Azores Day 15: I'm Getting What I Came Here For (it's time to get deep, Blog)

Blog, I'm going to get all Artist's Way on you now because today was rather rainy and my morning pages have made me aware of the things I want to do, not the things I have to do.

What is The Artist's Way? Well, it's something that a lot more people know about than I realized. Carly gave me the book back when she was visiting in July (which I did not document because I was too busy being a blocked artists, AKA not posting at all). She had gone through it a year or so ago and had documented her progress on her very own blog. She swears by it as a way to open up creatively and artistically. Basically I've been writing these things called "morning pages" every day and I go on weekly "artist dates" where I basically hang out by myself and think about shit. I have no idea if I'm doing it correctly, but one thing I noticed today was that I went into Carly's studio of my own will and made some art. By myself.

A little backstory: When we were freshmen in college, living in this no-longer-existent dorm, Carly and her art friends would do this thing every once in awhile called "Art Night" where they would get together and make art at night. They were creative in their work, but not in the naming of their extracurricular activities I guess.

"Gross!" I would proclaim whenever it was Art Night. "Art is something I don't do! I hate drawing and painting!"

But Carly was fun to hang out with (it's so nice that things in that regard haven't changed) so I would put up with this Art Night. She tried to make me like art by introducing me to collage, but all I ended up doing was gluing a cut-out of a finger tip onto a piece of paper in an attempt to make it resemble a rocket. I felt stupid and sad and confused and angry. Art wasn't for me and hasn't been since.

That is until I sat in Carly's studio with her on my first evening here. She gave me a canvas, some paint, and a few tips and suddenly I was totally ok with where things were going.

I arrived in a land where dragonflies travel in packs and peacock feathers grow out of magic bubbles. Obviously.

Yes, I give mad props to Carly for being patient with me and for giving me the tools with which I could create. However 11 years ago she had done the same thing and I wasn't able to get myself to a place where I could just play with what was in front of me and see what happens. What's different now? Well, I'm almost 30, so that's probably got something to do with it. I've gone through some shit in my 20's, like everyone, that has made me a more interesting person: relationships, jobs, traveling, drinking, crying... the usual.

But what I really attribute for my actual ability to just relax and play with the colors and paper that were in front of me is my progression with The Artist's Way. I know it sounds cheesy, but it totally has put me in a different creative space. I'm not planning on making an art career or anything, but I've discovered that the bare-bones act of physically creating something right in front of your eyes is very inspiring and demonstrative of how the creative process works for other mediums of writing, acting, music, poetry, whatever. The muse can be something as simple as gravity pulling the paint to the canvas and the inspiration derived from it can create all sorts of crazy awesome shit.

So today, when I was feeling like I should go outside and explore down by the ocean and then go buy some milk and eggs for more bread pudding because that bread isn't going to eat itself, I decided no. I was going to do what I wanted to do and that was stay in and work on some art. It felt weird, but also exciting. Carly wasn't there to guide me or give me tips. I was doing this alone and had no one to trust but myself.

I'm not sure where it's going, but Julia Cameron would be proud.

I don't know if I'm doing The Artist's Way right and I don't know if I'm putting the paint on the canvas right and I don't know if the things I'm brainstorming and writing about are right. But I'm learning not to care about right or wrong with any of it because they don't matter. It's pretty liberating and it's way better than the stuffy 18 year-old me trying to navigate a collage like it was a science experiment.

OMG WHAT IF THE DESTRUCTION OF MY FRESHMEN DORM IS A METAPHOR FOR THE DESTRUCTION OF MY CREATIVE BLOCKS, BLOG?!

Only Julia Cameron's magic spiritual art god knows the truth.

My Yearly Fringe Post: 2013

I didn't write in July, Blog. I didn't do it. It's the first whole month I've missed blogging-wise in several years. I'm sure your Blog-heart is broken, as I know mine is. There's only one way to come back from the tragedy, Blog. It's time for my yearly Fringe post.

What's my yearly Fringe post, you ask? Why, you can take a look at what I had to say last year to get an idea. Basically I've fallen into this habit where every August I express my complex and conflicted feelings about the Minnesota Fringe Festival to my one and only Blog, Blog. That's you. Never forget it.

Fringe has to do with theatre and theatre, unfortunately (fortunately?), is the one thing in this world that I love to do. Ever since I was cast as a cow in the Missoula Children's Theatre production of Beauty and the Beast when I was 7 years old, I have been in love with, and a slave to the performing arts. Because of this, the Minnesota Fringe Festival  is both my best friend and my worst enemy. It provides me with the most straightforward opportunity to participate within the vibrant theatre and performing arts community that lives in Minneapolis. And the reason I love living in Minneapolis is because of that vibrant theatre and performing arts community's presence. I want to be in you, vibrant theatre and performing arts community. Luckily the Fringe Festival allows me to penetrate you without the aid of cheesy pick up lines or date rape drugs. We can just exist together and share our love and art and a beer together at The Crooked Pint after 11 o'clock on any given night come the first two weeks of August.

And the first week of those two weeks is just like the start of any relationship. It's new and exciting. It's blissful and carefree. We've opened our show! Everyone remembered their lines! My friends loved it! I've gotten a chance to make myself completely vulnerable by exposing my heart and feelings and abilities on a stage in front of an audience and it's all been accepted! I don't see any sort of an end to this huge success! I'm living in a dream that has only four performances left and you'd better buy your ticket now so you can live this incredible fantasy with me!

