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)
Showing posts with label Minnesota. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Minnesota. Show all posts
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Wine Is Important, Ok?
Sometimes I think my drinking habits have gotten out of control, Blog.
Case in point: Last week I was staying in a smoky and less-than-adequate Super 8 motel in Bellmawr, New Jersey. The "less-than-adequate" description is due to the shoddy housekeeping we had over the 8 evenings we slept on mattresses with cigarette burns in them. No biggie though. As long as I have clean towels and cups.
But last Wednesday night I didn't have a cup. It was that time of the night where I was turning in to watch The L Word and all I needed to make the evening perfect was a nice cup of wine to accompany all the lesbian sex that was about to happen in front of me. As I fired up the old Netflix and got myself ready for bed, I noticed that housekeeping hadn't kept up with the house enough to provide us with a fresh supply of plastic-wrapped hotel cups. I wish I could say normally this wouldn't be a big deal, but when it comes to wine and The L Word, it's a big deal. Honestly, lesbians aside, it's a big deal. I need a receptacle in which to carry my wine. If I don't have a receptacle in which to carry my wine, it's a big deal. Basically Blog, wine in an accessible container is a big deal to me and if that container is not accessible, than shit gets real.
Did I repeat that enough for you? I didn't? I need to put my wine in something so as to consume it, Blog. I don't know if you got the memo.
I had just spent the evening applying for several jobs for when I returned to Minnesota and therefore was in problem-solving mode. Sure problem solving looks good on paper and is easily talked up in a cover letter, but there is a fine line between corporate genius and homeless remedy, Blog. Last Wednesday I was both proud and humbled with what I can only attest to as my mad problem-solving skills in association with my alcohol consumption.
Because I am poor and was living out of a hotel room, I was eating a lot of what is known as Easy Mac. Easy Mac comes in a small plastic bowl that serves both as a cooking device and a dish out of which to eat. I had consumed Easy Mac earlier that evening and had discarded the bowl in the bathroom garbage (which had been miraculously changed by housekeeping that day). I remembered this as I frantically searched our room for a container that would hold my wine. The thought of digging through the trash for a plastic bowl lined with heavily processed and dried cheese made me feel like I should just get it over with and write "Anything helps, God bless" on a piece of cardboard and man the nearest street corner. But I pushed through my reservations and rifled through the bathroom garbage for my prized plastic bowl.
Granted, there was absolutely nothing else in that trash can. I admit I'm being a little dramatic about the whole thing. But really, it's an ironically sobering moment when you find yourself taking microwavable trash out of a garbage so you can recycle it as a wine glass.
And that is what I did and it worked. I had my glass of wine and my Netflix too. Was it worth it? Yes. I washed that shit with some hand soap and a wash cloth and hoped for the best. And the best happened as the lesbians figured out their respective relationships, hookups, and mistakes. I got a little buzzed and Andy slept soundly in the bed next to me. I'm not a lesser person of this. No. I'm a brilliant person because of this. I feel like I should put this on my resume as an example of making a hopeless and dire situation into something that is full of promise and wonder. If a potential employer can't see the success in that, then I don't know who can.
"Why didn't you just drink the wine out of the bottle, Samantha?"
Because, Blog. That wine was in a box. And I'd rather drink it out of a washed plastic microwave bowl that's been in the trash for most of the evening than succumb to the awkward neck positions that would have to happen if I were to finagle the spout above my mouth only to end up dousing my entire face in sweet red alcohol. No, Blog. I'll play it safe and drink wine out of glorified garbage, thank you.
With that, here's a song I like and find appropriate purely for its title:
Case in point: Last week I was staying in a smoky and less-than-adequate Super 8 motel in Bellmawr, New Jersey. The "less-than-adequate" description is due to the shoddy housekeeping we had over the 8 evenings we slept on mattresses with cigarette burns in them. No biggie though. As long as I have clean towels and cups.
But last Wednesday night I didn't have a cup. It was that time of the night where I was turning in to watch The L Word and all I needed to make the evening perfect was a nice cup of wine to accompany all the lesbian sex that was about to happen in front of me. As I fired up the old Netflix and got myself ready for bed, I noticed that housekeeping hadn't kept up with the house enough to provide us with a fresh supply of plastic-wrapped hotel cups. I wish I could say normally this wouldn't be a big deal, but when it comes to wine and The L Word, it's a big deal. Honestly, lesbians aside, it's a big deal. I need a receptacle in which to carry my wine. If I don't have a receptacle in which to carry my wine, it's a big deal. Basically Blog, wine in an accessible container is a big deal to me and if that container is not accessible, than shit gets real.
Did I repeat that enough for you? I didn't? I need to put my wine in something so as to consume it, Blog. I don't know if you got the memo.
I had just spent the evening applying for several jobs for when I returned to Minnesota and therefore was in problem-solving mode. Sure problem solving looks good on paper and is easily talked up in a cover letter, but there is a fine line between corporate genius and homeless remedy, Blog. Last Wednesday I was both proud and humbled with what I can only attest to as my mad problem-solving skills in association with my alcohol consumption.
Because I am poor and was living out of a hotel room, I was eating a lot of what is known as Easy Mac. Easy Mac comes in a small plastic bowl that serves both as a cooking device and a dish out of which to eat. I had consumed Easy Mac earlier that evening and had discarded the bowl in the bathroom garbage (which had been miraculously changed by housekeeping that day). I remembered this as I frantically searched our room for a container that would hold my wine. The thought of digging through the trash for a plastic bowl lined with heavily processed and dried cheese made me feel like I should just get it over with and write "Anything helps, God bless" on a piece of cardboard and man the nearest street corner. But I pushed through my reservations and rifled through the bathroom garbage for my prized plastic bowl.
Granted, there was absolutely nothing else in that trash can. I admit I'm being a little dramatic about the whole thing. But really, it's an ironically sobering moment when you find yourself taking microwavable trash out of a garbage so you can recycle it as a wine glass.
And that is what I did and it worked. I had my glass of wine and my Netflix too. Was it worth it? Yes. I washed that shit with some hand soap and a wash cloth and hoped for the best. And the best happened as the lesbians figured out their respective relationships, hookups, and mistakes. I got a little buzzed and Andy slept soundly in the bed next to me. I'm not a lesser person of this. No. I'm a brilliant person because of this. I feel like I should put this on my resume as an example of making a hopeless and dire situation into something that is full of promise and wonder. If a potential employer can't see the success in that, then I don't know who can.
"Why didn't you just drink the wine out of the bottle, Samantha?"
Because, Blog. That wine was in a box. And I'd rather drink it out of a washed plastic microwave bowl that's been in the trash for most of the evening than succumb to the awkward neck positions that would have to happen if I were to finagle the spout above my mouth only to end up dousing my entire face in sweet red alcohol. No, Blog. I'll play it safe and drink wine out of glorified garbage, thank you.
With that, here's a song I like and find appropriate purely for its title:
Monday, March 4, 2013
Spring Fake-Out Week Seems to Have Struck Again
Blog, I'm going to write a short post about the weather because I like to rant about tedious things.
First things first, I'm in South Carolina and it's 50 degrees outside. I'm winning right now.
However, Facebook has made me aware that this past weekend was what I like to call "spring fake-out week" in Minnesota. It was melty and wonderful out. People probably ditched their parkas for short shorts and roller-blades as they made their through melted slush in a burst of cabin-fever-related insanity. It happens every year. I'm doubt my absence has caused any change in this.
But remember Blog, it's "spring fake-out week". This means that winter has made you think that it's ok to wear short shorts and roller blades, BUT DON'T LET IT MAKE A FOOL OF YOU.
While this weekend's Facebook posts consisted of excitement and joy pertaining to the reminder that summer is a thing, this Monday's posts have turned to school cancellations (in North Dakota anyway) and the usual curmudgeony grumbling about an endless winter. It's still March, Blog. Blizzards are a thing. For me, they're a thing until April.
As I mentioned, I'm in South Carolina. It's 50 degrees outside. I'm one lucky S.O.B. right about now. However, I return to the land of lakes on Saturday evening. I'm beyond excited to be home and see my friends and know my way around again. I can't wait to sleep in my own bed and see the Minneapolis skyline. But Minneapolis is in Minnesota and it's March. This is my spring fake-out week. Hell, it's been spring fake-out months. It all seems nice and easy and warm and wonderful now; like this is how life ought to be. But in a mere five days, I'll be reminded that winter is still a thing and I won't be in the clear for another two months (by my standards). A blizzard is happening at home as I speak. Who cares if it was just 40 degrees and amazing up there? IT MEANS NOTHING.
Time to make the most of the warm air and clear roads while I still can. It won't always be this way, Blog. Also, I need to eat some BBQ before The South and I part ways, but that's another tedious entry for another day.
First things first, I'm in South Carolina and it's 50 degrees outside. I'm winning right now.
However, Facebook has made me aware that this past weekend was what I like to call "spring fake-out week" in Minnesota. It was melty and wonderful out. People probably ditched their parkas for short shorts and roller-blades as they made their through melted slush in a burst of cabin-fever-related insanity. It happens every year. I'm doubt my absence has caused any change in this.
