.
We owe the fact that we have brand-new carpeting to him. And I cover the creepiest scratches with my own notes. Like this one for my roommate that will make you glad you're not my roommate:
I changed the name of the place I ran to because it's the best route and I don't want it to get crowded. With stalkers who will tie me to train tracks.
October 19, 2011
karma police
What if every time something good happened to you, something bad happened to someone else?
I know it's the plot of countless television shows but here is something almost as cheesy: the other day I was out with friends and smelled burning, and I knew it meant I had left my hair straightener turned on at home. I knew this because I actually don't have a sense of smell, and only have phantom smells when I'm stressed, when someone asks me to smell something and my brain invents what it might smell like, and in this case when I'm using my sixth sense.
I don't believe in many magical things, even though I'm curious about aliens and would love to hear any ghost stories if you know any. But I do believe in my simultaneous inability to smell the chicken I'm eating and ability to smell my apartment burning down a city over, because that is not magic that is just what happens.
When I got home everything was hot but nothing was on fire yet, so I said a quick prayer to the gods of hair appliances, turned off my straightener, and forgot about the whole thing. Until today when THREE fire trucks rushed down my street because an apartment a few blocks over was on fire. I think I used up all the good luck our neighborhood had and now we're fresh out.
Please tell me about any personal experiences you've had with ghosts in the comments.
Also, if you know any names of gods of hair appliances I would love to hear them. The only ones I can remember are Chi, the all-powerful god of volume and Conair, the benevolent goddess of shine. I really should have studied more in high school, you never know when these things are going to come up.
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Big hair is the worst. If the god of volume demanded an offering I'd give him a moldy piece of toast with Marmite smeared on it.
I know it's the plot of countless television shows but here is something almost as cheesy: the other day I was out with friends and smelled burning, and I knew it meant I had left my hair straightener turned on at home. I knew this because I actually don't have a sense of smell, and only have phantom smells when I'm stressed, when someone asks me to smell something and my brain invents what it might smell like, and in this case when I'm using my sixth sense.
I don't believe in many magical things, even though I'm curious about aliens and would love to hear any ghost stories if you know any. But I do believe in my simultaneous inability to smell the chicken I'm eating and ability to smell my apartment burning down a city over, because that is not magic that is just what happens.
When I got home everything was hot but nothing was on fire yet, so I said a quick prayer to the gods of hair appliances, turned off my straightener, and forgot about the whole thing. Until today when THREE fire trucks rushed down my street because an apartment a few blocks over was on fire. I think I used up all the good luck our neighborhood had and now we're fresh out.
Please tell me about any personal experiences you've had with ghosts in the comments.
Also, if you know any names of gods of hair appliances I would love to hear them. The only ones I can remember are Chi, the all-powerful god of volume and Conair, the benevolent goddess of shine. I really should have studied more in high school, you never know when these things are going to come up.
Big hair is the worst. If the god of volume demanded an offering I'd give him a moldy piece of toast with Marmite smeared on it.
October 18, 2011
who's cool now?
Here's what I usually look like on my way to work.
I know what you're thinking, "How could she possibly improve on this?" Think no longer:
This is a dramatization of how it would look if my tricked-out helmet somehow hit me in the face. Check out that lightning bolt!
Now maybe fewer children will mock me mercilessly. I wouldsay type that with so much more confidence if this morning two people hadn't yelled "Hey nice helmet, loser!" from the side of the road. Do you not see these lightning bolts? I am made for speed.
I know what you're thinking, "How could she possibly improve on this?" Think no longer:
This is a dramatization of how it would look if my tricked-out helmet somehow hit me in the face. Check out that lightning bolt!
Now maybe fewer children will mock me mercilessly. I would
October 14, 2011
I know I'm obnoxious
It can only be annoying to hear this but, my job is so fun that Fridays don't have the sparkle they used to. Proof: garbage pickup is on Fridays and I remember to take the trash to the curb about once every four weeks.
I still love weekends though, because when I don't have time to do laundry no one has a good week, and because all four of the local animal shelters have adoption events on Saturdays. There's nothing like hitting those up back to back to back to back in a clean shirt.
What is your favorite day? Does it involve homeless dogs?
I still love weekends though, because when I don't have time to do laundry no one has a good week, and because all four of the local animal shelters have adoption events on Saturdays. There's nothing like hitting those up back to back to back to back in a clean shirt.
What is your favorite day? Does it involve homeless dogs?
October 12, 2011
next time I'll just take my chances
Is it safe to assume that a friendly, grungy, slightly-intoxicated man camped out at a picnic table in front of a grocery store is homeless? Today I almost bought a sandwich for a gentleman that fit this description, but then I realized I wasn't sure he was homeless, and he hadn't done anything to solicit food donations. In fact maybe he had just eaten a HUGE meal, and was so exhausted from the sheer quantity of food he had just passed out on a picnic table in front of Vons, and the idea of a sandwich would just be insane and disgusting to him?
After typing that I realize how ridiculous it is, and I should have just bought the sandwich.
But, to the countless homeless people who read my blog:
Even if you're too intoxicated to write a sign or you don't want to seem desperate - take it from a girl who stood in line at a homeless shelter for thirty minutes because she thought it was an indie rock concert - subtlety is not always the best option.
And to my non-homeless readers who have been given a sandwich by a well-meaning stranger:
Nothing I've worn has ever gotten me a free sandwich, so you must be doing something right.
Not a super relevant photo but I really need to start adding more pictures to my blog. This was one of my top ten meals in Marseille - my sister and I ate outside at a sidewalk café on one of the sunniest most beautiful days of the year. Then we went swimming in the sea. Today I went to Vons. La-di-da.
After typing that I realize how ridiculous it is, and I should have just bought the sandwich.
But, to the countless homeless people who read my blog:
Even if you're too intoxicated to write a sign or you don't want to seem desperate - take it from a girl who stood in line at a homeless shelter for thirty minutes because she thought it was an indie rock concert - subtlety is not always the best option.
And to my non-homeless readers who have been given a sandwich by a well-meaning stranger:
Nothing I've worn has ever gotten me a free sandwich, so you must be doing something right.
Not a super relevant photo but I really need to start adding more pictures to my blog. This was one of my top ten meals in Marseille - my sister and I ate outside at a sidewalk café on one of the sunniest most beautiful days of the year. Then we went swimming in the sea. Today I went to Vons. La-di-da.
October 10, 2011
if Marseille were a state, they would be its state bird.
TIME MACHINE POST
It was pouring today, and in a concious effort not to notice the waterlogged newspapers floating over soggy bagettes and liquid dog waste on the ground, I noticed that all of the pigeons had disappeared. Where do they go?
And they're missing out. Because seeing a pigeon in the rain is probably the only time I would feed it.
People fall into three groups: pigeons-lovers, pigeon-dislikers, and pigeon-haters.
Pigeon-lovers might be more gross than pigeons themselves. I don't know what is wrong with these people, but they often buy an entire baguette at lunch just to feed to those disgusting animals. I can only assume they were orphaned and raised by birds, or are retired pilots. Hey you people - I have seen a pigeon eat a plastic drinking straw. You do not need to buy them baguettes.