Then the halfway point of the festival hits and shit starts getting real. Real real, yo. You get a review like this one and don't know what to do with yourself. Your initial reaction is one of rage which then develops into defeat. "I'll never do theatre again," you say to yourself. "This is my last Fringe," you decide. "I guess I should get to slitting my wrists now since that's the only viable response to this entire situation," you reason.

A good night's sleep later, you realize that everyone is entitled to their opinion and that bad reviews, even scathing ones that seem to almost personally attack you and/or others within your production, are a means to build character and even improve the art that both nurtures and dominates you. "Who cares what they think?" you declare. "I'm just as worthy of being a part of this festival as they are!" You know it's true. At least you keep telling that to yourself in order to prevent the blade from slicing the translucent skin covering your vulnerable wri--err--feelings and emotions and stuff.

Here's the ridiculous part: after all the emotional turmoil that comes with your beating heart being slashed to bits in a public arena for all to see, you want to do it again. You completely and wholly intend on submitting your application next January. You know you'll be heartbroken and disappointed if your number isn't drawn. You already know in what direction you'll take things if it is. We are slaves to this sick and wonderful thing. Year after year after year. We love it and we hate it but for some reason we can't live without it and fortunately (unfortunately?) we have realized that and have managed to produce one of the most prominent Fringe Festivals in the country.

Thanks vibrant theatre and performing arts community of Minneapolis. You're one of a kind and I'm both sad and relieved that this version of our summer camp is coming to an end in just a few days.

Here's to next year! (and my number being drawn, because it has yet to be)

Writing a Writer

Blog, should I facebook renowned author Chuck Klosterman about the day I was born? I don't really have a reason other than to simply tell him I was born on the day on which he set his fictional book Downtown Owl. I know nothing else of anything he has ever writ. Yes. Writ. Here's what I came up with when I had a couple of glasses of wine in me the other night:

Dear Chuck Klosterman,

I've never read anything you've written. For that, I'm sorry. You've been a suggested author for me to look into since I first heard of you in 2006. I've never heeded anyone's advice on this, and I'm not sure why. But I don't really read anyone's shit these days, so don't feel like I'm avoiding you. Au contraire. Lookit. I'm writing you a facebook message. (I figured the best way to contact him directly would be the message him on facebook, no?)

The reason I'm messaging you is because though I've never read anything you've written, I know you've written a thing about the day I was born. Perhaps it's better to say that you took the day I was born and made it the setting of a book of yours. At least I think you did. A few months ago my sister in law texted me a picture of a striking article from the Fargo Forum dated February 5th 1984; my birthday. It described the freak snowstorm I was born in. I was amazed that she had sent me such a thing. She told me it was in the front pages of your book Downtown Owl. Perhaps it was included as a real life anecdote to give context of where your fictional story took place.

I was supposed to be born in Morris, MN, but because of that freak storm I was born at home in Herman, MN on the comfort of a waterbed. You can ask my parents about the details of how that went down if you want. A few weeks later me and this other kid named Scott (who I've never met) were featured on the front page of Herman's newspaper dubbed as "snow babies" since we were both born under unconvential circumstances. Since then, the people in my family reminisce about where they were the day I was born; how suddenly there was a white wall of snow that blinded everyone and how there were people who died in their cars. I've created this idea of what that day was like in my mind, even though I know my version of it is nothing close to what actually happened.

Maybe I should read your book and find out what your take on it is. I guess I just wrote you to tell you about this thing of which we both know and how it has impacted our lives in its particular way. You got a published novel out of it, I got a mailing address as my place of birth on my birth certificate. Potato, potato, am I right?

Anyway, I hope you have a good day, Chuck. Way to be from North Dakota. I'm from there too, but that's a different drunken letter for a different drunken day.

Bye!

Sam

Maybe I'll just hold on to this for now. Wine makes me do things that don't translate well into sobriety; hence "unconvential".

'V' As In Victor

Hey Blog.

So I was just looking at Facebook and noticed a childhood classmate of mine had a baby today. This particular classmate and I share the same name, so growing up we were always Samantha V. and Samantha D. We were never close friends, but we would share the flip bar on the playground and both had a penchant for gymnastics when we were in the first grade. I don't know about what she thinks of me, but I always felt a connection to her; probably because we were the only Samanthas in the whole school. We were variants of the same kind; our last initials the deciding factor between the two of us. So when I see what she's up to on Facebook, part of me feels that the similarities between our names should also exist in our lives.

For awhile there I was feeling like I was behind the times because everyone was getting married and having babies. I still kind of feel like I'm missing out, but I've come to accept that it's not in the cards for me right now. I figured out that I can put my energy elsewhere and be just as, if not more satisfied with what I'm up to right now.

And I have to remember that there is an inane desire in me to somehow stand out from the norm. Everyone is getting married and having babies. Everyone, but me.

Back to Sam. I feel like if I had had the 'D' for my last initial, I'd be the one holding the little bundle of joy who just entered this world. But I have the 'V'. It is my differentiating factor. And while she gave up her maiden 'D' to enter into a life of marriage and motherhood, I'm still holding on to my letter. I'm still Samantha V. And I'm doing my best to make whatever that is my own.

It's Time To Ramble

I think the summer weather makes it less enticing to spend an evening drinking and writing in you, Blog. No offense to you, it's just the weather. Sunday evenings are probably the most consistent evenings I have these days. They are usually the evenings I have to myself. Where I cook, do laundry, catch up on my domestic duties...