But remember Blog, it's "spring fake-out week". This means that winter has made you think that it's ok to wear short shorts and roller blades, BUT DON'T LET IT MAKE A FOOL OF YOU.
While this weekend's Facebook posts consisted of excitement and joy pertaining to the reminder that summer is a thing, this Monday's posts have turned to school cancellations (in North Dakota anyway) and the usual curmudgeony grumbling about an endless winter. It's still March, Blog. Blizzards are a thing. For me, they're a thing until April.
As I mentioned, I'm in South Carolina. It's 50 degrees outside. I'm one lucky S.O.B. right about now. However, I return to the land of lakes on Saturday evening. I'm beyond excited to be home and see my friends and know my way around again. I can't wait to sleep in my own bed and see the Minneapolis skyline. But Minneapolis is in Minnesota and it's March. This is my spring fake-out week. Hell, it's been spring fake-out months. It all seems nice and easy and warm and wonderful now; like this is how life ought to be. But in a mere five days, I'll be reminded that winter is still a thing and I won't be in the clear for another two months (by my standards). A blizzard is happening at home as I speak. Who cares if it was just 40 degrees and amazing up there? IT MEANS NOTHING.
Time to make the most of the warm air and clear roads while I still can. It won't always be this way, Blog. Also, I need to eat some BBQ before The South and I part ways, but that's another tedious entry for another day.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Observations
Blog, it's at this time of the night that I start missing home and wish that I were back up in the frigid Minnesota air. I don't care how bitter it is, I shouldn't be able to wear a t-shirt outside like I did today.
But I did wear a t-shirt outside and it was wonderful. The sun shone inbetween the kind of clouds your mind finagles into various animals on a summer's day and we drove on winding roads through Carolinian forests. It's not strange that this is my life now. It's strange that it's not strange that this is my life now. Each night is a new hotel, preferably Microtel (they have window seats that allow you to comfortably look over their parking lots). Each day hundreds of children point and laugh at me and Andy. He is really the only constant I have in my life. It's him and our car, Forrest Gimp. Everything else is dictated by what we have on our schedule. Tonight I'm in a Target Starbucks on the outer edge of Gastonia, NC. I think it's by Charlotte, but it doesn't matter. Everyone has that drawl that hasn't lost its charm, but isn't as novel as it was when I first arrived just a few weeks ago. I've settled into tour. They told me this would happen by week three. I anticipated this would happen by week three. And now it's week three and it's everything I thought it would be, yet I can't quite grasp that this is my daily reality.
During yesterday's show, a little girl asked me what would happen if the sun died while I was recapping what we could use for renewable resources. Today I felt a wisp of a hug around my waist and realized it just in time to see my admirer run off and join her friends. This morning I had a volunteer by the name of Alberto try and ward off Andy's evil villain with the sign I asked him to hold. All in a day's work.
But after we pack up our set and settle into whatever hotel we've managed to find, I'm perusing Facebook and reading emails and am seeing what I've missed. Friends are having babies, my band is performing without me, and my niece just turned two. It's hard, and I can't imagine being here without an internet lifeline to home. The other night Andy observed that I'm not really missing home in the sense of longing, but I'm instead missing it as a part of myself. He was right. I feel like there is a part of me that must remain dormant until I return. Five more weeks and I'll be there, and of course once that rolls around I'm sure I'll be bitching and moaning about all the North Carolinian idiosyncrasies that are no longer a part of my life. We can't have it all, I guess.
But I did wear a t-shirt outside and it was wonderful. The sun shone inbetween the kind of clouds your mind finagles into various animals on a summer's day and we drove on winding roads through Carolinian forests. It's not strange that this is my life now. It's strange that it's not strange that this is my life now. Each night is a new hotel, preferably Microtel (they have window seats that allow you to comfortably look over their parking lots). Each day hundreds of children point and laugh at me and Andy. He is really the only constant I have in my life. It's him and our car, Forrest Gimp. Everything else is dictated by what we have on our schedule. Tonight I'm in a Target Starbucks on the outer edge of Gastonia, NC. I think it's by Charlotte, but it doesn't matter. Everyone has that drawl that hasn't lost its charm, but isn't as novel as it was when I first arrived just a few weeks ago. I've settled into tour. They told me this would happen by week three. I anticipated this would happen by week three. And now it's week three and it's everything I thought it would be, yet I can't quite grasp that this is my daily reality.
 |
| Like, wearing this hat isn't weird at all. Seriously. |
But after we pack up our set and settle into whatever hotel we've managed to find, I'm perusing Facebook and reading emails and am seeing what I've missed. Friends are having babies, my band is performing without me, and my niece just turned two. It's hard, and I can't imagine being here without an internet lifeline to home. The other night Andy observed that I'm not really missing home in the sense of longing, but I'm instead missing it as a part of myself. He was right. I feel like there is a part of me that must remain dormant until I return. Five more weeks and I'll be there, and of course once that rolls around I'm sure I'll be bitching and moaning about all the North Carolinian idiosyncrasies that are no longer a part of my life. We can't have it all, I guess.
 |
| For now, I'll just look longingly at this. |
Thursday, January 24, 2013
I Miss You, Minneapolis
I miss home, Blog. This isn't the first time I've been away from the place I live for a chunk of time, but it's the first time I've been away from a group of people who I tend to include in my every day life. I get that I left my mom and brother when I went to college way back in the day, but that's different. They were just down the road a couple of hours. I knew I could go back whenever I wanted. Plus, I had better things to do than sit in North Dakota and try to fit in with a culture I wasn't meant to fit in with.
I studied abroad in Europe for two months when I was a junior in college. I went the furthest from home I've ever been during that trip. I saw things I never thought I'd see. But I experienced the whole thing with an established group of friends; with people with whom I had cultivated friendships after I left my family in North Dakota. They were the people who are still some of my closest friends today. I got to bring home with me during that trip.
And while I'm still in the good ole USA, I feel far away from the things I love. Don't get me wrong, Blog, I'm totally happy with this decision. I'm not regretting it at all. Every day is different. I get to make kids laugh and I get to be on stage. I get to hang out with my old and dear friend Andy pretty much 24/7. We have numerous belly laughs every single day and have already collected a myriad of inside jokes that only we understand. "Do you remembah?" "Rob is requesting songs for us." and "What if the bands White Snake and Ratt played a concert together?" are daily quips that we throw at one another. Not to mention the whole "Moon Shadow" thing that happened over this past weekend with the acting buddies we saw.
But home is where the heart is and my heart is in Minneapolis. I knew this even before I left, but what I didn't realize is that there is a whole community of people there that I was just getting to know as I was packing my bags. Now my Facebook page is littered with status updates and event invites that I am unable to take non-cyber action on. All I can do is watch from a distance and know that I'll one day be back in the city that has everything I want. Friends and theatre and music and lakes and even a little bit of family. The South has been quite hospitable (people here are kind and curious and also bewildered by our accents) but it's not home. I don't do chicken and biscuits. I am afraid of the ocean (even though I love going to the beach) and call me crazy, but I'm feeling pretty weird about missing the cold snap that just happened. It made me realize that I've never missed a cold snap before. While it was a balmy 12 degrees in Minneapolis today, I took the liberty of running a couple miles outside this evening. Running outside in January is something I don't do. And while it was great and freeing and felt wonderful to exercise today, it's not home here. Home doesn't let me go outside with ease during this time of year, and if it does, it's a special day that everyone appreciates with a quaint insanity that causes them to rollerblade in short shorts even though it's still below freezing outside.
The Wizard of Oz was right. There's no place like home. March is going to both rush me and tease me with unemployment and the second round of best friends that I've made thus far. I'm looking forward to you, Minneapolis. Please hold a spot for me until I come back.
I studied abroad in Europe for two months when I was a junior in college. I went the furthest from home I've ever been during that trip. I saw things I never thought I'd see. But I experienced the whole thing with an established group of friends; with people with whom I had cultivated friendships after I left my family in North Dakota. They were the people who are still some of my closest friends today. I got to bring home with me during that trip.
And while I'm still in the good ole USA, I feel far away from the things I love. Don't get me wrong, Blog, I'm totally happy with this decision. I'm not regretting it at all. Every day is different. I get to make kids laugh and I get to be on stage. I get to hang out with my old and dear friend Andy pretty much 24/7. We have numerous belly laughs every single day and have already collected a myriad of inside jokes that only we understand. "Do you remembah?" "Rob is requesting songs for us." and "What if the bands White Snake and Ratt played a concert together?" are daily quips that we throw at one another. Not to mention the whole "Moon Shadow" thing that happened over this past weekend with the acting buddies we saw.