Pigeon-haters often call them rats with wings. And I think that's going too far. Because if there's one thing Marseille has more of than pigeons, it's rats. Rats go in your house. And when they get run over by cars, their bodies flatten but rigor mortis makes their tails stand straight up.
So there's a vote for pigeons I guess.
It was pouring today, and in a concious effort not to notice the waterlogged newspapers floating over soggy bagettes and liquid dog waste on the ground, I noticed that all of the pigeons had disappeared. Where do they go?
And they're missing out. Because seeing a pigeon in the rain is probably the only time I would feed it.
People fall into three groups: pigeons-lovers, pigeon-dislikers, and pigeon-haters.
Pigeon-lovers might be more gross than pigeons themselves. I don't know what is wrong with these people, but they often buy an entire baguette at lunch just to feed to those disgusting animals. I can only assume they were orphaned and raised by birds, or are retired pilots. Hey you people - I have seen a pigeon eat a plastic drinking straw. You do not need to buy them baguettes.
Pigeon-haters often call them rats with wings. And I think that's going too far. Because if there's one thing Marseille has more of than pigeons, it's rats. Rats go in your house. And when they get run over by cars, their bodies flatten but rigor mortis makes their tails stand straight up.
So there's a vote for pigeons I guess.
October 3, 2011
Changes color in sun!
TIME MACHINE POST
Look out world - it's April, it's sunny, and my skin is changing color. And there are four hundred French children that have four hundred questions about it.
This isn't the first time my genetics have fascinated French children. I have a freckle on my arm that kindergarteners try to lick for good luck. I have done everything in my power to discourage this, including wearing sweaters in extreme heat, and doing a lot of dancing where my arms are above my head, but I think the fact that it's hard to get to makes it even luckier.
Anyway, color-changing skin freaks people here out.
Alright, admittedly it's kind of freaking me out too.
French people do not seem to tan. They start out dark, or they tan very slowly, or they don't consider 80 degrees warm enough and constant sunlight sunny enough for skin to get darker.
Are you wearing make-up?
Have you been on vacation?
BEACH? (This one was in English! Accompanied by putting both his hands behind his head and smiling happily.)
Oh, you've put on some tanning cream?
The fake tan looks great on you!
Why is my skin changing color? Because we live on the Mediterranean. The weather here is pretty-close-to-literally tropical. No one believes me until I show them my watch tanline. Then they say "Wow!" which means "So she isn't lying, she's just some freak of nature."
And yes, that makes licking me even more enticing.
Look out world - it's April, it's sunny, and my skin is changing color. And there are four hundred French children that have four hundred questions about it.
This isn't the first time my genetics have fascinated French children. I have a freckle on my arm that kindergarteners try to lick for good luck. I have done everything in my power to discourage this, including wearing sweaters in extreme heat, and doing a lot of dancing where my arms are above my head, but I think the fact that it's hard to get to makes it even luckier.
Anyway, color-changing skin freaks people here out.
Alright, admittedly it's kind of freaking me out too.
French people do not seem to tan. They start out dark, or they tan very slowly, or they don't consider 80 degrees warm enough and constant sunlight sunny enough for skin to get darker.
Are you wearing make-up?
Have you been on vacation?
BEACH? (This one was in English! Accompanied by putting both his hands behind his head and smiling happily.)
Oh, you've put on some tanning cream?
The fake tan looks great on you!
Why is my skin changing color? Because we live on the Mediterranean. The weather here is pretty-close-to-literally tropical. No one believes me until I show them my watch tanline. Then they say "Wow!" which means "So she isn't lying, she's just some freak of nature."
And yes, that makes licking me even more enticing.
September 30, 2011
I always have the last laugh
Do you remember when you were little, when adults would laugh at something that didn't make sense, and when you asked what was going on they would just say "You'll understand when you're older"?
The problem with that is that by the time you're "older" you may have forgotten the joke.
Which is why as a child, I wrote them all down.
Seven-year-old Brooke, making a bracelet out of blades of grass: Dad, is there grass in heaven?
Dad: Most stoners would say so.
Twenty-four-year-old Brooke, reading this note fifteen years later: HA. GRASS! I get it.
The problem with that is that by the time you're "older" you may have forgotten the joke.
Which is why as a child, I wrote them all down.
Seven-year-old Brooke, making a bracelet out of blades of grass: Dad, is there grass in heaven?
Dad: Most stoners would say so.
Twenty-four-year-old Brooke, reading this note fifteen years later: HA. GRASS! I get it.
September 29, 2011
you may already be a winner
So lately people have been celebrating their France-i-versaries. I'm never one to miss an opportunity to be two weeks late for something so here goes: a year and two weeks ago I showed up in Marseille, terrified of the sea, not fluent in French, and unaware that I had a penchant for rats and MacDo potatoes.
It still amazes me that I managed to move to the other side of the world, get a cell phone, sign a rent agreement, and find foods to eat. There were times when the internet didn't work and I couldn't call my sister at the time I said I would, when the metro shut down and I had to walk four hours, when the guy at the bad postcard office wouldn't sell me stamps because I was an American, the time I was sprinting through the alleys of Paris at 5:30 am with everything I own, but the point is - I kept myself alive for a year. Am I an adult?
It still amazes me that I managed to move to the other side of the world, get a cell phone, sign a rent agreement, and find foods to eat. There were times when the internet didn't work and I couldn't call my sister at the time I said I would, when the metro shut down and I had to walk four hours, when the guy at the bad postcard office wouldn't sell me stamps because I was an American, the time I was sprinting through the alleys of Paris at 5:30 am with everything I own, but the point is - I kept myself alive for a year. Am I an adult?
September 27, 2011
at least the baby will have beautiful green eyes
A couple months ago in France I was having a perfectly normal afternoon where I found myself sitting in a park reading while a French man in this eighties was telling my why no Arabic people should be allowed in the country. He was just getting to the part where they will kill us all in our sleep when he stopped mid sentence with a gasp.
"You have green eyes. Why didn't I notice sooner that you have green eyes! Your eyes are the most beautiful thing in the world. And you have such a beautiful smile. Great, American teeth! All you need to do is start exercising a little..."
Maybe in someone else's life this would be the big turning point where they stopped eating a wheel of Brie with a jar of Nutella every morning for breakfast, but for me it wasn't.
No, if I were to have such a turning point it would have been a couple months earlier, when a woman thought I was pregnant. By that I don't mean she asked "When are you due?" or "Is it a boy or a girl" I mean she came up to me, rubbed my stomach, and told me the little munchkin was going to be the luckiest kid in the world to have a mom like me.
What do you say to people when this happens? There is no handbook for this.
"You have green eyes. Why didn't I notice sooner that you have green eyes! Your eyes are the most beautiful thing in the world. And you have such a beautiful smile. Great, American teeth! All you need to do is start exercising a little..."
Maybe in someone else's life this would be the big turning point where they stopped eating a wheel of Brie with a jar of Nutella every morning for breakfast, but for me it wasn't.
No, if I were to have such a turning point it would have been a couple months earlier, when a woman thought I was pregnant. By that I don't mean she asked "When are you due?" or "Is it a boy or a girl" I mean she came up to me, rubbed my stomach, and told me the little munchkin was going to be the luckiest kid in the world to have a mom like me.
What do you say to people when this happens? There is no handbook for this.