I've decided I'm a commitment-phobe in the furniture department. For some reason I've ended up being a 28 year old woman who sleeps on a mattress on the floor. I'll be the first to admit that I'm no homemaker, but this is ridiculous. Why don't I have a bed, Blog? I am able to spend thousands of dollars so I can go to Europe on a regular basis, but I can't spare a couple hundred for a simple bed frame? This needs to come to an end. Next weekend (if I don't end up going to Winona for some Great River Shakespeare Festival action) I'm going to Ikea to peruse beds. It's going to happen. It needs to happen.

Another grown-up thing I'm trying my hand at is having and using a credit card. I applied for one, Blog, and I was approved! I don't know why I was afraid of being denied. Maybe because the only other time in my life that I tried applying for a credit card I was denied because I didn't already have a credit card.

Yes, I get it. I'm a 28 year old woman who sleeps on a mattress and has never had a credit card. Really, we can make me sound like a pathetic failure at life it we really wanted to. While we're at it, I've never seen The Princess Bride. I even have a copy here in my apartment, but have no way of watching it because this computer is so old the DVD drive doesn't work. So close, yet so far. And in the end, I frankly don't give a shit.

That's the thing. Other people want me to see the Princess Bride. Society wants me to have a credit card and a bed. I'm perfectly happy without any of those things in my life, but at the same time outside pressures have brought me to a crux. If I'm not going to get married and have kids, I might as well have a fucking bed, right? I might as well commit to something besides a family, since that's just not happening for me right now. I might as well buy slabs of particle board and curse and swear for hours as I torque the shit out of the hardware that holds it all together... Just so that my mattress isn't lying directly on the ground. God it's so stupid.

I think I'm going to start a thing on Facebook, Blog. I'm going to post the following picture of my journal from my adolescence in hopes that others will follow so we can all share the ridiculousness that used to live in all of our minds. Also, it happened to come up during my high school reunion that the girls in my class thought Mr. Voigt was sexist; a memory I had completely forgotten about. But apparently I had shared my concerns about the whole debacle with Betsy, the pre-internet version of you, Blog. (I used to be fancier in my writing entity naming in those days.

Dear Betsy, I'm going to state!! In music that is. I love music. I just wrote a really emotional letter to Angela.  I feel better now. I had to do it. I said all the things I love and stuff. It made me cry. Mother is going to make me turn off my radio and go to sleep so this might not be long. All the girls in my class (including me) want to get Mr. Voigt fired. He's sexist. Me and Tiff were doing cartwheels because the weights we needed were being taken so we were bored. And he made us run laps for 10 minutes. And then the boys would just sit around and they didn't run laps. I could talk forever on this but I have to go to sleep. Gotta go!! -Loving Sam

That's right Blog. I used to sign everything with the moniker "Loving Sam".

With that, I'm out.

-Loving Sam

Zero Two, Zero Two, Zero Zero Zero Two

I was over thinking it, Blog. My class reunion was totally weird, but not the end of the world. I don't really know what to say about it, but I'm sure I'll formulate something in the coming paragraphs. For now I'll share a stolen Facebook photo...

There we are: living in the limelight of all those terrible mistakes we've made.

I wish I could say that being part of a small class allowed us to become close to one another and form life long friendships, but as I awkwardly found my seat at our table in the bar on Friday, I was reminded that we all are kind of assholes to each other. And not the kind of haha-I'm-just-being-a-playful-and-jesting asshole, but more of a I-actually-kind-of-hate-you-but-will-put-up-with-you-because-I-have-to asshole. It's ok. I think we're at least all on the same page and somehow there is an unbreakable and forced bond between us because of it. I can't say it's a pleasant bond, but it's a bond. And bonds are what count, right?

With the alcohol, the parties, and confidence that comes with being an adult, I actually had a pretty good time. Believe it or not, I did have a friend or two in high school and seeing them was fun. I even figured out how to hang out with a couple people I didn't even consider socializing with back then. It was refreshing and makes me feel better about my place with those who I shared my high school years with.

But really, we were, and still are, a bunch of assholes. It becomes pretty apparent when the memories we bring up consist of making fun of other people for mispronouncing words when reading aloud in class (i.e. "spaceship" coming out as "spakey ship") and how Mr. Strand would throw erasers at us.

Or how Mr. Tollefson (God rest his soul) slammed this door so hard one day, the glass cracked.. That might have been because of us...

And sure I get a sense that most of them are kind of annoyed with me just because sometimes people are no matter what you do, but they're still my class. The only one I'll ever have in the high school sense. I might as well embrace them like I (reluctantly) embraced North Dakota after I was done with college. They are part of my upbringing, after all. I've learned that these are things you cannot change, but can grow to love (even if it's in a you-don't-really-want-to-but-kind-of-have-to-so-you-figure-it-out kind of way).

Kind of like how I figured out how to love being on this float.

Tonight I Meet My Past

Blog, I leave for my high school reunion in half an hour. Well, technically I just leave for home in half an  hour. The home that is North Dakota. The home that I used to hate and grew to love. Now I'm scared of it because my classmates are going to be lurking around the quiet streets of Finley. Only the streets this weekend won't be quiet. They'll be filled with parties and bands and parades and events. It is Finley Days, Blog. And the class of 2002 is going to be making an appearance.