But home is where the heart is and my heart is in Minneapolis. I knew this even before I left, but what I didn't realize is that there is a whole community of people there that I was just getting to know as I was packing my bags. Now my Facebook page is littered with status updates and event invites that I am unable to take non-cyber action on. All I can do is watch from a distance and know that I'll one day be back in the city that has everything I want. Friends and theatre and music and lakes and even a little bit of family. The South has been quite hospitable (people here are kind and curious and also bewildered by our accents) but it's not home. I don't do chicken and biscuits. I am afraid of the ocean (even though I love going to the beach) and call me crazy, but I'm feeling pretty weird about missing the cold snap that just happened. It made me realize that I've never missed a cold snap before. While it was a balmy 12 degrees in Minneapolis today, I took the liberty of running a couple miles outside this evening. Running outside in January is something I don't do. And while it was great and freeing and felt wonderful to exercise today, it's not home here. Home doesn't let me go outside with ease during this time of year, and if it does, it's a special day that everyone appreciates with a quaint insanity that causes them to rollerblade in short shorts even though it's still below freezing outside.
The Wizard of Oz was right. There's no place like home. March is going to both rush me and tease me with unemployment and the second round of best friends that I've made thus far. I'm looking forward to you, Minneapolis. Please hold a spot for me until I come back.
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| And when in doubt, put a cherry on it. |
Monday, January 21, 2013
A State of Suprise
There are fifty states in this country, Blog. Each one tries to come up with a phrase or nickname that differentiates itself from the rest, but let's be honest; some stand out more than others. We hear about New York in all the movies. California is where those movies are made. Colorado is where the mountains are and Florida is where you go when you're old. Texas is full of cowboys and Arizona is where you find the desert. Massachusetts is where you eat lobster and Wisconsin is where you drink milk. For me, these are the generalizations I've made about my country for my entire life. I've visited just some of those places. A majority of the states are still a mystery to me even though I've made my assumptions about them.
As for North Carolina, I never really gave this place much thought. I didn't even realize it fell into the category of the "South". It always has fallen just before my home (and the incredibly interesting) state of North Dakota in the alphabetical lists that you use when you're filling out your address on websites and such. But here I am, in a seedy hotel in the dangerous part of Greensboro (this will happen when you're simultaneously on a tight budget and have no idea where you are). I've learned over the past week that just because the word "North" is in this state's name, it's anything but. There's a drawl in everyone's speech. Chicken and biscuits are everywhere. I think I saw a plantation the other day. And there is a town called Tobaccoville just down the road.
But besides the stereotypical southern stuff, there are surprises here too. This weekend Andy and I visted Wilmington and met up with another two-actor troupe who is also down here. We had a blast celebrating Andy's birthday with Catch Phrase, delicious French food, and magnificent karoake. Not only that, but we went to the beach yesterday. It felt strangely reminiscent of Florida. I had no idea that North Carolina had palm trees and sandy beaches, Blog. It was beautiful.
So after an evening of beaching and chatting with two very fine ladies (one who hails from St. Louis and the other from DC; neither place of which I've ever visited), I realized that this North Carolina place is pretty amazing. I would have never known it had I never taken the plunge.
I also have never driven to the ocean before, Blog. It's pretty cool to think that we've put a solid 2000 miles on the rental we have dubbed "Forrest Gimp" (per the flat tire we got a mere 200 miles away from home). I miss Minneapolis something fierce right now, but I wouldn't trade this experience for anything.
Now let's hope I don't get shanked in this Econo Lodge. I was told that I shouldn't go outside after dark in these parts.
As for North Carolina, I never really gave this place much thought. I didn't even realize it fell into the category of the "South". It always has fallen just before my home (and the incredibly interesting) state of North Dakota in the alphabetical lists that you use when you're filling out your address on websites and such. But here I am, in a seedy hotel in the dangerous part of Greensboro (this will happen when you're simultaneously on a tight budget and have no idea where you are). I've learned over the past week that just because the word "North" is in this state's name, it's anything but. There's a drawl in everyone's speech. Chicken and biscuits are everywhere. I think I saw a plantation the other day. And there is a town called Tobaccoville just down the road.
But besides the stereotypical southern stuff, there are surprises here too. This weekend Andy and I visted Wilmington and met up with another two-actor troupe who is also down here. We had a blast celebrating Andy's birthday with Catch Phrase, delicious French food, and magnificent karoake. Not only that, but we went to the beach yesterday. It felt strangely reminiscent of Florida. I had no idea that North Carolina had palm trees and sandy beaches, Blog. It was beautiful.
So after an evening of beaching and chatting with two very fine ladies (one who hails from St. Louis and the other from DC; neither place of which I've ever visited), I realized that this North Carolina place is pretty amazing. I would have never known it had I never taken the plunge.
I also have never driven to the ocean before, Blog. It's pretty cool to think that we've put a solid 2000 miles on the rental we have dubbed "Forrest Gimp" (per the flat tire we got a mere 200 miles away from home). I miss Minneapolis something fierce right now, but I wouldn't trade this experience for anything.
Now let's hope I don't get shanked in this Econo Lodge. I was told that I shouldn't go outside after dark in these parts.
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| That doesn't mean I won't live it up at dusk on the beach however. |
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Big Tour: Tired (It's a Pun. Read This and You'll See Why.)
Well Blog, I've done it. I've escaped the humdrum desk job life that once consumed me and am wrapping up day one of what has become known as "big tour". We had plans for Rockford, Illinois tonight, but a suddenly-leaky tire held us up in the appropriately-named Hixon, Wisconsin. I was hoping it was a slow leak, but alas Blog, I could hear the air hissing out of the tire immediately after filling it up. In moments, our pressure was at a sad zero pounds per square inch, and we were stuck amongst truckers and Sconnies alike in a quiet cafe that serves GIANT chocolate malts.
Here's where I wish I had skills, Blog. I should know how to change a tire, but I don't. It is a basic process, but the last time I attempted to remove a lug nut, it was rusted on so tight not even my super strong and manly boyfriend at the time was unable to loosen it. In the end, it ended up stripped and swearing ensued.
Of course I'm going to assume removing a tire from a 1992 Mercury Topaz is a bit of a different experience than removing one from a brand new Toyota Camry, but I wasn't about to dive in to find out for myself. Not in my tired and hungover state (turns out my last night in Minneapolis was a friend/bar hopping extravaganza... totally worth it). Plus we're traveling for business, so this sort of a thing is taken care of for us.
Here's the part where I would post the sad picture I took of the deflated tire, but you're not having it for some reason, Blog. Are you not feeling up to uploading images this evening? I've never run into this problem with you before. Then again, I've never really run into having a low tire in the middle of Wisconsin, or missing the exit to our hotel in the middle of Wisconsin, or having faulty hotel keys once we finally checked in to the hotel that is in the middle of Wisconsin. Maybe it's not you, Blog. Maybe all of this has something to do with the middle of Wisconsin.
I still don't feel like I'm gone from home for the next two months. Probably because I'm only about 50 miles away from Winona right now. Yup. Winona. We didn't even make it to the actual middle of Wisconsin.
Still I love that my job has turned into finagling websites to find tire places that are open on a Saturday morning. I also love that my current job makes small children laugh and squeal with joy. Children are amazing, Blog. I had no idea. I could go on, but I'll save it for another day.
Here's to hoping we actually make it to Chicago tomorrow to see the one Goblirsch Jr. wow us with his Macbeth skills. I like to think I'm getting all the hairy stuff out of the way with this touring thing on my first day.
Here's where I wish I had skills, Blog. I should know how to change a tire, but I don't. It is a basic process, but the last time I attempted to remove a lug nut, it was rusted on so tight not even my super strong and manly boyfriend at the time was unable to loosen it. In the end, it ended up stripped and swearing ensued.
Of course I'm going to assume removing a tire from a 1992 Mercury Topaz is a bit of a different experience than removing one from a brand new Toyota Camry, but I wasn't about to dive in to find out for myself. Not in my tired and hungover state (turns out my last night in Minneapolis was a friend/bar hopping extravaganza... totally worth it). Plus we're traveling for business, so this sort of a thing is taken care of for us.
Here's the part where I would post the sad picture I took of the deflated tire, but you're not having it for some reason, Blog. Are you not feeling up to uploading images this evening? I've never run into this problem with you before. Then again, I've never really run into having a low tire in the middle of Wisconsin, or missing the exit to our hotel in the middle of Wisconsin, or having faulty hotel keys once we finally checked in to the hotel that is in the middle of Wisconsin. Maybe it's not you, Blog. Maybe all of this has something to do with the middle of Wisconsin.
I still don't feel like I'm gone from home for the next two months. Probably because I'm only about 50 miles away from Winona right now. Yup. Winona. We didn't even make it to the actual middle of Wisconsin.
Still I love that my job has turned into finagling websites to find tire places that are open on a Saturday morning. I also love that my current job makes small children laugh and squeal with joy. Children are amazing, Blog. I had no idea. I could go on, but I'll save it for another day.
Here's to hoping we actually make it to Chicago tomorrow to see the one Goblirsch Jr. wow us with his Macbeth skills. I like to think I'm getting all the hairy stuff out of the way with this touring thing on my first day.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Hello From the Road!