September 24, 2011
why I run
There is a house a couple miles from mine that has astroturf instead of grass, and this morning I finally saw the inhabitants, a classy older couple. He was wearing nice slacks and a dress shirt and she was sporting sporting a silk blouse and a jeweled bracelet, and they were brushing dead leaves off the crayon-green plastic grass using a broom and a dustpan.
September 22, 2011
when you come around
Here are some of the great dogs I work with. They don't actually do that much work. And one of them isn't great. But if you're a dog all is forgiven.
September 21, 2011
I think I can safely say I've arrived
We interrupt this period of not-blogging to announce that if you google "ode to snacks" Sky Machines is the second result. People who find my blog that way do not usually ever visit again.
September 12, 2011
THEN I used the path tool and created a shape on a new layer
For the last couple days I have been doing less thinking
and more thinking LIKE THIS
And partly because it's not as easy to articulate these thoughts and mostly because I know no one else cares, I don't put them on this blog. But for the half a person who does care - today is your lucky day! Here are some places I post about design:
type to me is a collection of typography I like (I warned you this wouldn't be interesting)
a practical bestiary is where I post cool layouts
and whale sharks is advertising, design, and communication arts
I guess the takeaway point is, I like a lot of cool things, but I also like design things. And maybe you're thinking "but design is cool!" but most of my dreams lately are about Adobe Illustrator, and so far no one has been interested in hearing about them. Now I'm off to watch some more web coding tutorials.
and more thinking LIKE THIS
And partly because it's not as easy to articulate these thoughts and mostly because I know no one else cares, I don't put them on this blog. But for the half a person who does care - today is your lucky day! Here are some places I post about design:
type to me is a collection of typography I like (I warned you this wouldn't be interesting)
a practical bestiary is where I post cool layouts
and whale sharks is advertising, design, and communication arts
I guess the takeaway point is, I like a lot of cool things, but I also like design things. And maybe you're thinking "but design is cool!" but most of my dreams lately are about Adobe Illustrator, and so far no one has been interested in hearing about them. Now I'm off to watch some more web coding tutorials.
September 9, 2011
time travel, construction, and one-eyed dogs
This summer I was going through some of my old high school notebooks and found a page where I had summed up a day with this phrase:
"It was so sweet I would have cried if I were someone who cries."
I first started experimenting with time travel fifteen years ago, when I discovered I could write little notes that said "Dear 10-year-old Brooke. Hi this is 9-year-old Brooke. You are reading this in the future! You are cool! You are 10 years old! I'm 9." Ten-year-old Brooke had a handful of visits from the past, but sixteen-year-old Brooke was bombarded with them. The week after my sixteenth birthday I opened a packet of about two-dozen letters I had written to my sixteen-year-old self, and they continued steadily throughout the year, because there were some where I wanted to write what had been going on "on this day x years ago." Thrilling. Most of them read like this:
Because everything has me in tears lately. Happy things, sad things, so-un-emotional-it-somehow-IS-emotional things. The ultimate proof of what a mess I am is that I get choked up every time I watch this video.
Sweet, sweet man. He just wants to take his cousin to California adventure. His Disney Dollars are going to expire! Goodness I'm tearing up just typing that.
I have a soft spot for middle-aged men who don't have everything under control. I also have a soft spot for dogs missing eyes, people dropping things, old photos, when someone laughs at their own joke and no one else does, college students who practice kissing their arm because they've never kissed a girl, lost cats, Apple ads, old people around a lot of young people that aren't paying attention to them, women making fake Uncrustable sandwiches to make it seem like they can afford real Uncrustables, commercials where people make coffee and share a special moment, people randomly running into friends, grocery store cashiers who are surrounded by people all day but no one talks to them, a single mom going to Target and buying a ton of board games and asking her teenage kids to play them with her but they won't and the board games were really expensive and she can't find the receipt, and spoons that are alone in the dish drainer.
I don't think twenty-four-year-old Brooke has gotten a time-traveling letter. Probably because it would have read like this:
"It was so sweet I would have cried if I were someone who cries."
I first started experimenting with time travel fifteen years ago, when I discovered I could write little notes that said "Dear 10-year-old Brooke. Hi this is 9-year-old Brooke. You are reading this in the future! You are cool! You are 10 years old! I'm 9." Ten-year-old Brooke had a handful of visits from the past, but sixteen-year-old Brooke was bombarded with them. The week after my sixteenth birthday I opened a packet of about two-dozen letters I had written to my sixteen-year-old self, and they continued steadily throughout the year, because there were some where I wanted to write what had been going on "on this day x years ago." Thrilling. Most of them read like this:
Dear 16-year-old Brooke,
WOW you are SIXTEEN! I can't believe that. SIXTEEN! I bet it feels normal to you though, lol. I bet you are really pretty.
Dear 16-year-old Brooke,
You are the coolest person I know because you are sixteen and I don't know you yet but I kind of do because I AM you, but four years younger! I wish I were just like you. Do you drive? Do you have a boyfriend? I bet you look really cool and have a lot of friends and I think you are so great.
Dear 16-year-old Brooke,
Hey wutz ^? (That's a cool way of saying "what's up" if you don't remember lol) You're sixteen, that's so cool. I want to marry someone who is really hot, and funny and super good looking and looks good.
Dear 16-year-old Brooke,Obviously these have never been as useful to me as they would have been to a child therapist. What WOULD be great would be if I could send letters backwards. I would constantly be writing them. I don't even know where I'd start on what to say to myself in high school, but I know I would throw in this note: Some day you are going to be the kind of person who cries.
Oh hi I'm 9 you are 16 do you have a boyfriend? Is he really really nice? Have you kissed him?
Because everything has me in tears lately. Happy things, sad things, so-un-emotional-it-somehow-IS-emotional things. The ultimate proof of what a mess I am is that I get choked up every time I watch this video.
Sweet, sweet man. He just wants to take his cousin to California adventure. His Disney Dollars are going to expire! Goodness I'm tearing up just typing that.
I have a soft spot for middle-aged men who don't have everything under control. I also have a soft spot for dogs missing eyes, people dropping things, old photos, when someone laughs at their own joke and no one else does, college students who practice kissing their arm because they've never kissed a girl, lost cats, Apple ads, old people around a lot of young people that aren't paying attention to them, women making fake Uncrustable sandwiches to make it seem like they can afford real Uncrustables, commercials where people make coffee and share a special moment, people randomly running into friends, grocery store cashiers who are surrounded by people all day but no one talks to them, a single mom going to Target and buying a ton of board games and asking her teenage kids to play them with her but they won't and the board games were really expensive and she can't find the receipt, and spoons that are alone in the dish drainer.
I don't think twenty-four-year-old Brooke has gotten a time-traveling letter. Probably because it would have read like this:
Dear 24-year-old Brooke
I know your eyesight is probably gone by now, but I'm assuming one of your grandchildren is reading this to you (please speak up her hearing is also really bad).
I hope your arthritis is doing ok and that you're not eating apples with worms in them and yelling that they're perfectly fine - it grosses everyone out and it can't be easy to eat apples when you don't have any teeth left.
Remember when you were sixteen? Did you say "Sweet Sixteen" when you were sixteen? I reminded you in several letters to say it because it seems like it would be a fun thing to say and you had an entire year to do it. I really hope you listened to that advice. Were you so pretty? Did you kiss a boy? Goodness. I can't wait to be sixteen.