Not all of us, of course, but more than I thought would ever get together for a reunion. I honestly didn't even think we had it in us to organize one. I certainly wasn't going to head up anything. I guess that's what we get for having a guy like Brad graduate with us though. He's bought up all of Finley over the past ten years and now has invited us to reconvene in the place we all have in common. I'm tempted to take furious notes the entire time so I can recount every oddity, forgotten memory, and sick gut feeling I experience. I'm also petrified that I will for some reason be called out as the weirdo I was in high school and embarassing memories will surface. I never belonged with them. I have a feeling I still don't.

Still, three things I have now that I didn't have then are experience, social skills, and the ability to drink alcohol. I plan to use all accordingly. I also have learned how to shop for clothes that fit me, embrace my curly hair, put on make up, and be comfortable in my own skin. But what is it about those you spent your adolescence with being the ultimate keepers of every insecurity you've ever had? I feel like want to prove something to them, but at the same time I don't care. I'm honestly going because I was going to Finley Days anyway. And I'm curious. I'm curious to see how far I've come since those days when I was made fun of because I was weird. I still am weird, but I'm ok with it now. I want to see how that weirdness translates to those who knew me during my formative years now that we're adults.

Basically this boils down to "blahdiddy blahdiddy blah blah blah I'm going to my ten year reunion and feel just like everyone else who ever went to a ten year reunion blahdiddy blah".

Time to drive to North Dakota so a rendition of this can happen:

There we are. Primed and ready to get out there and make huge mistakes.

It's Not That Great

Blog, I've been MIA for the latter half of April. I'm aware of this. I'm also aware of my reverting to the typical blogger tendency to acknowledge a rather lengthy absence. Luckily I had four posts in April. That's keeping up with my average, I do believe. I just got all of it out of the way during the first week of the month.

Ok. Enough with the posting about how I haven't posting. That's no fun to read.

Tonight I realized I could make my life sound fucking awesome if I wanted to. I have a cushy office job that pays me pretty well for the work I do and has regular hours. I love the people I spend my 40 hours a week with; they both challenge me and make me laugh every single day. I have this really great second job that not only brings in extra cash, but also is a gateway to free theater and fun parties with food and wine and chocolates and actors and crew and paper lanterns lighting up warm spring nights on a city balcony.

I have a quaint little apartment that has french windows decorated with paisley curtains. There's a fireplace filled with books and a gallery of friends' art on my walls. I have a cabinet stocked with wine and a fridge stocked with food. I take the train to visit my brother. I always have music in my ears. I can sing and play the guitar. I find myself sporadically going on auditions or performing in front of paying audiences. I'm asked to be a part of films here and there and every once in awhile I'll see someone I know on TV.

I live walking distance from a plethora of bars, restaurants and theaters; not to mention a grocery store. Half a block from the bus stop. Half a mile from a lake surrounded by multi-million dollar homes. I can walk down the street and not be surprised in the least to run into someone I know from some circle I'm a part of.

I'm like fucking Carrie Bradshaw sometimes with how I sip wine and sit in front of my computer in nothing but a towel, fresh out of the shower; save my image from riding around on the side of a bus all day long.

I've settled in the suburbs with a two car garage, dog, and fenced in yard. I've traipsed around the bars lending my mouth to any boy who was accepting of my drunken offers. I've gone on dates where doors were held and chairs were pulled out. Checks were taken care of and checks were split. I've been nervous, confident, cocky, and disinterested. I've felt beautiful more than I've felt unattractive and I think my wardrobe is alright; maybe even slightly above the fashionable average on a good day.

Sometimes I'll get into a routine where I do yoga and run on a regular basis. Other times I'll pass my evenings trying new recipes or eating ice cream while perusing the internet. I have close friends who are far away and because of this I'm starting to need my toes when it comes to keeping track of how many times I've flown across the Atlantic. My passport is filled with stamps from Europe and Mexico. I've been to Canada and both coasts. I've seen the northern lights and a meteor shower and the Swiss Alps...

Twenty four hours from now I'll be on yet another flight hanging over the Atlantic, preparing to land in a new country for me; Portugal. More accurately, the Portuguese islands known as The Azores. I've somehow managed to travel more than I ever thought I would. Make more money than I ever thought I would. Know more talented, amazing, inspiring people than I ever thought I would. I have a cute apartment, good health, and a glass of wine right in front of me. My bags are packed and I'm ready to get yet another stamp in that passport I got at a time when the only place I had ever been outside of the US was Canada.

And here I am barely holding in the tears because despite all of that "cool" shit I've just listed, at the end of the day I come home to an empty apartment and no one to share myself with. Reading through the self-involved vomit I've just spilled to you Blog makes me realize I'm an alright gal. I'm a catch. I've got a lot going for me. But that good feeling goes away when I know that those friends of mine have someone they love by their side every night. They have valid relationships and it makes me just want to throw all the parties and circles and performances and travel to the side because it's not important. It doesn't matter. It's just busy work until someone meaningful comes along.

The twelve year-old me would be blown away by who I've become. Sixth grade Samantha wanted nothing more than to travel and work in a skyscraper and live in a city doing important business with important people. Well Little Samantha, what you didn't know was that laying low and having a meaningful relationship with someone could have been just as, if not more fulfilling.

Of course, there's always the potential of a stay at home mom or settled down wife coming across this post and thinking that this life I lead is a fabulous one. You always want what you can't have, I guess.

To Portugal then.

From Storms to Cats to Bad Poetry

April showers are rather torrential for May flowers to be coming along any time soon.