Blog, it's going to be an unfocused post today, but I'm giving this "blogging from the road" thing the old college try. Right now I'm in a bar in Madison, Wisconsin watching football with this group of people who have somehow become my tour family. I've ended up in a comedy band that plays in basement bars and skate shops. So this is what it's like at the top...
Like I said, it's an unfocused entry, Blog. That means only one thing: pictures!
This is fun, Blog. You should try it sometime.
Like I said, it's an unfocused entry, Blog. That means only one thing: pictures!
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| Look at my road family, Blog! This is how we eat after performing in a skate shop. |
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| Look at our merchandise Blog! Buy some! |
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| Look at the show we are bringing to the masses in the Midwest! |
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| See us in our van, Blog? Fun every second! |
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| This is what we look like when we're singing songs. |
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| And this is what we look like when we are prepared for the winter cold in a Motel 6 in Fargo.
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Friday, December 14, 2012
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".
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".
Friday, October 19, 2012
The Notes of Strangers
I had a first today, Blog. Of of all my years of living in Uptown and parking on its narrow and cramped streets, this morning I finally got my first passive/aggressive note that indicated frustration at the lack of parking skill I had displayed last night when I positioned my lengthy Mercury Sable adjacent to a driveway.
They are right on two counts: I don't have a compact car (see: Mercury Sable) and I am kind of a jackass for positioning the butt of it next to a driveway. But I don't want to be seen that way by a stranger. I get that there is always going to be someone who isn't happy with what you do in this world, no matter how well-meaning you are (the reason I am notorious for putting the butt of my car up against driveway openings is so there is enough room for other cars to park down the street), but I couldn't help but feel a little hurt that such a blatant generalization had been made in regard to my character; based on the shitty positioning of a shitty 1997 Mercury Sable, no less.
I mulled it over today and returned my car to the streets of Uptown this afternoon. I tucked it away on the side of the street where there was ample parking space for my non-compact car to jack-assedly take up. I turned over the torn fragment of paper and attempted to take what harsh criticism I could, and use the rest of my despair over the situation towards killing my disgruntled mystery person with slightly snarky kindness:
I have no idea if anyone will come across it and take the time to read it. I have no idea if the person who left the inital note is someone who lives in my building or down the street. But I figure that there is a chance that they will see me get into or out of my car, and therefore will associate me with being that "Jackass who puts their giant car wherever the hell they want" without me even realizing it. The best I can do is acknowledge that I am indeed a jackass and will be more mindful in the future of where I position my car on the testy streets of the Whittier neighborhood, because in the end the last thing I want to be doing is pissing off strangers.
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| Speaks for itself. |
I mulled it over today and returned my car to the streets of Uptown this afternoon. I tucked it away on the side of the street where there was ample parking space for my non-compact car to jack-assedly take up. I turned over the torn fragment of paper and attempted to take what harsh criticism I could, and use the rest of my despair over the situation towards killing my disgruntled mystery person with slightly snarky kindness:
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| I'm banking on my decent penmanship to carry me through this one. |
Friday, August 3, 2012
My Yearly Fringe Post
Blog, here are some thoughts I have on the Minnesota Fringe Festival.
1. The Fringe Festival takes over my Facebook newsfeed something fierce every August. It is easy to see the emergence of the successes and pitfalls that come with everyone's shows. The pitfalls are less noticeable because people tend to not post about bad reviews and sucky shows on Facebook. This allows for the highlighted and confident shows to easily shine to the masses (me). Soon, these successful shows become the Fringe's mainstream and comfort. I don't know what to choose! I shall therefore go to a show I've heard a lot about so I feel safe, even though I know there is a chance that it may not live up to its hype.
2. The Fringe Festival serves as an arena where every theater person in Minneapolis (and beyond) can feel in control of their artistic destiny. Anyone and everyone has the opportunity to act on that brilliant idea that has been cooking in the back of their minds since that breakup/lay-off/mid-life crisis/end of college. The masses must know the brilliance that lies within your civilians, Minneapolis! The masses must keep incredibly tight schedules to experience it! The masses must be subject to the potential confusion that abounds with copious amounts of inside theater jokes brought to the stage in an attempt to entertain said masses!
3. The Fringe Festival is a popularity contest where the winners are determined by Matthew Everett, the Fringe blogger I never really hear about during the other 55 weeks of the year. Who are you Matthew? I should know as I was on your public access TV show once, and yet I don't. You emerge with your critical eye every August and sink back into the arts oblivion just as the Perseids reach their peak. A mystery you are to me, Mr. Everett. I fear I may never solve you... or your mother.
4. The Fringe Festival reminds me of how wonderful and awful theater can be. It's like a drug and I am its addict. You can ride the emotional high from a performance well done for only so long until your conscious sinks back into a rut of self scrutiny. Even the most confident performers have second thoughts about how great their shows are. Maybe I'm making that up... no I'm not. I don't care if your last name starts with "Scrim" and ends with "shaw". There's no way in hell you can feel 100% awesome about your show at all times. Not when there are critics running rampant with a rating system and review venue at their fingertips. Not when they know they have the power to dash dreams if dreams deserved to be dashed.
5. The Fringe Festival is the one time a year when the theater community comes together in a way where everyone is special. Everyone gets to put on a play. Everyone gets to be a critic. Everyone can see a show, and everyone can get drunk and bitch about it afterwards. Everyone gets caught up in the hype. Everyone wants to impress and be impressed. Everyone wants to limit the amount they allow themselves to be impressed because everyone has been given the opportunity to show off their superior theater chops, whether it be on stage or in the audience. And everyone who is anyone knows that superior theater chops are reflected by being difficult to impress.
I love/hate the Minnesota Fringe Festival. It stirs emotions within my soul and as we have covered before, Blog, I know not how to deal with feelings. They make me uncomfortable and confused. Tragically, they also make me feel alive, and this is why I'm drawn to the ridiculousness year after year.
With that, my entry pertaining to the Fringe Festival is complete for 2012. Previous entries; good, bad, and ugly can be found here, here, and here. My first taste of it can be found here. Don't judge, Blog. I didn't know what I was talking about.
Time to go hate myself for loving this so much.
1. The Fringe Festival takes over my Facebook newsfeed something fierce every August. It is easy to see the emergence of the successes and pitfalls that come with everyone's shows. The pitfalls are less noticeable because people tend to not post about bad reviews and sucky shows on Facebook. This allows for the highlighted and confident shows to easily shine to the masses (me). Soon, these successful shows become the Fringe's mainstream and comfort. I don't know what to choose! I shall therefore go to a show I've heard a lot about so I feel safe, even though I know there is a chance that it may not live up to its hype.
2. The Fringe Festival serves as an arena where every theater person in Minneapolis (and beyond) can feel in control of their artistic destiny. Anyone and everyone has the opportunity to act on that brilliant idea that has been cooking in the back of their minds since that breakup/lay-off/mid-life crisis/end of college. The masses must know the brilliance that lies within your civilians, Minneapolis! The masses must keep incredibly tight schedules to experience it! The masses must be subject to the potential confusion that abounds with copious amounts of inside theater jokes brought to the stage in an attempt to entertain said masses!
3. The Fringe Festival is a popularity contest where the winners are determined by Matthew Everett, the Fringe blogger I never really hear about during the other 55 weeks of the year. Who are you Matthew? I should know as I was on your public access TV show once, and yet I don't. You emerge with your critical eye every August and sink back into the arts oblivion just as the Perseids reach their peak. A mystery you are to me, Mr. Everett. I fear I may never solve you... or your mother.
4. The Fringe Festival reminds me of how wonderful and awful theater can be. It's like a drug and I am its addict. You can ride the emotional high from a performance well done for only so long until your conscious sinks back into a rut of self scrutiny. Even the most confident performers have second thoughts about how great their shows are. Maybe I'm making that up... no I'm not. I don't care if your last name starts with "Scrim" and ends with "shaw". There's no way in hell you can feel 100% awesome about your show at all times. Not when there are critics running rampant with a rating system and review venue at their fingertips. Not when they know they have the power to dash dreams if dreams deserved to be dashed.
5. The Fringe Festival is the one time a year when the theater community comes together in a way where everyone is special. Everyone gets to put on a play. Everyone gets to be a critic. Everyone can see a show, and everyone can get drunk and bitch about it afterwards. Everyone gets caught up in the hype. Everyone wants to impress and be impressed. Everyone wants to limit the amount they allow themselves to be impressed because everyone has been given the opportunity to show off their superior theater chops, whether it be on stage or in the audience. And everyone who is anyone knows that superior theater chops are reflected by being difficult to impress.
I love/hate the Minnesota Fringe Festival. It stirs emotions within my soul and as we have covered before, Blog, I know not how to deal with feelings. They make me uncomfortable and confused. Tragically, they also make me feel alive, and this is why I'm drawn to the ridiculousness year after year.
With that, my entry pertaining to the Fringe Festival is complete for 2012. Previous entries; good, bad, and ugly can be found here, here, and here. My first taste of it can be found here. Don't judge, Blog. I didn't know what I was talking about.