September 7, 2011
start spreading the news
I already know why you're reading this.
You had a weird feeling just now, that something was different in the world, so you went to the world's numberone source of breaking news, Sky Machines.
You're going to be glad you did, because your instincts were dead on. After a month of sleeping on a (surprisingly comfortable) camping mattress, I broke down and...
PURCHASED A BED.
And while I was at it...
PURCHASED A DESK.
And a plant. She's already heard stories about what I've done to plants in the past. No, I haven't named her. Lately I'm trying to save every good name in the world because when I get a dog soon I don't want anyone to say, isn't that the same name you gave to a potted plant last year? In college I had two cactuses named Mary Kate and Ashley and I'm still kicking myself for wasting that one. When I complete the room with a fish maybe I'll give the two of them a pair of names. I think they'll get along because fish and plants have a similar IQ. No offense to plants.
If you skipped that last paragraph, welcome back. As I was saying, the combination of not needing to hunch over my tiny cardboard desk AND sleeping on a real mattress makes me feel twenty years younger.
When I was out running this morning (after a night of sleeping like a toddler) I saw a half-rotten broken bookshelf lying on the side of the road! Fabulous furniture is one of many perks of this new route I've been running. There are also palm trees, more dogs, and fewer groups of old men that sit together on benches and stare at people who run by.
When my roommate saw me coming up the stairs with it she didn't ask what on earth it was or why I left to go for a run and came home with it. In fact, she'd already told me a week ago that I should disinfect any trash I brought in the apartment. So all she had to say was "Good morning!" It's nice to have roommates who know you well. And the best part is that it's the perfect size for my room.
I turned it on its side because the top is missing. Considering the fact that delusional people are trying to sell used bookcases on Craigslist for $120, I think this is a steal. And according to LA curbside furniture laws, I could be right.
You had a weird feeling just now, that something was different in the world, so you went to the world's numberone source of breaking news, Sky Machines.
You're going to be glad you did, because your instincts were dead on. After a month of sleeping on a (surprisingly comfortable) camping mattress, I broke down and...
PURCHASED A BED.
And while I was at it...
PURCHASED A DESK.
And a plant. She's already heard stories about what I've done to plants in the past. No, I haven't named her. Lately I'm trying to save every good name in the world because when I get a dog soon I don't want anyone to say, isn't that the same name you gave to a potted plant last year? In college I had two cactuses named Mary Kate and Ashley and I'm still kicking myself for wasting that one. When I complete the room with a fish maybe I'll give the two of them a pair of names. I think they'll get along because fish and plants have a similar IQ. No offense to plants.
If you skipped that last paragraph, welcome back. As I was saying, the combination of not needing to hunch over my tiny cardboard desk AND sleeping on a real mattress makes me feel twenty years younger.
When I was out running this morning (after a night of sleeping like a toddler) I saw a half-rotten broken bookshelf lying on the side of the road! Fabulous furniture is one of many perks of this new route I've been running. There are also palm trees, more dogs, and fewer groups of old men that sit together on benches and stare at people who run by.
When my roommate saw me coming up the stairs with it she didn't ask what on earth it was or why I left to go for a run and came home with it. In fact, she'd already told me a week ago that I should disinfect any trash I brought in the apartment. So all she had to say was "Good morning!" It's nice to have roommates who know you well. And the best part is that it's the perfect size for my room.
I turned it on its side because the top is missing. Considering the fact that delusional people are trying to sell used bookcases on Craigslist for $120, I think this is a steal. And according to LA curbside furniture laws, I could be right.
September 5, 2011
add this to the list
While I was waiting in line for the bathroom at a Kanye concert the other night, a woman wearing bright green eye makeup started chatting with me. "Who knew there would be so much sun today!" she chirped. "I'm like totally red!"
If I ever make any friends it will be a miracle. Having this outfit wouldn't hurt my chances.
"Yeah," I answered. Cautiously. Because I have a bad reputation of saying awkward things around strangers. "You DO have a lot of color on your face... and I'm not just talking about your bright green eye makeup."
Then I weighed my post-gaffe options: high pitched fake laugher or staring intently at the paper towel dispenser. Staring won.
If I ever make any friends it will be a miracle. Having this outfit wouldn't hurt my chances.
September 2, 2011
why can't you just quietly pick your nose like the rest of us
You're not going to believe this, but in fourth grade I really liked writing.
And maybe I was decent at it, or maybe just because I liked it, or maybe because he was worried about how I was spending my free time, my fourth grade teacher assigned me to be Class Storyteller. It was supposedly a part of a district-wide writers/slave-laborers program, and the requirement was that every two weeks I would write a short piece of fiction and read it to the class.
If I can take a minute to make fun of a nine-year old, those were probably the worst stories that have ever been written in the history of the world. I remember one particularly rough morning my teacher reminded me that I was supposed to present in five minutes (after Recycling Tip of the Day), and I answered "Oh right of course! Could I take a second in the hall to practice reading it? And also could I borrow a couple blank sheets of paper and a pencil?" I don't know how other Class Storytellers were faring, but things were ugly in Room 18.
I still remember my fourth grade room number because we had a really catchy song about it. Every time I can't remember something important I realize it was probably supposed to go in the part of my brain that's being taken up by my fourth grade room number.
On a slightly-more-successful Class Storyteller day I read a tale about a suburban boy whose dog went missing over a school vacation. He spent most of the story looking for her, speculating about her kidnapping/death/murder/escape, only to find her in his backyard in the last paragraph, with a new litter of puppies. I hated dogs as a child, but had sat down to work on my writing assignment immediately after watching a similar plot on a made-for-tv movie. At the end I asked the classmates who were still awake if there were any questions.
One girl (probably Margaret) raised her hand. "At the beginning of the story you said that his dog went missing over spring break, but then a couple days later at the end of the story he said that he needed to find her soon because summer vacation was ending. Why is that?
I gave her a look that said "At the beginning of your sentence it seemed like you were complaining about the problematic logic and general disregard for congruent details in my story, but at the end of the sentence I realized you haven't written a story, but you're still complaining about mine. Why is that?"
And out loud I said "Good question Margaret. Does anyone else have a question?"
I don't remember being Class Storyteller for very long.
And maybe I was decent at it, or maybe just because I liked it, or maybe because he was worried about how I was spending my free time, my fourth grade teacher assigned me to be Class Storyteller. It was supposedly a part of a district-wide writers/slave-laborers program, and the requirement was that every two weeks I would write a short piece of fiction and read it to the class.
If I can take a minute to make fun of a nine-year old, those were probably the worst stories that have ever been written in the history of the world. I remember one particularly rough morning my teacher reminded me that I was supposed to present in five minutes (after Recycling Tip of the Day), and I answered "Oh right of course! Could I take a second in the hall to practice reading it? And also could I borrow a couple blank sheets of paper and a pencil?" I don't know how other Class Storytellers were faring, but things were ugly in Room 18.
I still remember my fourth grade room number because we had a really catchy song about it. Every time I can't remember something important I realize it was probably supposed to go in the part of my brain that's being taken up by my fourth grade room number.