I've realized with living in the city that I have trouble distinguishing between the low roars of planes hovering over my neighborhood and that of the constant roll of thunder. The sound is similar between these two things and when I realize that I'm usually sticking my ear out for an aircraft, I grow disappointed in the fact that there won't be any thunderstorm spectacle for me to witness. Like every overly romantic woman who fills out an online dating profile, I love a good thunderstorm. I used to be petrified of them when I was a kid since the seven-year-old version of me equated thunder, rain, and any breeze strong enough to rustle a tree to a deadly tornado. I used to watch the horizon from the westward-facing picture window in our kitchen, waiting for some sort of ominous funnel cloud to touch down on the prairie and make its way to our yard to destroy everything I knew within the two acres we resided. It never happened. Though tornadoes are totally possible in North Dakota, I've never actually seen one in person. The closest I've come is witnessing a funnel cloud form in a blue-gray sky above my cousin's wedding reception in central Minnesota a few years ago.

Tonight I dismissed the thunder for a busy day at the airport, but then the rain started and I was happy. Thunderstorms remind me of home and they make me feel like I'm out on the prairie again, even though I'm within the confines of the city. It's dark now, so no matter where I am, I wouldn't be able to see the storm glowering down on us. Still there's always a part of me that wants to jump above the buildings and trees that surround me to get a glimpse of just how brilliant that lightening is; how dark those clouds are; how likely there is for a funnel to touch down. When I moved here, I never realized that the lack of a horizon would be so disorienting during a summer storm. North Dakota lets you see the weather before it hits you. It puts a storm into context and gives you a rough timeline of how long it's going to be before the lightening is overhead and the rain is taking over outside.

Whenever it rains like this I still give a quick rundown of everything I own that could possibly be outside, even though it's only a car that I have out in the elements year-round. I still give a thought to my long-dead cat, Kate, who I always would mentally check when I heard the thunder and rain take over outside. There were the times when my check would result in the realization that he was still outside, and a quick dart to the door would reveal his tiny and wet body sitting on the stoop, waiting to be let in. The joys of having an indoor/outdoor cat. I'd take care of him though and dry him off with a towel and cuddle him on the couch; happy that he was safe and sound.

Tonight the thunder is rolling and the rain is falling and I purposely opened my window to let the sound of falling water into my apartment. I thought of Kate, even though he's been dead for 15 years, and took comfort in the fact that there isn't a miserable animal outside who is my responsibility. While I think I would love to have a cat again, I can't. My apartment won't allow it. And I don't know if I'm willing to put out the money and time needed for even something as low-key as a cat at this point. Plus cats, I've learned, are temperamental. Kate was an exception to the hot/cold and unpredictable nature of most felines. Three things to know about him:

1. I named him Kate despite his maleness because I was three when I met him and was under the impression that all cats were female.
2. The name Kate was inspired by my favorite letter, K. I liked the sound. It is a female letter to me (more explanation on that here). And as I mentioned before, all cats to three-year-old Samantha were girls.
3. Kate had three legs. He was my three legged cat with half a tail. I was always told he was run over by a lawnmower. I have a firm belief that this disability lead to his ability to be as chill and laid back as possible.

I have to admit, Blog. The recent memory of my childhood pet led me to delve into my storage compartment downstairs in search of a picture of him. Alas, I couldn't find one. I did find, however, something that I had feared I left on Ryan's bookshelf in the haste I had moved out of his house: my pathetic yet inspiring journal of poems from high school. Every overly romantic girl who writes about her love of poetry on her online dating profile has one. I thought mine had been swallowed by Maple Grove, but it hasn't. It is here, safe with me. It has the complete Makeup Bag Trilogy along with a bunch of other songs I wrote when I was a teenager; intact yet forgotten by the years of dormancy my songwriting mind has been in. It's good to know I still have it. Thanks to the thunder, to the rain, and to the distant memories of my three-legged cat, I've happened upon a wealth of bad poetry, handwriting, and a couple brilliant songs.

There's a mosquito bite on my leg
It hurts a lot
But not as much as when I lost you
My makeup bag
My face is now so white
My eyes look as if they have no sight
But it's all for the better
It doesn't really matter
People can see the real me

Trust me, Blog. It sounds better with a guitar behind it.

Fun Fact

Fun fact Blog. I used to not  wear skirts or dresses when I was a kid because I didn't want to deal with the issues that would arise during my daily excursions on the monkey bars. I just wanted to let you know this as I realized that my current professional wardrobe consists entirely of skirts and my day to day excursions have no room for monkey bars.

Part of me wants to change this. Part of me is glad that I've matured enough to be ok with wearing a skirt every day.

I would write more Blog, but I've been busy this evening putting my thoughts down in a post over at Secret Laboratory. 

Time fore sleep.

Either This is a Masterpiece, Or an Embarrassment

Not to get all philosophical on you Blog, but if the pen is mightier than the sword, why do actions speak louder than words? And even after that, a picture of the whole ordeal is worth a thousand of them.

Visuals: 2
Literature: 1

And this is why I need to take up photography and turn you into a wedding blog, Blog.

Oh come on. I'm kidding, I'm kidding! You and I both know that I'd much rather get drunk and ramble incessantly with you rather than capture the ridiculous dedication of eternal love with unfocused backgrounds and agreeable outdoor lighting.

What's that? I've become cynical? Blog. It's not like you to be so vocal about what I share with you. What gives?

Oh I see. I created you and now you've become an entity that has developed an opinion and feelings that are reflective of my own yet independently formed. How like Frankenstein. Well, at least you have an aesthetic color palette and aren't made of a cadaver...