Time to go hate myself for loving this so much.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Today in Blizzard History
Today is my birthday, Blog. I didn't do much to celebrate, but my dear friends Kerin and Sam made my day by having brunch with me. Then Kerin was sweet enough to let me watch one of my favorite movies with her; White Christmas. Of course then we all watched the Superbowl together. All in all it was an alright birthday. So far 28 isn't so bad.
My mom posted this link on my facebook wall today in regards to a Chuck Klosterman's book Downtown Owl. While I've never actually read any Chuck Klosterman books, I've heard a lot about them and should probably pick one up one of these days. Perhaps I'll start with Downtown Owl since he apparently prefaces the story with a news article reporting on the blizzard I was born in. There is a lone comment that was left by a man named Kevin who was one of the many who ended up stranded. It's always been interesting for me to hear the accounts of people who actually experienced it. For my entire life my family has recounted where they were when I was born. Not necessarily because my arrival into this world was so monumental, but because it coincided with one of the most incredible blizzards in Minnesota history. People were instantly stranded in school gyms, hospitals, and most of all their cars. That's why 16 people died from freezing to death and from carbon monoxide poisoning within their cars.
After trying to look up articles detailing the events of the night I was born, all I could come across was little blurbs here and there in Minnesota weather history. It's unnerving to think that even my parents got stuck in the storm on their way to the hospital where I was supposed to be born. Luckily they were picked up by a passer by who brought them back home where I apparently was delivered by a nurse who was brought in by a snowplow driver by the name of Heintzelman. I never met him, but his wife always sent me birthday cards decorated with calligraphy and five dollar bills when I was a kid.
I guess it could have been crazier like it was for Scott's parents who also got stranded on their way to the hospital. Instead of making it back home, Scott was born at somebody else's house outside of town. Two weeks later we ended up on the front page of Herman's newspaper, billed as the newborns who made it into this world during one of the worst blizzards of the century.
So my entire life I've known of people named Heintzelman, and this kid Scott who is just a few hours older than I am and who was born in the same storm, though I've never really met any of them. I do think of all of them, and all of the people who died every time my day rolls around. That makes it sound kind of depressing, but I have to admit that it's one of the more interesting things about me.
So happy birthday to me Blog. I'm going to try and make 28 the best I can make it.
My mom posted this link on my facebook wall today in regards to a Chuck Klosterman's book Downtown Owl. While I've never actually read any Chuck Klosterman books, I've heard a lot about them and should probably pick one up one of these days. Perhaps I'll start with Downtown Owl since he apparently prefaces the story with a news article reporting on the blizzard I was born in. There is a lone comment that was left by a man named Kevin who was one of the many who ended up stranded. It's always been interesting for me to hear the accounts of people who actually experienced it. For my entire life my family has recounted where they were when I was born. Not necessarily because my arrival into this world was so monumental, but because it coincided with one of the most incredible blizzards in Minnesota history. People were instantly stranded in school gyms, hospitals, and most of all their cars. That's why 16 people died from freezing to death and from carbon monoxide poisoning within their cars.
After trying to look up articles detailing the events of the night I was born, all I could come across was little blurbs here and there in Minnesota weather history. It's unnerving to think that even my parents got stuck in the storm on their way to the hospital where I was supposed to be born. Luckily they were picked up by a passer by who brought them back home where I apparently was delivered by a nurse who was brought in by a snowplow driver by the name of Heintzelman. I never met him, but his wife always sent me birthday cards decorated with calligraphy and five dollar bills when I was a kid.
I guess it could have been crazier like it was for Scott's parents who also got stranded on their way to the hospital. Instead of making it back home, Scott was born at somebody else's house outside of town. Two weeks later we ended up on the front page of Herman's newspaper, billed as the newborns who made it into this world during one of the worst blizzards of the century.
So my entire life I've known of people named Heintzelman, and this kid Scott who is just a few hours older than I am and who was born in the same storm, though I've never really met any of them. I do think of all of them, and all of the people who died every time my day rolls around. That makes it sound kind of depressing, but I have to admit that it's one of the more interesting things about me.
So happy birthday to me Blog. I'm going to try and make 28 the best I can make it.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
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.
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. |
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Minnesotan Commentary
Blog, I'm just gonna get this out of the way right now so I don't have to worry about it when everyone else is going at it. This will be my yearly commentary on how Minnesotans are notorious for allowing their lives to revolve around snow, the idea of snow, the memory of snow, and the absence of snow. No matter what season it is, you find them talking about snow:
Early Winter - There's snow right now, but there's not that much snow. I mean, it's just snow right? We're Minnesotans. We know how snow is. Whatever. Snow. No big deal about that snow that's everywhere. Time to drive 80 mph on a slick highway!
Mid to Late Winter - We just got 20 inches of snow! There is so much snow out there! I can't believe all the snow that we've gotten over the past week! But whatever. No big deal. This winter is still milder than every other winter I've ever experienced in my life.
Spring - There's still snow here, can you believe it? It's April. Everywhere else is full of flowers and hummingbirds by now.
Summer - Remember how much snow there was when it was winter? Now there's none. But just you wait!Three more months!
And then there's November. November is the month when snow first happens despite any rumors you might hear of snow actually happening in October. Snow, contrary to popular belief, doesn't happen in October and if it does it only happens once every ten years and it's like half an inch in some obscure county in the northern part of the state. November is where it's at with first real snow fall. But the thing is, until that first snow happens, Minnesotans get all antsy about it. They are like "It's cold, but there's no snow. Something's amiss." "The leaves have all fallen from the trees, yet the ground is bare. Something's amiss." "Parka? Never! There is no snow yet. It's still summer. Yet it's November. Something's amiss." Their worst fears might come true and it perhaps may not snow at all. Then what would they have to brag/comment/complain about for the next period of infinity? Farming? Loons? Paul Bunyan?*
So until the snow arrives, everyone is on edge with hopes that their validity as cold-bearing, shovel-wielding Minnesotans won't be diminished with the vast presence of brown grass and naked trees that occupies their state.
And then it's here. And in that moment when the ground is so silently covered in white, the bragging and commenting and complaining and car accidents begin with full force... and it won't stop until never.
I realize that I myself am considered a Minnesotan. I have a Minnesota license, a Minnesota address, and a slight Minnesotan accent. But one thing I learned when I first moved to this state from the "barren" expanse of North Dakota is that the locals here can't get enough of the snow-talk. And because that realization has stuck with me over the last 9 years that I've lived here (It's been 9 years? 9? Jesus.) I've taken to commenting on not the snow and its presence, memory, absence, what have you, but the reaction that Minnesotans themselves have to it. This thing. That happens. Every. Single. Year.
They have this uncanny knack to act like it is the most amazing, wondrous, rare experience that happens all the time and is no big deal at all.
Ok. Yearly rant over. Except I do want to say that I'm going to put an early New Year's resolution out there and do my best to bite my tongue this year when everyone is facebooking about how it was three degrees colder in Shoreview this morning than it was in frickin' Bloomington. Guess what. Three degrees means nothing. It only matters if freezing is involved, and we all know that by January everything is frozen anyway. Get over it and put on a sweater.
*Speaking of Paul Bunyan, I must insert that I have thought of the most brilliant Halloween costume this year what with going as Paul's trusty sidekick Babe the Blue Ox. Even though I have a date to the Halloween party I'm attending, I don't have a Paul Bunyan to complete the tall tale awesomeness that I am going to replicate (my date thinks Steve Jobs is actually something you can dress up as). Luckily, Kerin's husband Nick has offered up his lumberjack manliness and support and will be making a cameo as Paul himself. God bless friends' husbands.
Early Winter - There's snow right now, but there's not that much snow. I mean, it's just snow right? We're Minnesotans. We know how snow is. Whatever. Snow. No big deal about that snow that's everywhere. Time to drive 80 mph on a slick highway!
Mid to Late Winter - We just got 20 inches of snow! There is so much snow out there! I can't believe all the snow that we've gotten over the past week! But whatever. No big deal. This winter is still milder than every other winter I've ever experienced in my life.
Spring - There's still snow here, can you believe it? It's April. Everywhere else is full of flowers and hummingbirds by now.
Summer - Remember how much snow there was when it was winter? Now there's none. But just you wait!Three more months!
And then there's November. November is the month when snow first happens despite any rumors you might hear of snow actually happening in October. Snow, contrary to popular belief, doesn't happen in October and if it does it only happens once every ten years and it's like half an inch in some obscure county in the northern part of the state. November is where it's at with first real snow fall. But the thing is, until that first snow happens, Minnesotans get all antsy about it. They are like "It's cold, but there's no snow. Something's amiss." "The leaves have all fallen from the trees, yet the ground is bare. Something's amiss." "Parka? Never! There is no snow yet. It's still summer. Yet it's November. Something's amiss." Their worst fears might come true and it perhaps may not snow at all. Then what would they have to brag/comment/complain about for the next period of infinity? Farming? Loons? Paul Bunyan?*
So until the snow arrives, everyone is on edge with hopes that their validity as cold-bearing, shovel-wielding Minnesotans won't be diminished with the vast presence of brown grass and naked trees that occupies their state.