On a slightly-more-successful Class Storyteller day I read a tale about a suburban boy whose dog went missing over a school vacation. He spent most of the story looking for her, speculating about her kidnapping/death/murder/escape, only to find her in his backyard in the last paragraph, with a new litter of puppies. I hated dogs as a child, but had sat down to work on my writing assignment immediately after watching a similar plot on a made-for-tv movie. At the end I asked the classmates who were still awake if there were any questions.
One girl (probably Margaret) raised her hand. "At the beginning of the story you said that his dog went missing over spring break, but then a couple days later at the end of the story he said that he needed to find her soon because summer vacation was ending. Why is that?
I gave her a look that said "At the beginning of your sentence it seemed like you were complaining about the problematic logic and general disregard for congruent details in my story, but at the end of the sentence I realized you haven't written a story, but you're still complaining about mine. Why is that?"
And out loud I said "Good question Margaret. Does anyone else have a question?"
I don't remember being Class Storyteller for very long.
August 31, 2011
we collided
If you have spare room in your brain or heart or schedule, I suggest you start reading Craigslist missed connections.
Some things I've learned:
ONE. If you're a gay guy looking for love, go to the gym! That seems to be THE hotspot for m4m missed connections. This is a world I know next to nothing about, being not a guy, not gay, and most of all never going to the gym. But hopefully that advice can help someone.
TWO. If men aren't your style but you love tunes AND the legal system, there are some fiiiiine ladies at the Inglewood courthouse!
Lol but seriously,
THREE. I love looking at these missed connection illustrations.
FOUR TO A THOUSAND. The overwhelming feeling I get from missed connections, is that it really should be called Missed Social Cues.
The girl in the above illustration made a point of mentioning she had a boyfriend? Girls: if that is how you flirt it's a bad strategy. Guys: that is not how people flirt. Most posts read something like "You're a cashier at Whole Foods and I know you were into me because you asked if I wanted a bag. You have great legs. I didn't get a chance to get your number." Yeah she sounds SUPER into you.
Am I jaded? If I had to describe myself right now I would say tired, jaded, and hungry for salted caramels. One of those can be fixed by looking at some more missed connections art.
Some things I've learned:
ONE. If you're a gay guy looking for love, go to the gym! That seems to be THE hotspot for m4m missed connections. This is a world I know next to nothing about, being not a guy, not gay, and most of all never going to the gym. But hopefully that advice can help someone.
TWO. If men aren't your style but you love tunes AND the legal system, there are some fiiiiine ladies at the Inglewood courthouse!
Lol but seriously,
THREE. I love looking at these missed connection illustrations.
FOUR TO A THOUSAND. The overwhelming feeling I get from missed connections, is that it really should be called Missed Social Cues.
The girl in the above illustration made a point of mentioning she had a boyfriend? Girls: if that is how you flirt it's a bad strategy. Guys: that is not how people flirt. Most posts read something like "You're a cashier at Whole Foods and I know you were into me because you asked if I wanted a bag. You have great legs. I didn't get a chance to get your number." Yeah she sounds SUPER into you.
Am I jaded? If I had to describe myself right now I would say tired, jaded, and hungry for salted caramels. One of those can be fixed by looking at some more missed connections art.
August 30, 2011
coming from someone who googled "how to apply eyeliner" last week
Not much going on HERE, except reading craft tutorials for how to organize your twenty makeup brushes that you own because you are trying to conceal your identity, you work in the circus, or you share a makeup counter with your sister wives.
If you have any other explanation for why someone would have this many brushes TELL ME because heaven knows I am curious.
Besides counting the face-painting implements over and over again, I've also been passing time by going to pet adoption events and talking about dogs with dog foster parents, chatting with my landlord, and reading so many books that the dogs and my landlord are blown away by my perspicacity. No, perspicacity does not really make sense in that sentence. I guess I have a few more books to read.
If you have any other explanation for why someone would have this many brushes TELL ME because heaven knows I am curious.
Besides counting the face-painting implements over and over again, I've also been passing time by going to pet adoption events and talking about dogs with dog foster parents, chatting with my landlord, and reading so many books that the dogs and my landlord are blown away by my perspicacity. No, perspicacity does not really make sense in that sentence. I guess I have a few more books to read.
August 26, 2011
concentrate and ask again
At the risk of being vague, I'm going to start out by saying that yesterday I was chosen for something after a requirement was given that the selected person needed to be female.
It reminded me of George Clooney (as things often do), what he said the last time he won People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive - that he's usually only nominated for "Sexiest Man Alive who has Played both a Doctor and Batman." Only he was joking and I'm not.
You probably remember this from the papers, but I'll refresh your memory. In 7th grade I won the gold medal in Music Olympics, a local music theory competition done in the style of worldwide sports in a last-ditch effort to make kids care about key changes. And I didn't win gold in the "White Kid" division or the "Kids with a Speech Impediment" bracket. I straight up won gold in Music Olympics. And when the other kids were like how did you do that, I was like, let's just say I know a thing or two about chord progressions. And this trophy matches my braces. Check it.
Not that yesterday was on par with Music Olympics. Please. Not that anything ever will be. And not that I'm looking to ever receive that kind of recognition again. I definitely racked up more than a life's worth that day. But from now on, will I only succeed in things when we're looking for a successful girl? Does three quarters of the group need to be ignored in order for me to be even somewhat interesting?
I went home. I ate my daily bag of cheap American candy (how I've missed you.) I read all George Clooney interview's from in 1997. And then I remembered : this is why I came to LA. To shoot up the idea that I need special paramaters, and to cover that idea's corpse in raccoon urine, set it on fire, and walk off into the sunset while the embers are burning and "The Final Countdown" is playing.
Or to work in the advertising. I keep getting the two mixed up.
It reminded me of George Clooney (as things often do), what he said the last time he won People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive - that he's usually only nominated for "Sexiest Man Alive who has Played both a Doctor and Batman." Only he was joking and I'm not.
You probably remember this from the papers, but I'll refresh your memory. In 7th grade I won the gold medal in Music Olympics, a local music theory competition done in the style of worldwide sports in a last-ditch effort to make kids care about key changes. And I didn't win gold in the "White Kid" division or the "Kids with a Speech Impediment" bracket. I straight up won gold in Music Olympics. And when the other kids were like how did you do that, I was like, let's just say I know a thing or two about chord progressions. And this trophy matches my braces. Check it.
Not that yesterday was on par with Music Olympics. Please. Not that anything ever will be. And not that I'm looking to ever receive that kind of recognition again. I definitely racked up more than a life's worth that day. But from now on, will I only succeed in things when we're looking for a successful girl? Does three quarters of the group need to be ignored in order for me to be even somewhat interesting?
I went home. I ate my daily bag of cheap American candy (how I've missed you.) I read all George Clooney interview's from in 1997. And then I remembered : this is why I came to LA. To shoot up the idea that I need special paramaters, and to cover that idea's corpse in raccoon urine, set it on fire, and walk off into the sunset while the embers are burning and "The Final Countdown" is playing.
Or to work in the advertising. I keep getting the two mixed up.
August 24, 2011
I heard somewhere that the word "mother" is the most beautiful word in every language.
Thent the thrift store last week a really chubby, red-faced kid in a shopping card was flailing around yelling "MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MA-
FINE!!!! I promise I will never have children! Is that what you want?! ARE YOU SATISFIED?!?!