 Now that we have that inevitable exchange behind us... where was I?

Oh yes. Philosophical ponderings. Did you know that I don't even really know what the word philosophical means? Oh the honesty I have with you, Blog. It is second to none.

You didn't know either? Well, that's not surprising. I mean, you are an extension of myself. We aren't that different, you and I.

Anyway, I never took any philosophy courses and therefore have never given the subject much formal thought until now. Upon gazing at the word, I've had the revelation that it probably means something like "for the love of Sophocles" or "Gee, I sure do dig everything Sophocles had to say".

Too bad I don't remember what Sophocles had to say. I do know, however, that he taught Plato, who taught Alexander the Great. Why do I know that? Acronyms, Blog. If there is doubt whence studying history; acronyms. "Spa" wasn't just my business idea for my 11th grade Agribusiness class. (And yes, if you gaze upon the word agribusiness for long enough, I'm sure you'll figure out what it means)

Wow. I am tangent city tonight. Now I feel like gotten too far off track to write about the impact that the type of music I listened to as a teenager has had on my current state of affairs.

Fuck it. I'm going there anyway.

I had the revelation the other day that the type of music I listened to during my coming-of-age years has formed my thoughts and feelings on my approach to the idea of romantic love. Or so I initially thought.

That's it. I'm creating some case studies, yo.


Case Study: Kerin the Bostonian

Though Kerin is one of my very best friends and we share many things in common, one thing that differentiates us (besides our seemingly opposite upbringings) is the music we listen to. Kerin is a hip hop gal. She's from the mean streets of Boston. She's agile in the arena of pop culture and appreciates the mainstream. This means she listened to the Backstreet Boys when she was a teenager. This means she lived, breathed, and probably somehow ate lyrics like "You can save me from the man that I've become" and "No matter the distance, I want you to know, that deep down inside of me... You are my fire, the one desire..."

As a result, Kerin has a romantic sense about her. She is confident in the ideas of fate and destiny. Instances and experiences that some may find sappy, she sees as sentimental and revealing to the existence of true love and the idea that it is meant to be. Yeah, I know this makes Kerin sound like a hopeless romantic. But on the contrary she's quite the opposite. She's an incredibly hopeful romantic; and we have Howie Dorough to thank for that.


Case Study: Little Samantha on the Prairie

Like I mentioned in the previous case study that I have created for illustrative purposes, even though Kerin and I have many things in common, we differ in our upbringings and tastes in music. While she was hip hopping on the mean streets of Boston, Little Samantha was naively exploring what the flower children of the 60's had to offer the generation that had given birth to her. In other words, I was a hipster before being a hipster was a thing.

For the record, being a hipster before being a hipster was a thing cancels out the idea of hipsterdom (which is being into something before it becomes mainstream). Therefore, I was never really a hipster to begin with.

Or was I?

I digress. As a result of this naive exploration, I found myself engrossed in Joni Mitchell. I lived, breathed, and probably fueled my car with lyrics like "You leave 'em laughing when you go, and if you care don't let them know" and "Everything comes and goes. Pleasure moves on too early and trouble leaves too slow."

Of course I'd be into someone who is poetically rooted in realism. And there was no context for these ideas for a timid 15 year old in Steele County, North Dakota. I was a lost cause from the start. The cynicism didn't start with my earlier comment about wedding photography, Blog. It started with Blue in 1999.

As a result, I am jaded in the eyes of romance.

Just when I thought I had it all figured out, another friend of mine, Trisha, mentioned in response to this whole idea of adolescent music habits contributing to adult relationship trends that the music didn't choose me. I chose the music. And she is right. I had my radio tuned to Y-94 out of Fargo in those days. I was totally familiar with I Want it That Way and yet I chose to flip my Court and Spark cassette multiple times a night just like Kerin chose to make it a priority to liken the Backstreet Boys to that of an infallible deity. The music didn't choose us, we chose the music. Our hormones just made us think we weren't in a place to take responsibility for our actions.

Damn you puberty!

And here's where I'm going to bring this ramble back, Blog. I bet you didn't see it coming, but it's going to happen.

Though Joni's words speak volumes to me, I am the one who has acted upon pursuing them for inspiration. Just like Kerin opted to follow those boys from the back streets in a response to the emotions that overtake any teenager when they finally realize that, hey! Sexual attraction is a thing!

Visuals: 3
Literature: 1

The score is settled... for now.

Also, I've finally wikipedia-ed all the Greek philosopher stuff I was going on about earlier. Turns out, with my logic, philosophical might as very well mean "I'm a huge fan of Antigone". Acronyms don't work quite as well when Socrates and Sophacles start with the same letter...

Blog, after they legalize gay marriage, I hope they legalize blog marriage. I fear you're the only one who truly gets me to a point where I could ridiculously dedicate my love to you in front of a focused camera in agreeable outdoor lighting.

The Original Veldhouse: Part Deux

Blog, so you know how I wrote a lengthy post about seeing my dad for the first time in seven years back in December? I have to first of all make a correction. It wasn't seven years that had gone by since I last saw him; it was six. I for some reason thought that Grandma had died back in 2004, but it really was 2005. Either way, it's a significant amount of time being away from a parent, so I'm not going to dwell on semantics.

However, I don't think I mentioned in that post my dad's weird habit of bringing up rather off-the-wall ideas in conversation where my, or anyone else's response is to internalize whatever nonsense he has just babbled on about and dismiss it as just that: nonsense.