And then it's here. And in that moment when the ground is so silently covered in white, the bragging and commenting and complaining and car accidents begin with full force... and it won't stop until never.
I realize that I myself am considered a Minnesotan. I have a Minnesota license, a Minnesota address, and a slight Minnesotan accent. But one thing I learned when I first moved to this state from the "barren" expanse of North Dakota is that the locals here can't get enough of the snow-talk. And because that realization has stuck with me over the last 9 years that I've lived here (It's been 9 years? 9? Jesus.) I've taken to commenting on not the snow and its presence, memory, absence, what have you, but the reaction that Minnesotans themselves have to it. This thing. That happens. Every. Single. Year.
They have this uncanny knack to act like it is the most amazing, wondrous, rare experience that happens all the time and is no big deal at all.
Ok. Yearly rant over. Except I do want to say that I'm going to put an early New Year's resolution out there and do my best to bite my tongue this year when everyone is facebooking about how it was three degrees colder in Shoreview this morning than it was in frickin' Bloomington. Guess what. Three degrees means nothing. It only matters if freezing is involved, and we all know that by January everything is frozen anyway. Get over it and put on a sweater.
*Speaking of Paul Bunyan, I must insert that I have thought of the most brilliant Halloween costume this year what with going as Paul's trusty sidekick Babe the Blue Ox. Even though I have a date to the Halloween party I'm attending, I don't have a Paul Bunyan to complete the tall tale awesomeness that I am going to replicate (my date thinks Steve Jobs is actually something you can dress up as). Luckily, Kerin's husband Nick has offered up his lumberjack manliness and support and will be making a cameo as Paul himself. God bless friends' husbands.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Coping with Birdland
Blog. The summer consequences of this apartment are making themselves apparent.
I expected it to be warm up here in the summer time. I don't have air conditioning and I don't plan on figuring out how one would fit in the french windows I have in this place. That being said, I must invest in a fan sometime soon. The lack of air circulation in here is managable during these early days of June, but if it continues being 80 degrees for the next three months, I'm going to have to take steps to make this place have some generator of cool air that is not my fridge.
How annoying and perfectly Minnesotan of me. Was it only three months ago I was complaining about the bitter winter that wouldn't end? And here it is, over and done with; the sun is out, the snow is melted, and I'm sitting here hemming and hawing about the heat that hasn't even been here for a week. I'm scrapping my complaints and will just focus on the fact that I need a fan up here. I don't need it to be 15 degrees again. That is a stupid temperature that is not welcome here. Unless it's January. Then it can happen but that's only because it's supposed to happen in January and if I'm perfectly honest, I get a little creeped out if it doesn't get that cold in the winter.
I digress. The heat is an obvious and expected summer consequence of living on the second floor of a building that was erected 80 years ago. The not so obvious and unexpected summer consequence that has been made blaringly apparent to me over this weekend is that of the birds, blog. The birds.
They wake up at 5:30 every morning and as a result, so do I. That is when the chirping begins. Oh, how pleasant, you think. You wake up to the melodious tunes of nature right outside of your window every day. How mother nature of you. Yes, it can be pleasant, but I don't need to be up at 5:30 in the morning. In fact, I hate waking up extra early because then I get ready for my day and have extra time before I need to leave for this or that and then I get bored and agitated because I could still be sleeping. So when they wake me up at 5:30, I do just that. I try to go back to sleep. Turns out, going back to sleep is tricky when birds are incessently chirping right outside of your window. But so it goes in the morning. I'm usually out of here by 7:30 anyway so it's not like I have to listen to them all day or anything.
Unless it's the weekend and I have no plans. Then I might end up listening to them all day.
Did you know that birds don't only incessently chirp in the morning, but they do so all day long and into the evening as well? I believe they are currently on hour 14 of chatting away about whatever birdly activities they've been up to today. Seriously birds. What the hell do you have left to say?
"Oh, it's so fun being a bird. Look at me fly, other birds."
"Hey, I made a nest out of twigs and grass and random garbage!"
"I laid an egg! Bitchin'!"
The chirping is also amplified because my window faces the apartment building right next to mine and thus a corridor is created where they prance around all day bouncing their bird sounds off the bricks. Sometimes they'll even fly right up to my window and hang out for a minute or two. It's almost as if they're talking directly to me. What am I, Princess Aurora lost in the woods? Are you guys trying to tell me that that woodsman is actually a prince and I'm really a princess? What's that birds? Watch out for Malificent and her evil spinning wheel! Whatever do you mean? Oh birds! You're so knowledgeable!
I can't help but point out that Amy #3 would be so proud of me comparing my life to that of a Disney movie. If she didn't hate me with her entire being, I might have considered revealing this accomplishment to her. Oh well.
The easy fix to this bird problem would be to just shut my windows. But of course, that would leave my apartment especially sweltering. So I take the good with the bad and keep the fresh air flowing throughout the 400 square feet I call home and let the sounds of urban nature fill its confines. After awhile my ears and mind grow used to the chirping and chattering anyway and I kind of just block it all out of my present being. Of course, once I'm snapped out of that self-induced bird-ignoring trance, it's really hard to get back to into it.
Shhh blog. I think they are growing tired. They're like the fucking energizer bunny all day long, but come 8 or 9 o'clock they grow weary of the fun they've had with their aimless flying, nest building, and attempts to warn me of danger and begin to hunker down for the evening. This leaves me with a few nighttime hours of quiet and solitude, which I take in with the utmost appreciation. It's almost as if I am their mother and once they go to sleep for the night, mama gets out the vodka and enjoys some time to herself.
But between the heat and the birds, this apartment is a great one. I love how small it is here and my desk is right by my window. And while the view isn't so great and the sounds outside can drive me a little nutty, there's something incredibly quaint about writing in you blog, and glancing over to opened french windows that reveal the outside banter of sparrows, traffic, drunks, and people taking out their garbage. What a nice little romantic life this can be.
I expected it to be warm up here in the summer time. I don't have air conditioning and I don't plan on figuring out how one would fit in the french windows I have in this place. That being said, I must invest in a fan sometime soon. The lack of air circulation in here is managable during these early days of June, but if it continues being 80 degrees for the next three months, I'm going to have to take steps to make this place have some generator of cool air that is not my fridge.
How annoying and perfectly Minnesotan of me. Was it only three months ago I was complaining about the bitter winter that wouldn't end? And here it is, over and done with; the sun is out, the snow is melted, and I'm sitting here hemming and hawing about the heat that hasn't even been here for a week. I'm scrapping my complaints and will just focus on the fact that I need a fan up here. I don't need it to be 15 degrees again. That is a stupid temperature that is not welcome here. Unless it's January. Then it can happen but that's only because it's supposed to happen in January and if I'm perfectly honest, I get a little creeped out if it doesn't get that cold in the winter.
I digress. The heat is an obvious and expected summer consequence of living on the second floor of a building that was erected 80 years ago. The not so obvious and unexpected summer consequence that has been made blaringly apparent to me over this weekend is that of the birds, blog. The birds.
They wake up at 5:30 every morning and as a result, so do I. That is when the chirping begins. Oh, how pleasant, you think. You wake up to the melodious tunes of nature right outside of your window every day. How mother nature of you. Yes, it can be pleasant, but I don't need to be up at 5:30 in the morning. In fact, I hate waking up extra early because then I get ready for my day and have extra time before I need to leave for this or that and then I get bored and agitated because I could still be sleeping. So when they wake me up at 5:30, I do just that. I try to go back to sleep. Turns out, going back to sleep is tricky when birds are incessently chirping right outside of your window. But so it goes in the morning. I'm usually out of here by 7:30 anyway so it's not like I have to listen to them all day or anything.
Unless it's the weekend and I have no plans. Then I might end up listening to them all day.
Did you know that birds don't only incessently chirp in the morning, but they do so all day long and into the evening as well? I believe they are currently on hour 14 of chatting away about whatever birdly activities they've been up to today. Seriously birds. What the hell do you have left to say?
"Oh, it's so fun being a bird. Look at me fly, other birds."
"Hey, I made a nest out of twigs and grass and random garbage!"
"I laid an egg! Bitchin'!"
The chirping is also amplified because my window faces the apartment building right next to mine and thus a corridor is created where they prance around all day bouncing their bird sounds off the bricks. Sometimes they'll even fly right up to my window and hang out for a minute or two. It's almost as if they're talking directly to me. What am I, Princess Aurora lost in the woods? Are you guys trying to tell me that that woodsman is actually a prince and I'm really a princess? What's that birds? Watch out for Malificent and her evil spinning wheel! Whatever do you mean? Oh birds! You're so knowledgeable!
 |
| You guys going to bed anytime soon? You're getting annoying. |
The easy fix to this bird problem would be to just shut my windows. But of course, that would leave my apartment especially sweltering. So I take the good with the bad and keep the fresh air flowing throughout the 400 square feet I call home and let the sounds of urban nature fill its confines. After awhile my ears and mind grow used to the chirping and chattering anyway and I kind of just block it all out of my present being. Of course, once I'm snapped out of that self-induced bird-ignoring trance, it's really hard to get back to into it.