When a couple people heard that I had a lot of downtime this summer they were quick with a disturbing suggestion - why don't you have a kid? Then you'll have plenty to do!
To me this idea is on par with "Why not become paralyzed from the waist down and take physical therapy to learn to walk again? Why not carry a sofa to the top floor of a 200-story building using only the stairs?" Yes, those are certainly ways to fill time.
What this blog post really is, is a huge THANK YOU to all my friends who have children.
Your kids are adorable. They're way cooler than adults, they have tiny feet, and everything they do is new and exciting. I love hanging out with them, buying clothes for them, and hearing stories about them. Thank you for letting me do all the fun things, while you deal with them when they're screaming the most beautiful word in any language. I don't know how you do it, but I'm glad you do.
<iframe width="500" height="314" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/xWkZ_StRjU0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
Thent the thrift store last week a really chubby, red-faced kid in a shopping card was flailing around yelling "MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MA-
FINE!!!! I promise I will never have children! Is that what you want?! ARE YOU SATISFIED?!?!
When a couple people heard that I had a lot of downtime this summer they were quick with a disturbing suggestion - why don't you have a kid? Then you'll have plenty to do!
To me this idea is on par with "Why not become paralyzed from the waist down and take physical therapy to learn to walk again? Why not carry a sofa to the top floor of a 200-story building using only the stairs?" Yes, those are certainly ways to fill time.
What this blog post really is, is a huge THANK YOU to all my friends who have children.
Your kids are adorable. They're way cooler than adults, they have tiny feet, and everything they do is new and exciting. I love hanging out with them, buying clothes for them, and hearing stories about them. Thank you for letting me do all the fun things, while you deal with them when they're screaming the most beautiful word in any language. I don't know how you do it, but I'm glad you do.
<iframe width="500" height="314" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/xWkZ_StRjU0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
August 22, 2011
TIME MACHINE POST
I wrote this in February.
Of all the street performers I wish you could see, the best one is the Marseillais Mozart.
In Vienna Mozart street performers are everywhere, and that's fantastic. Mozart was from Vienna. Mozart was NOT from Marseille, but that doesn't bother the Marseillais Mozart. He just dresses up as Mozart, with a sign that says he is not a lunatic, but a father and an artist. He doesn't have music or look like a statue or walk on his hands or do any of the other things I've seen street performers do.
I see him almost every day. One day when I went to Aix-en-Provence he boarded the bus with me, rode to Aix, and stood outside the theatre of the movie I went to. With his sign. Without music. I mentioned before that there was no music but it seemed worth mentioning again. He was the strangest thing.
Until today. When he added cat-juggling to his routine.
Read it again.
I really wish I had brought my camera or a PETA representative, but you're just going to have to take my word for it - it was wild. The picture would be of exactly what you're imagining right now - a man, dressed as Mozart, juggling three cats.
"Isn't that the craziest thing you've ever seen?" a man in a tweed hat asked me.
I told him it was.
But honestly, I think it makes more sense with cats than without.
Of all the street performers I wish you could see, the best one is the Marseillais Mozart.
In Vienna Mozart street performers are everywhere, and that's fantastic. Mozart was from Vienna. Mozart was NOT from Marseille, but that doesn't bother the Marseillais Mozart. He just dresses up as Mozart, with a sign that says he is not a lunatic, but a father and an artist. He doesn't have music or look like a statue or walk on his hands or do any of the other things I've seen street performers do.
I see him almost every day. One day when I went to Aix-en-Provence he boarded the bus with me, rode to Aix, and stood outside the theatre of the movie I went to. With his sign. Without music. I mentioned before that there was no music but it seemed worth mentioning again. He was the strangest thing.
Until today. When he added cat-juggling to his routine.
Read it again.
I really wish I had brought my camera or a PETA representative, but you're just going to have to take my word for it - it was wild. The picture would be of exactly what you're imagining right now - a man, dressed as Mozart, juggling three cats.
"Isn't that the craziest thing you've ever seen?" a man in a tweed hat asked me.
I told him it was.
But honestly, I think it makes more sense with cats than without.
August 17, 2011
and turn greeeeen.... NOW!
As a driver, no one looks more stupid than a runner at a crosswalk who jogs in place. What, are they that obsessed with running? Can they not stop moving for thirty seconds?
So I try to act nonchalant at crosswalks, as though standing still is my favorite thing to do. But you can see my fingers twitching and my feet tapping and every half second I glance over to see if the other light has turned yellow. I know I'm freaking you out. I used to be you. An hour ago, before I changed into running shoes.
So I try to act nonchalant at crosswalks, as though standing still is my favorite thing to do. But you can see my fingers twitching and my feet tapping and every half second I glance over to see if the other light has turned yellow. I know I'm freaking you out. I used to be you. An hour ago, before I changed into running shoes.
the only thing he won't eat is lettuce
I miss my dog the most when I'm leaving a room, and instinctively place any food items up on a counter out of reach. Then I remember that unfortunately, no one is going to jump on the table and polish off the stick of butter or tear apart my backpack to get to that package of M&Ms. I can leave snacks in low places without rushing to the vet or cleaning dog vomit off my favorite sweater.
When I remember I stop for a second, and then go ahead and put them up on the counter. Just in case.
If you're reading this McGee - I'm always ready for you to drop by. Also, if you can read, can you also write? The pawprint on my birthday card from the family looked forged.
When I remember I stop for a second, and then go ahead and put them up on the counter. Just in case.
If you're reading this McGee - I'm always ready for you to drop by. Also, if you can read, can you also write? The pawprint on my birthday card from the family looked forged.
August 15, 2011
DISCLAIMER: I am tired and haven't eaten cookies in almost two years
After I read through this I realized it's the most self-centered, dramatic, angry thing I've written since I was fifteen and writing strange poetry and lighting it on fire. I just feel like I should mention that this post was inspired by strangers on allergy forums and my step-brother's ex-girlfriend's sister. Every gluten-intolerant person I know is awesome, and if you're thinking "oh curses, this is about me" don't worry, it isn't. I do have some charred teenage poetry about you though; let me know if you're interested.
Here's a fun experiment for anyone with a self-diagnosed gluten allergy. Take a water and flour paper maché mixture, and put some on your skin. You can do this while making a sweet paper maché piñata if you want. If after a few minutes your skin breaks out in huge burning poison-ivy-esque hives like mine did, you are allergic to wheat. If not . . . well that's weird isn't it.
As good as it feels to have friends who eat the same strange gluten-free foods as I do, and who also can't participate in social rites of passage like birthday cakes and free pizza - it feels kind of sad to have those friends turn around and say that they apparently CAN eat wheat SOMETIMES and it's no big deal. If I licked a sandwich I'd have three days of throwing up and lose ten pounds over the next month. I would be dizzy, gray, and susceptible to every virus in my zip code. Why can't I lick a sandwich, but their allergy disappears on birthdays?
On the other, more positive hand, the more people that don't eat gluten, the more companies will make gluten-free food. In the last three years you helped bring favorites like cereal and cookies back into my life, and that's pretty cool.
So on second thought, maybe don't do the flour test. Stay away from flour. You're deathly allergic after all. Unless there's a pizza party.