But then it hits you. Not a few minutes later; not a few hours, but days. Days later, you discover something completely relevant on the internet that validates a sense to everything he had babbled on and on about in what you perceived to be a half-drunken stupor.

That's it. I'm listing examples.

Example #1: Minnesota's Economic Woes

Even though I went 6 years without seeing my dad, that doesn't mean I wasn't talking to him. Every few months I have a conversation with my dad that usually lasts an hour or so and ranges from gardening to politics to the military to history (his favorite period is the Antebellum era of Andrew Jackson...). This one happened sometime last year, so my memory on it is fuzzy. It also doesn't help that I have no idea how the economy works. But what I do know is that while it's on a slight upswing, it's still not the greatest and it certainly wasn't doing any better last year at this time. And maybe that's why my dad started going on and on about how Minnesota needs to have a state owned bank to help with its economy so it could offer affordable loans to local farmers and businesses. This would nurture growth in communities and would pull Minnesota out of the recession.

I guess it would make sense right away to someone who knows about economics and state banks and recessions. But combine my inept understanding of such things with his slurred speech and long pauses, and you get me just amicably repeating "Ok... Ok... Uh huh... Yup".

Less than a week later, I'm looking around at what national headlines are worth a gander and come across an article. While this isn't the exact one I read, the content is pretty similar to what I found... and it was exactly what my dad was scheming.

Example #2: Those Old Christmas Lights

This one happened over Christmas, naturally. My dad was sitting in his smokey and cramped living room drinking a rum and orange juice and smoking a cigarette from his rationed pack for the day. He was blandly describing how he had a bunch of Christmas decorations in the basement, but didn't have the gusto to dig them out and put them up. After a moment of thought, he mused that he should just send them to China so they could be recycled.

What?

Apparently Christmas lights can only be recycled in China. Ok dad... How about we move on and take a look at that Depression-era glass you wanted to get rid of.

A few days later? Andrew Sullivan happens.

Example #3: Did He Just Say "Ted Kaczynski"?

The most recent and probably incredible information nugget my father has bestowed upon me was left in a voicemail I received last Thursday night. In it, he was clearly intoxicated and clearly fired up about... Saul Alinsky?

"I'm gonna get all Saul Alinsky on you. You probably don't know who Saul Alinsky is. You should look him up. Because we're going there."

I listened to this message as I rolled into Minot on the Amtrak Friday morning. I told my sister-in-law and brother about it. We all were bewildered, concerned, and glad that he wasn't talking about the unabomber.

But who the F is Saul Alinsky?

Upon my return to Minneapolis Monday morning, I open up Facebook to this link posted by Heather on my wall. Apparently Bill Maher doesn't know who Saul Alinksy is either.

And tonight, Andrew Sullivan strikes again. (Though, I confess I'm a few days behind on his blog)

I get that this all could easily be explained away by the fact that my dad is just up to date on his current events. And he totally is. The part that leads to my surprise every time is that my dad doesn't do the internet. He goes on for about 15 minutes a day and checks his email. All of this stuff is somehow heard and processed by him via his 1970's amplifiers blaring NPR 24/7. That, and his habit for bringing up obscure topics in obscure conversations while obscurly pausing and temporarily losing his train of thought leads you to believe that this isn't actual shit he's talking about.

As for Saul, my birthday conversation we had tonight (my dad rarely, if ever, calls me on my actual birthday) lead me to learn that my dad has a lot of books by the guy. He's been reading up on not only Mr. Alinsky, but also has been delving into Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, and the retelling of There's a Hole in the Bucket and This is the House that Jack Built.

I swear to God if I come across an article on the importance pertaining to the passing-down of cumulative tales to the younger generation, you are going to be the first to hear about it Blog.

Little Samantha gets a primer of "Rules for Radicals" back in '85.

Hate and Love

Blog, I haven't bought peanut butter in a year. That's a long time for someone who used to live off of peanut butter sandwiches. Ooh, and even better, grilled peanut butter sandwiches. It's like a grilled cheese, but with peanut butter. Try it sometime. It'll blow your internet mind. I promise.

Why haven't I bought peanut butter? I don't know, Blog. I don't know. I think it's just that I kept forgetting for some reason. And then I forgot enough to where I don't even think about it anymore. I might have at first regretted my forgetfulness once I returned home with no peanut butter in hand after a trip to the grocery store, but now it's gotten to the point where it's not even part of my life anymore. It's really sad to think about since peanut butter and I used to have such a strong and involved relationship. What's more is that I had a taste of peanut butter over the weekend and now my palate has been reminded of the glory it holds within its sticky substance. Blog, I must break this strange and accidental habit I've acquired over the course of 2011 and buy some goddamned peanut butter. It's time.

In other news, here are some things that I hate and love...

I hate parallel parked cars that don't understand how much space they are taking up. Either you get your ass flush with that yellow line, or you go elsewhere. I understand you want some wiggle room between yourself and your parallel parked car neighbors, but five feet is too much. If you can fit two of you in the space you've so selfishly taken for yourself, then I think I should be allowed to attempt to violently park my boat of a car in the half a space you've so graciously left me in order to give you an updated lesson in parallel parking etiquette.

I hate that band The Decemberists. I don't like how their music sounds and I don't like the lead singer's voice. What don't I like about their music? I don't know. Those melodies rub me the wrong way. I find them boring, predictable, and sickening. That guy's voice is whiny and annoying. Enough said.