Shhh blog. I think they are growing tired. They're like the fucking energizer bunny all day long, but come 8 or 9 o'clock they grow weary of the fun they've had with their aimless flying, nest building, and attempts to warn me of danger and begin to hunker down for the evening. This leaves me with a few nighttime hours of quiet and solitude, which I take in with the utmost appreciation. It's almost as if I am their mother and once they go to sleep for the night, mama gets out the vodka and enjoys some time to herself.
But between the heat and the birds, this apartment is a great one. I love how small it is here and my desk is right by my window. And while the view isn't so great and the sounds outside can drive me a little nutty, there's something incredibly quaint about writing in you blog, and glancing over to opened french windows that reveal the outside banter of sparrows, traffic, drunks, and people taking out their garbage. What a nice little romantic life this can be.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Cabin Fever Anyone?
Blog, I think winter has made me crazy.
First of all, I parked my car on the street today. Well, I park my car on the street whenever I park my car because that is the only place I have to put it around here. Street park, yo. Anyway, because it has been winter for a year and 9 months, there is of course a snow bank along the side of the street that has melted, frozen, accumulated and repeated that process since November. As we now know, the snowbank is that of frozen concrete that turns out to be a complete bitch to try and park your car up against. It also is a complete bitch for others who park on the street as well. I'm also kind of a complete bitch for eying a spot that I'm pretty sure was the exact length of the boat that is my car. But like any woman driver who has been slowly driven mad by old man winter, I thought I could accomplish the impossible. It didn't help that the bitch who parked her (his?) SUV ahead of this spot had done so a good 3 feet away from the snowbank of terror (and fucking old snow) and therefore made it extra tricky to maneuver my carboat into a position that fit within the space I had so stupidly chosen to park.
Long story short, I ended up feeling like that one scene from Austin Powers where he bombs it on the three point turn. Sadly, I wasn't skilled enough to get my car in such a position, so after bumping bitch SUV in front of me and old grandma car behind me for a few minutes, I managed to escape down the street to a space that was much more plausible. However, now I'm faced with the fear that Kerin has instilled in me when it comes to parking on the street in the winter. I'm very conscious of how much my rearview mirror on the passenger side sticks out onto the street for fear of it being clipped off by passing traffic. Because of this fear, and the ample space at hand, I get my car into such a position as to where it is sitting pretty much halfway up the side of the concrete snowbank that lines the street. Technically, it's still on the street despite this since I'm pretty sure that the "curb" is actually 5 feet out from the actual curb that has been buried since April of last year (or November, whatever). My car is the only one parked halfway up a snowbank right now and I don't even care. It looks ridiculous. I was madly laughing the entire time I was getting it into this position. I climbed out the drivers side and found myself balancing on the concrete snow, fumbling to lock my door, laughing maniacally and muttering how stupid winter is. Winter is so stupid. Ha! It is so fucking stupid everyone!!
So that was me getting home. Then I get into my apartment where I proceed to ready myself for the gym. During the process of changing out of my work clothes and into my gym clothes (which I'd like to add are getting increasingly more and more unattractive as the winter goes on because, well, I just don't give a shit anymore), I find myself violently whipping off my shirt and snapping it into my hamper. I'm dancing to stupid music on the radio. I'm stretching in the mirror. I'm giddy with gym excitement. I end up putting on three pairs of pants and two shirts (because it's still winter and fucking cold outside and I can't remember the last time it didn't take me 15 minutes to put on enough clothes to walk out the door, someone help me please). I put on a scarf that ends up making me look like I have a neck brace. I find myself jumping around my apartment, taking longer than necessary to gymify myself. Hair up, hair down, hair up, hair down. Before I know it I'm staring into my liquor cabinet. I catch myself doing this and realize I am looking for my hat and gloves. I'm looking for my hat and gloves in my empty liquor cabinet (sad that it's empty, huh). I think for a moment that my new found internet access can save me and then I decide running two miles on a treadmill is a better solution.
Shit. I only realize now that I forgot to put the incline up to .5 tonight. I'm angrier about this than I should be. Perhaps it's because now I feel like I didn't get an adequate workout. Perhaps it's because running outside doesn't require you to PUSH BUTTONS TO MAKE YOUR FEET GO. I don't know.
I hate everyone at the gym. Everyone is stupid and doesn't know anything. Everyone is obsessed with E! news and commercials. Everyone wants to have giant muscles and to be skinny. Everyone is wearing spandex and shorts that are too short. Everyone is walking around the gym trying to look like they work out all the time instead of actually working out. The girls are all wearing makeup like they're going out on the town or something. Who the fuck wears exorbitant amounts of eyeliner and eyeshadow and mascara to the gym? Seriously, your eyes look more made up than I did at my senior prom, and you're at the gym right now? Who are you? Stop it.
I take pride in the fact that everyone who sees me at the gym probably thinks I'm a big butch lesbian. I don't care. I really don't. You know why? Because I'm not a butch lesbian. I'm a straight girl and I can clean up nice people. And even if I were a butch lesbian, who cares? If I were a butch lesbian, I'd be one of those butch lesbians who looks like she's got a guy body, but really she's got a lady body. Because I'm really a girl just wearing baggy clothes and a sports bra. And if I were a butch lesbian, I'd be wearing baggy clothes and a sports bra because I want to because I'M A BUTCH LESBIAN.
I digress. Winter has made me slightly crazy. I refuse to wear a hat these days. You know why? Because I'm sick of hats. I'm sick of putting shit on my head to keep it warm. I also don't wear gloves or mittens. You know why? Because I lost them all. Yeah, I lost all the mates to my mittens and gloves for this year. It happens every year, I don't know why I'm surprised. I have no complete pairs of mittens or gloves so I've just boycotted them completely. My sick winter mind tells me it'll be warm soon enough to where I don't have to worry about frostbite taking my fingers. It keeps telling me that. I keep believing it. I'm waiting for the day I can comfortably keep my hands out in the air without them turning numb, like the Mormons are waiting for the day they get their own planet. It'll happen. It'll totally happen and it'll happen soon enough.
I'm going to bed. It's time. It's time to push through another winter evening into a new winter day. But that new winter day is one day closer to it not being winter anymore. That being said, who wants to take bets with me that there's still going to be snow on the ground in May? I'm 99% sure this is going to happen people, but God help me if I'm wearing a hat when we find out...
First of all, I parked my car on the street today. Well, I park my car on the street whenever I park my car because that is the only place I have to put it around here. Street park, yo. Anyway, because it has been winter for a year and 9 months, there is of course a snow bank along the side of the street that has melted, frozen, accumulated and repeated that process since November. As we now know, the snowbank is that of frozen concrete that turns out to be a complete bitch to try and park your car up against. It also is a complete bitch for others who park on the street as well. I'm also kind of a complete bitch for eying a spot that I'm pretty sure was the exact length of the boat that is my car. But like any woman driver who has been slowly driven mad by old man winter, I thought I could accomplish the impossible. It didn't help that the bitch who parked her (his?) SUV ahead of this spot had done so a good 3 feet away from the snowbank of terror (and fucking old snow) and therefore made it extra tricky to maneuver my carboat into a position that fit within the space I had so stupidly chosen to park.
Long story short, I ended up feeling like that one scene from Austin Powers where he bombs it on the three point turn. Sadly, I wasn't skilled enough to get my car in such a position, so after bumping bitch SUV in front of me and old grandma car behind me for a few minutes, I managed to escape down the street to a space that was much more plausible. However, now I'm faced with the fear that Kerin has instilled in me when it comes to parking on the street in the winter. I'm very conscious of how much my rearview mirror on the passenger side sticks out onto the street for fear of it being clipped off by passing traffic. Because of this fear, and the ample space at hand, I get my car into such a position as to where it is sitting pretty much halfway up the side of the concrete snowbank that lines the street. Technically, it's still on the street despite this since I'm pretty sure that the "curb" is actually 5 feet out from the actual curb that has been buried since April of last year (or November, whatever). My car is the only one parked halfway up a snowbank right now and I don't even care. It looks ridiculous. I was madly laughing the entire time I was getting it into this position. I climbed out the drivers side and found myself balancing on the concrete snow, fumbling to lock my door, laughing maniacally and muttering how stupid winter is. Winter is so stupid. Ha! It is so fucking stupid everyone!!