Here's a fun experiment for anyone with a self-diagnosed gluten allergy. Take a water and flour paper maché mixture, and put some on your skin. You can do this while making a sweet paper maché piñata if you want. If after a few minutes your skin breaks out in huge burning poison-ivy-esque hives like mine did, you are allergic to wheat. If not . . . well that's weird isn't it.
As good as it feels to have friends who eat the same strange gluten-free foods as I do, and who also can't participate in social rites of passage like birthday cakes and free pizza - it feels kind of sad to have those friends turn around and say that they apparently CAN eat wheat SOMETIMES and it's no big deal. If I licked a sandwich I'd have three days of throwing up and lose ten pounds over the next month. I would be dizzy, gray, and susceptible to every virus in my zip code. Why can't I lick a sandwich, but their allergy disappears on birthdays?
On the other, more positive hand, the more people that don't eat gluten, the more companies will make gluten-free food. In the last three years you helped bring favorites like cereal and cookies back into my life, and that's pretty cool.
So on second thought, maybe don't do the flour test. Stay away from flour. You're deathly allergic after all. Unless there's a pizza party.
August 13, 2011
My mom is an award-winning racquetball player. I'm not, but it's growing on me.
Racquetball was the fifth sport where I got myself hit in the face, and the first one that encouraged wearing protective eyewear, which made it an instant favorite. Things only got better when my mom's Recreational Racquetball League trophies impressed hipster boys I was dating.
When my mom was a child, her family was the first family in her town to get the video game Pong, which is what I assume led to her playing tennis in high school. In college she switched to racquetball, which was either the result of the cold climate which meant racket sports needed to be played indoors, or because she wondered what tennis would feel like on drugs. Fast forward to today and I'm playing a sport that has as much interest in physics as I do.
The logistics of the game are these: Hit the ball away from you, and then body slam into a cement wall to avoid being knocked out by the rebound. When the ball unexpectedly bounces right toward you, sprint over and body slam into the opposite wall. While this is going on, your mom is laughing at you without breaking a sweat.
Occasionally the racket I use to protect my face will miraculously deflect the ball in a way the earns me a point, and the echoing of the room and the blood in my ears make my moms exclamation of "We need to get you to Vegas!" sound more like "Wow, nice hit Brooke!"
I think the pure absurdity of racquetball is best summed up by its spelling of the word "racquet." I'd racq my brain for other words spelled with a cq next to each other, but I need to go lie down.
In this picture I'm the girl who's two heads shorter than everyone else and is wearing black plastic glasses. Believe it or not, I was not the star of the team.
Racquetball was the fifth sport where I got myself hit in the face, and the first one that encouraged wearing protective eyewear, which made it an instant favorite. Things only got better when my mom's Recreational Racquetball League trophies impressed hipster boys I was dating.
When my mom was a child, her family was the first family in her town to get the video game Pong, which is what I assume led to her playing tennis in high school. In college she switched to racquetball, which was either the result of the cold climate which meant racket sports needed to be played indoors, or because she wondered what tennis would feel like on drugs. Fast forward to today and I'm playing a sport that has as much interest in physics as I do.
The logistics of the game are these: Hit the ball away from you, and then body slam into a cement wall to avoid being knocked out by the rebound. When the ball unexpectedly bounces right toward you, sprint over and body slam into the opposite wall. While this is going on, your mom is laughing at you without breaking a sweat.
Occasionally the racket I use to protect my face will miraculously deflect the ball in a way the earns me a point, and the echoing of the room and the blood in my ears make my moms exclamation of "We need to get you to Vegas!" sound more like "Wow, nice hit Brooke!"
I think the pure absurdity of racquetball is best summed up by its spelling of the word "racquet." I'd racq my brain for other words spelled with a cq next to each other, but I need to go lie down.
In this picture I'm the girl who's two heads shorter than everyone else and is wearing black plastic glasses. Believe it or not, I was not the star of the team.
August 11, 2011
glad I could cheer you up
I keep forgetting that even though I'm hard at work, the rest of LA is on summer vacation. This morning on my bike ride to the agency I saw a man riding with his daughter on the handlebars. The little girl smiled at and looked beyond thrilled to see me. "What a sweet little girl" I thought. "What a wonderful day." Then I realized she was probably laughing because I was wearing a helmet. Boo.
August 9, 2011
and he had a son, his name was Fred Astaire, and boy could he dance!
Today while I was waiting for my laundry at the laundromat, a seemingly well-composed homeless woman cornered me, and managed to talk to me for ten minutes about her experiences in Florida and the dancing abilities of her favorite celebrities before I could really get away.
Before she showed up the morning had already been reminding me of France, because after I started the laundry machine it turned out the door hadn't been shut properly or was broken, and water starting shooting out. The only people around were two sweet Mexican women, and when "Excuse me - sorry to bother you but do either of you know if these machines have a stop button?" was met with blank stares I said "Stop!" and pointed to the spectacle that was my washing machine. They didn't know what to do either, but we all ran around yelling "STOP!" and banging on the machine, and surprisingly that worked.
Since the only language barrier in France was articulating really complex emotions and cultural things, the inability to talk communicate with anyone in the laundromat seemed even more French than France did. It was the France that could have been.
Anyway, once this homeless woman started chatting me up, I was happy at first, because it reminded me of the thousands of people in Marseille that would randomly come up to me and just want to talk for hours. No matter where you were, you could always count on having a five-minute conversation with a stranger. But there were two depressing differences.
1. This woman clearly had a drug problem.
2. She never stopped for breath. People in Marseille are chatty, but they aren't talking about themselves. They want to know how you're doing. "What's your name? What are you studying? You have beautiful hair, you look Italian. Have you been to Italy? You should go. Where have you been? Tell me all about it!"
Nice try Los Angeles. But Marseille's crazy people have so much more heart than yours do.
After I had finally shaken her, I got excited because I know the Spanish word for "crazy" and I thought I could show it off to my new laundromat friends. But I couldn't find them. Mama Mia! My Spanish has a long way to go.
Before she showed up the morning had already been reminding me of France, because after I started the laundry machine it turned out the door hadn't been shut properly or was broken, and water starting shooting out. The only people around were two sweet Mexican women, and when "Excuse me - sorry to bother you but do either of you know if these machines have a stop button?" was met with blank stares I said "Stop!" and pointed to the spectacle that was my washing machine. They didn't know what to do either, but we all ran around yelling "STOP!" and banging on the machine, and surprisingly that worked.
Since the only language barrier in France was articulating really complex emotions and cultural things, the inability to talk communicate with anyone in the laundromat seemed even more French than France did. It was the France that could have been.
Anyway, once this homeless woman started chatting me up, I was happy at first, because it reminded me of the thousands of people in Marseille that would randomly come up to me and just want to talk for hours. No matter where you were, you could always count on having a five-minute conversation with a stranger. But there were two depressing differences.
1. This woman clearly had a drug problem.
2. She never stopped for breath. People in Marseille are chatty, but they aren't talking about themselves. They want to know how you're doing. "What's your name? What are you studying? You have beautiful hair, you look Italian. Have you been to Italy? You should go. Where have you been? Tell me all about it!"
Nice try Los Angeles. But Marseille's crazy people have so much more heart than yours do.