I hate the band The Hold Steady for many of the reasons I stated above for hating The Decemberists. Boring melodies, don't like that lead singer's voice. Most of all? Stop rhyming so much. Just. Stop. I can't handle rhyming for the sake of rhyming, unless it's a clever sonnet or something. But The Hold Steady isn't made up of clever sonnets. It's made up of a dude yelling rhymes into a microphone with a boring guitar riff playing in the background.

I hate being super hungover, like I was yesterday. I also hate shots of jag and gin and tonics combined with copious amounts of wine. This may or may not be related to why I hate being hungover. It's hard to tell since memories of Saturday night are fuzzy. All I know is that feeling like someone is drilling into the left side of your head is not the best way to spend a Sunday. Also, falling down on your way home from the bar might be a sign that it's time to stop with the alcohol intake. Just a thought.

I hate that the person who's clothes are taking up both dryers downstairs doesn't have a proper concept of  time. Your shit's been dry for 45 minutes sir/madam. Make the trek down to the basement to gather your garments so I can dry mine. Lord knows the moment I go down there and remove those clothes myself, you're going to enter into that chilly dungeon of a laundry room and things are going to get real awkward real fast.

But you know what?

I love how it smells down there right now. Though you are pokey with your laundry pick up, I'm curious as to what detergent you're using. It smells magnificent and if I could make my wardrobe carry that scent all my troubles would come to an end, I am certain of it.

I love being really hungry and knowing exactly what I want to eat. Tonight it was macaroni and cheese. The craving actually started last night when I for some reason found myself mesmerized by this ridiculousness:

Three quarters of a box of mac and cheese later, I'm pleasantly stuffed. But what I love even more than eating mac and cheese when it's all I want in the whole wide world, is washing each bite down with a sip of cold milk. Oh the dairy! The dairy of it all!! Thank you cows. You are my favorite kind of livestock right now.

I love calling lunch dinner and dinner supper. It brings me back to the days of eating gravy bread at the kitchen table and fruit cocktail for dessert all while silently judging my brother who wouldn't wash his dinner (or supper for that matter) down with a glass of milk but instead drank boring tap water that ended up giving us all giardia. Reason number 1,583 why milk is way better than any other beverage (besides wine) ever in the world.

I loved Saturday night up until I got so drunk I couldn't form thoughts in my mind. That was most of the night for the record. To be a part of such a great group of people and have my spot there with everyone was a really great and entirely new experience for me. Everyone had their person, and everyone had each other. The guys had the guys, the girls had the girls and we all loved each other at the end. Of course, then Jon bought me that shot of jag and things were downhill from there. But up until that moment: magic.

I love this song on the radio right now. Of course I have no idea what the song is or who sings it, but I like it because it is interesting for me to listen to. The word "naked" is part of the lyrics. There is sycopation going on. An overarching melody is happening in the chorus. Sing it mystery band. All in all, the tune reminds me of some of the metal bands my college boyfriend and I would listen to as we drove the strip in Bemidji for hours and hours on end during our freshman year just so we could get some alone time with one another, though this song isn't quite metal. Also now that I'm an adult, I don't need to take refuge in a 1992 Ford Explorer for some solitude. I like, Blog. I like. No, love.

Oh, and we mustn't forget. I love this guy. I love this guy on his buffalo:

My Pushup Mantra

Blog, my friend Trisha has brought to light the wonder of pushups and how in just a matter of days you can build up enough stamina to actually do them, like for real.

I remember I started hating pushups in the first grade when Mrs. Johnson would make our little 7 year old bodies hover just inches above the ground to the point where "your nose has to touch the floor". Even though little Samantha didn't have the cumbersome boobs and ass that eventually would take over her body, she still found it to be incredibly difficult to lower herself down to the point where she was face to face with the hundred year old floor boards of the Berg Gym. The Berg Gym, where little Samantha made her first theater debut as a cow in a children's theater production of Beauty and the Beast. The Berg Gym where little Samantha belted out the lyrics of Ace of Base's "I Saw the Sign" at one of her first school dance experiences. Oh that Berg Gym. I think they've torn it down now...

I digress. Even my 60 pound, 7 year old body couldn't handle push ups, so when little Samantha became self conscious teenage Samantha, things really started going downhill in the pushups department. Especially when my classmate Jen was berated by her peers when her version of the horrid exercise was compared to that of a beached whale humping the ground. When us developing ladies were finally given permission to drop our knees to the ground so we could take the pressure off of our weak upper bodies, I gave in to the handicap and haven't looked back since.

And then Trisha brought to light the actual idea of building up strength through exercise. What? Who would have ever thought such a thought? That's preposterous! I'm a fully developed woman, Trisha. My giant ass will never allow me to do a pushup without the aid of my knees. It's simply impossible. My weak arms cannot support the mass of my entire lady body. Physics will not allow this idea of me doing a "man" pushup to become a reality.

Well, that's what I was thinking two weeks ago. After adjusting my pushup form and getting a pep talk from Trish, I struggled and panted through five measly pushups; my nose nowhere near the ground. But I kept at it, and now I'm up to sets of 15, Blog. 15. Last night I did 15 man pushups in a row. My nose still hasn't touched the ground like Mrs. Johnson would have liked, but I'm feeling the burn nonetheless. Though this is a small feat, it is also a sad reminder of how closed off I am to things that I find utterly impossible. I should really start applying this push up mantra that Trisha has shown me to other things that seem impossible, like... not drinking during the week. Oh Jesus. It's so intimidating to say that. I kind of hate myself for it. Maybe I'll just work on getting my nose to touch the carpet...