So that was me getting home. Then I get into my apartment where I proceed to ready myself for the gym. During the process of changing out of my work clothes and into my gym clothes (which I'd like to add are getting increasingly more and more unattractive as the winter goes on because, well, I just don't give a shit anymore), I find myself violently whipping off my shirt and snapping it into my hamper. I'm dancing to stupid music on the radio. I'm stretching in the mirror. I'm giddy with gym excitement. I end up putting on three pairs of pants and two shirts (because it's still winter and fucking cold outside and I can't remember the last time it didn't take me 15 minutes to put on enough clothes to walk out the door, someone help me please). I put on a scarf that ends up making me look like I have a neck brace. I find myself jumping around my apartment, taking longer than necessary to gymify myself. Hair up, hair down, hair up, hair down. Before I know it I'm staring into my liquor cabinet. I catch myself doing this and realize I am looking for my hat and gloves. I'm looking for my hat and gloves in my empty liquor cabinet (sad that it's empty, huh). I think for a moment that my new found internet access can save me and then I decide running two miles on a treadmill is a better solution.
Shit. I only realize now that I forgot to put the incline up to .5 tonight. I'm angrier about this than I should be. Perhaps it's because now I feel like I didn't get an adequate workout. Perhaps it's because running outside doesn't require you to PUSH BUTTONS TO MAKE YOUR FEET GO. I don't know.
I hate everyone at the gym. Everyone is stupid and doesn't know anything. Everyone is obsessed with E! news and commercials. Everyone wants to have giant muscles and to be skinny. Everyone is wearing spandex and shorts that are too short. Everyone is walking around the gym trying to look like they work out all the time instead of actually working out. The girls are all wearing makeup like they're going out on the town or something. Who the fuck wears exorbitant amounts of eyeliner and eyeshadow and mascara to the gym? Seriously, your eyes look more made up than I did at my senior prom, and you're at the gym right now? Who are you? Stop it.
I take pride in the fact that everyone who sees me at the gym probably thinks I'm a big butch lesbian. I don't care. I really don't. You know why? Because I'm not a butch lesbian. I'm a straight girl and I can clean up nice people. And even if I were a butch lesbian, who cares? If I were a butch lesbian, I'd be one of those butch lesbians who looks like she's got a guy body, but really she's got a lady body. Because I'm really a girl just wearing baggy clothes and a sports bra. And if I were a butch lesbian, I'd be wearing baggy clothes and a sports bra because I want to because I'M A BUTCH LESBIAN.
I digress. Winter has made me slightly crazy. I refuse to wear a hat these days. You know why? Because I'm sick of hats. I'm sick of putting shit on my head to keep it warm. I also don't wear gloves or mittens. You know why? Because I lost them all. Yeah, I lost all the mates to my mittens and gloves for this year. It happens every year, I don't know why I'm surprised. I have no complete pairs of mittens or gloves so I've just boycotted them completely. My sick winter mind tells me it'll be warm soon enough to where I don't have to worry about frostbite taking my fingers. It keeps telling me that. I keep believing it. I'm waiting for the day I can comfortably keep my hands out in the air without them turning numb, like the Mormons are waiting for the day they get their own planet. It'll happen. It'll totally happen and it'll happen soon enough.
I'm going to bed. It's time. It's time to push through another winter evening into a new winter day. But that new winter day is one day closer to it not being winter anymore. That being said, who wants to take bets with me that there's still going to be snow on the ground in May? I'm 99% sure this is going to happen people, but God help me if I'm wearing a hat when we find out...
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Winter Hasn't Gotten Long Yet, But That Doesn't Mean It's Awesome
I'm going to put myself out there and be totally Minnesotan and write about winter today. What I'm not going to do is act all tough and self righteous and brag about how oh so cold it is here and how oh so snowy it is here and how it's totally winter and we are a hearty people for putting up with this sort of weather for 6 months out of the year. Can you say pet peeve? I can.
Ever since I moved to Minnesota so many years ago, I noticed that the people here are very into exaggerating the woes of winter into something I find completely extraordinary and ridiculous. Did you know it gets to be -80 degrees in Minnesota during the winter time? Did you know they get 2 feet of snow in one sitting? I didn't know these things either! But luckily I met people who told me these things in a manner that had the essence of forced aloofess so I would be prone to gawk at how they weren't phased by the fact that they live in the next best thing to Antarctica.
That's it. I'm making a list.
Exaggeration: Winter in Minnesota lasts six months out of the year.
Reality: While it depends on the winter, I usually bank on it being between four to five months long. Usually it starts getting pretty wintery sometime in late November/early December and eases up in mid March. A six month winter would mean that snowy and cold winter weather would start in November and not end until the end of April. While I have experienced strong winter storms both at the beginning of November and at the end of April, they are few and far between and wouldn't happen in the same winter. My April blizzard experience, which can be re-experienced here was a one off situation that is not normal. In fact it was pretty ridiculous.
Exaggeration: Anything above zero degrees is balmy.
Reality: This is stupid. Of course it is going to be balls to the wall cold if it is 1 degree outside. You know what? It' also going to balls cold if it is 14 degrees outside. I know this because this morning it was 14 degrees outside and I wanted to die during my one block walk from the bus to work. Yes, I have experienced those cold snaps that last a week or two where it does indeed get to be 20 below, and in the following weeks 14 degrees doesn't feel too bad, but that's not how winter is in Minnesota. It only happens a couple weeks out of the year, usually in January. After that we continue on with shivering through at average temperatures in the teens and twenties.
Exaggeration: Yeah. Try living in Minnesota where it has 40 below zero winters.
Reality: This is a flat out lie. I went to school in Bemidji, Minnesota which tends to be roughly 10 degrees colder than most anywhere else in the state. The coldest it got during a snap one year was maybe 40 below. And you know what? It was for a week. It wasn't for months and months on end. It was a week. This shit happens every year in January or February and the weathermen can't contain themselves. From the way they talk about it, you'd think they'd never seen a temp drop below zero. It happens every year. Then the Minnesotans go and travel to places that are kind of warm and insinuate that we all live in ridiculously frigid temperatures for months on end. No. We don't. It's usually 15 - 25 degrees in the winter time. Yes, this is still cold and I explained above, but don't get too excited about deadly cold happening all the time. It's a lie.
I think I complain about this every year. But it just bothers me! Why can't people accept their surroundings and just realize that they live in a state that has crap weather for 4 to 5 months out of the year, but it's not crappy enough for special recognition? There are plenty of other places that have it much worse than Minnesota. Ever hear of Canada? Alaska? Siberia? Just to name a few. I may hate winter, but I really when people brag about it.
Ever since I moved to Minnesota so many years ago, I noticed that the people here are very into exaggerating the woes of winter into something I find completely extraordinary and ridiculous. Did you know it gets to be -80 degrees in Minnesota during the winter time? Did you know they get 2 feet of snow in one sitting? I didn't know these things either! But luckily I met people who told me these things in a manner that had the essence of forced aloofess so I would be prone to gawk at how they weren't phased by the fact that they live in the next best thing to Antarctica.
That's it. I'm making a list.
Exaggeration: Winter in Minnesota lasts six months out of the year.
Reality: While it depends on the winter, I usually bank on it being between four to five months long. Usually it starts getting pretty wintery sometime in late November/early December and eases up in mid March. A six month winter would mean that snowy and cold winter weather would start in November and not end until the end of April. While I have experienced strong winter storms both at the beginning of November and at the end of April, they are few and far between and wouldn't happen in the same winter. My April blizzard experience, which can be re-experienced here was a one off situation that is not normal. In fact it was pretty ridiculous.
Exaggeration: Anything above zero degrees is balmy.
Reality: This is stupid. Of course it is going to be balls to the wall cold if it is 1 degree outside. You know what? It' also going to balls cold if it is 14 degrees outside. I know this because this morning it was 14 degrees outside and I wanted to die during my one block walk from the bus to work. Yes, I have experienced those cold snaps that last a week or two where it does indeed get to be 20 below, and in the following weeks 14 degrees doesn't feel too bad, but that's not how winter is in Minnesota. It only happens a couple weeks out of the year, usually in January. After that we continue on with shivering through at average temperatures in the teens and twenties.
Exaggeration: Yeah. Try living in Minnesota where it has 40 below zero winters.
Reality: This is a flat out lie. I went to school in Bemidji, Minnesota which tends to be roughly 10 degrees colder than most anywhere else in the state. The coldest it got during a snap one year was maybe 40 below. And you know what? It was for a week. It wasn't for months and months on end. It was a week. This shit happens every year in January or February and the weathermen can't contain themselves. From the way they talk about it, you'd think they'd never seen a temp drop below zero. It happens every year. Then the Minnesotans go and travel to places that are kind of warm and insinuate that we all live in ridiculously frigid temperatures for months on end. No. We don't. It's usually 15 - 25 degrees in the winter time. Yes, this is still cold and I explained above, but don't get too excited about deadly cold happening all the time. It's a lie.
I think I complain about this every year. But it just bothers me! Why can't people accept their surroundings and just realize that they live in a state that has crap weather for 4 to 5 months out of the year, but it's not crappy enough for special recognition? There are plenty of other places that have it much worse than Minnesota. Ever hear of Canada? Alaska? Siberia? Just to name a few. I may hate winter, but I really when people brag about it.
Beer makes everything better.
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