After I had finally shaken her, I got excited because I know the Spanish word for "crazy" and I thought I could show it off to my new laundromat friends. But I couldn't find them. Mama Mia! My Spanish has a long way to go.
that's a dog browsing a department store, completely unsupervised
If you move often the thing you miss the most is the way it feels to live somewhere for a year. After a year you don't have bruises from running into doorways and furniture in your apartment (I'm really clumsy) and you could almost do everything with your eyes closed because your hand has memorized the exact height of your shelf and the snooze button on your alarm clock and how the fridge opens.
The fridge at my new apartment opens on the opposite side you'd think it would, and every time I try and open it I spend a quarter of a second thinking "What the heck is wrong with this thing. How am I supposed to get the milk out of it? This isn't right, this isn't my fridge, this isn't my home."
Right now my home is Marseille. The things I miss most about Marseille lately is the width of the sidewalk and the amount of sunlight and the whiteness of the buildings and redness of the rooftops. It took me a year to memorize how far from the curb to walk and how much to squint, and the peach-tint of every day, iced with a layer of Marseille-blue sky. I miss knowing the exact price of my staple foods at the grocery store. I miss the shade of orange my curtains were. I miss knowing where to hold my breath because it smelled bad. Three steps past the antique book store smells like dead rats. Twelve steps past the macaron shop smells like urine. These are constants. These things never change. Unless you move to the other side of the world.
Maybe in a few months Los Angeles will be home, but right now it isn't, and even though I love my family, neither is Minnesota. Right now I'm a confused girl wandering lost around a grocery store full of strangely-priced food, wondering if she's going to be homesick for the rest of her life.
The fridge at my new apartment opens on the opposite side you'd think it would, and every time I try and open it I spend a quarter of a second thinking "What the heck is wrong with this thing. How am I supposed to get the milk out of it? This isn't right, this isn't my fridge, this isn't my home."
Right now my home is Marseille. The things I miss most about Marseille lately is the width of the sidewalk and the amount of sunlight and the whiteness of the buildings and redness of the rooftops. It took me a year to memorize how far from the curb to walk and how much to squint, and the peach-tint of every day, iced with a layer of Marseille-blue sky. I miss knowing the exact price of my staple foods at the grocery store. I miss the shade of orange my curtains were. I miss knowing where to hold my breath because it smelled bad. Three steps past the antique book store smells like dead rats. Twelve steps past the macaron shop smells like urine. These are constants. These things never change. Unless you move to the other side of the world.
Maybe in a few months Los Angeles will be home, but right now it isn't, and even though I love my family, neither is Minnesota. Right now I'm a confused girl wandering lost around a grocery store full of strangely-priced food, wondering if she's going to be homesick for the rest of her life.
August 5, 2011
Check out this car!
http://www.amazon.com/gp/mpd/permalink/m19JENA24NZZKQ/ref=ent_fb_link
Something horrible happened this morning and I woke up 24 instead of 8, and don't own a single remote control car.
Something horrible happened this morning and I woke up 24 instead of 8, and don't own a single remote control car.
The most exhilarating part of my mornings and afternoons is The Overpass.
It's halfway between my apartment and my office - an empty, dark, tunnel decked out with bright yellow signs that read "DANGER! BEES!" and beneath that PELIGRO! ABEJAS!
I don't know about you, but to me there's nothing like an upside-down exclamation point to make you ask WHAT BEES? What are you freaking talking about? Is this thing just packed with bees? Why so many signs? Are you breeding them with a chemical that makes them super angry? Does the tunnel smell like honey?
And there's nothing like a honey-scented, psychotic-bee-packed tunnel to get me biking sixty miles an hour. I fly through that thing like a bee that smells dinner. No, faster. Just a hair faster.
It's halfway between my apartment and my office - an empty, dark, tunnel decked out with bright yellow signs that read "DANGER! BEES!" and beneath that PELIGRO! ABEJAS!
I don't know about you, but to me there's nothing like an upside-down exclamation point to make you ask WHAT BEES? What are you freaking talking about? Is this thing just packed with bees? Why so many signs? Are you breeding them with a chemical that makes them super angry? Does the tunnel smell like honey?
And there's nothing like a honey-scented, psychotic-bee-packed tunnel to get me biking sixty miles an hour. I fly through that thing like a bee that smells dinner. No, faster. Just a hair faster.
August 4, 2011
I've got a cobalt-blue beach cruiser and a bright future in sales
This was going to be a post about my super-hipster practically-useless one-speed beach cruiser a got for biking to work.
But instead it's going to be a rant about why no one wears a freaking helmet anymore. Have you forgotten everything you learned in bike safety class in second grade? Or did no one else have to take that class?
There are few things worse than leaving the apartment with clean clothes, a freshly-packed lunch, and a neat-o super-duper safe AND stylish helmet, only to pass thirty people who are biking around with hair blowing in the breeze. I don't know who these thick-skulled and soon-to-be-skull-less losers think they are, but they're sharing the road with giant pieces of steel that are going 50 mph, and the closest thing to protection I've seen anyone wearing are Dodgers baseball caps. Twins hats, of course, protect the wearer from any sort of bodily harm that may arise. I'm not aware that Dodgers caps have the same effect.
End of rant. Wear your helmet, you'll double the number of people in the world that are currently doing it.
But instead it's going to be a rant about why no one wears a freaking helmet anymore. Have you forgotten everything you learned in bike safety class in second grade? Or did no one else have to take that class?
There are few things worse than leaving the apartment with clean clothes, a freshly-packed lunch, and a neat-o super-duper safe AND stylish helmet, only to pass thirty people who are biking around with hair blowing in the breeze. I don't know who these thick-skulled and soon-to-be-skull-less losers think they are, but they're sharing the road with giant pieces of steel that are going 50 mph, and the closest thing to protection I've seen anyone wearing are Dodgers baseball caps. Twins hats, of course, protect the wearer from any sort of bodily harm that may arise. I'm not aware that Dodgers caps have the same effect.
End of rant. Wear your helmet, you'll double the number of people in the world that are currently doing it.
August 2, 2011
Does anyone know more about Salvador Dali than that melting clock painting? I've liked him ever since I saw a picture of him walking his pet anteater in a metro station.
No, I'm not going to post a picture. You know how to google it, don't be lazy. Geez Louise, the things I put up with.
Anyway, I found these sweet Salvadore Dali quotes today. I've now doubled my list of personal heros, which used to just consist of Yoko Ono. It was a tough decision, but any clock-painting, ant eater-walking, insane-quote spouting artist is a hero of mine.
Now go look at pictures of anteaters. Did you know they looked that crazy? Doesn't their head look like a fifth arm? Alright fine, I'll post a picture.
What on earth?!
No, I'm not going to post a picture. You know how to google it, don't be lazy. Geez Louise, the things I put up with.
Anyway, I found these sweet Salvadore Dali quotes today. I've now doubled my list of personal heros, which used to just consist of Yoko Ono. It was a tough decision, but any clock-painting, ant eater-walking, insane-quote spouting artist is a hero of mine.
"The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant."
"I don't do drugs, I am drugs." Unfortunately I would have like this more last year, when I wouldn't have been reminiscent of Charlie Sheen.
"There are days when I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction."
Now go look at pictures of anteaters. Did you know they looked that crazy? Doesn't their head look like a fifth arm? Alright fine, I'll post a picture.
What on earth?!
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