Driving home from work tonight, in rush hour on I-15, I started to change lanes, moving left while talking on the phone to my mom. Halfway across, a truck that had been in my blind spot loomed suddenly beside me, god, like, inches away. I whipped the steering wheel to the right, over correcting, and felt the back of my car swing wide into the left lane. I forced the wheel back left, and felt the car swing into the right lane.
I don't know what happened after that...my car spun out of control, fully to the right so that I came to a stop facing oncoming traffic. I managed to avoid all the other cars on the road; I hit no one. I drove the rest of the way home gripping the steering wheel and feeling nauseous, but without a scratch.
Man, I'm lucky.
Ok, universe, I get it. It's time to stop complaining and start making things happen.
2.17.2010
2.08.2010
Now I Talk at You
Let's talk about the Superbowl commercials. As an ad writer, it's my job to find the funniest/most clever spots, and then rip them off. If my work in the next year looks like any of the stuff below, don't say I didn't warn you.
1. Officially it's known as the Budweiser "Fences" spot, but I like to call it: Why I will never eat animals again. Now I want a calf. And a foal.
2. I thought the CareerBuilder ads were all spot on. With unemployment sky high and the country treading economic water, the business of finding a job is serious enough. That's why these light-hearted 30-second spots delighted me so much. Also, they used consumer-generated content (the only ads of the bowl to do so, I believe)! Here's my favorite of the three:
3. I love this spot because it cast several members of the Guest Comedy Troupe. And because it's so like a pre-pro meeting, and in fact every meeting I've ever been to. Plus, the message within the message is a good trick--people are learning without even realizing it.
4. Monster.com also kept the job-hunting reminder light, which was well-advised. Of course I love this spot. A rags to riches storyline, furry animals, a nonsensical leap (asking the viewers to accept a fiddling beaver with no explanation)...it's all there.
5. I thought the Google spot was lovely, right down to the music. How interesting that we could all follow and maybe even identify with the story, told via tools that weren't even invented the last time the Saints played in the Superbowl.
Oh, and here's what I thought about some of the other ads:
1. Budwesier "Book Club" -- Ugh. Reverting to the typical male archetype of dumb, horny, beer swiller? Come on. You can do better.
2. Bridgestone, both spots: Meh. Too reliant on pop culture, plus grossly expensive productions with little purpose. And the "life/wife" thing? Old joke.
3. E-Trade talking babies: I thought they were creepy when they debuted a couple years ago, I think they're creepy now.
1. Officially it's known as the Budweiser "Fences" spot, but I like to call it: Why I will never eat animals again. Now I want a calf. And a foal.
2. I thought the CareerBuilder ads were all spot on. With unemployment sky high and the country treading economic water, the business of finding a job is serious enough. That's why these light-hearted 30-second spots delighted me so much. Also, they used consumer-generated content (the only ads of the bowl to do so, I believe)! Here's my favorite of the three:
3. I love this spot because it cast several members of the Guest Comedy Troupe. And because it's so like a pre-pro meeting, and in fact every meeting I've ever been to. Plus, the message within the message is a good trick--people are learning without even realizing it.
4. Monster.com also kept the job-hunting reminder light, which was well-advised. Of course I love this spot. A rags to riches storyline, furry animals, a nonsensical leap (asking the viewers to accept a fiddling beaver with no explanation)...it's all there.
5. I thought the Google spot was lovely, right down to the music. How interesting that we could all follow and maybe even identify with the story, told via tools that weren't even invented the last time the Saints played in the Superbowl.
Oh, and here's what I thought about some of the other ads:
1. Budwesier "Book Club" -- Ugh. Reverting to the typical male archetype of dumb, horny, beer swiller? Come on. You can do better.
2. Bridgestone, both spots: Meh. Too reliant on pop culture, plus grossly expensive productions with little purpose. And the "life/wife" thing? Old joke.
3. E-Trade talking babies: I thought they were creepy when they debuted a couple years ago, I think they're creepy now.
1.28.2010
1.27.2010
A Start
Sartorial satisfaction in the form of a new tunic:
Creative inspiration from Heather Ross's Far Far Away fabric line. Unicorns. Obviously.
Something to look forward to: a trip to the shore with my mom, followed by a journey here for a sewing workshop.
Enjoying the moment: Dinner with a friend. A fire in the stove. To bed at 8:30.The dogs sleeping on my feet.
Finding joy in the unexpected: Arnie in training to be a Therapy Dog. And I'm proud to say that his training is going very, very well. It's been fascinating for me to see how quickly he learns, how he wants to learn--just soaks up information and cues. It seems to make him super happy, too--he wags his tail the whole time we're training. He's going to be a wonderful therapy animal.
A new approach: I called a few schools today and asked about graphic design courses. There are no fashion design or merchandising courses in Utah, so I'll gladly settle for some graphic design coursework to learn how to use the software and some of the basic elements of color, layout, etc. I'm excited to see where it leads.
Dreamtime: I visited the Aga website today and requested a catalog. I've wanted an Aga (in midnight or robin's egg) for years and years. Someday I'll have the kitchen for one. In the meantime, I'll have inspiration.
Creative inspiration from Heather Ross's Far Far Away fabric line. Unicorns. Obviously.
Something to look forward to: a trip to the shore with my mom, followed by a journey here for a sewing workshop.
Enjoying the moment: Dinner with a friend. A fire in the stove. To bed at 8:30.The dogs sleeping on my feet.
Finding joy in the unexpected: Arnie in training to be a Therapy Dog. And I'm proud to say that his training is going very, very well. It's been fascinating for me to see how quickly he learns, how he wants to learn--just soaks up information and cues. It seems to make him super happy, too--he wags his tail the whole time we're training. He's going to be a wonderful therapy animal.
A new approach: I called a few schools today and asked about graphic design courses. There are no fashion design or merchandising courses in Utah, so I'll gladly settle for some graphic design coursework to learn how to use the software and some of the basic elements of color, layout, etc. I'm excited to see where it leads.
Dreamtime: I visited the Aga website today and requested a catalog. I've wanted an Aga (in midnight or robin's egg) for years and years. Someday I'll have the kitchen for one. In the meantime, I'll have inspiration.
1.26.2010
1.24.2010
A Sense of Direction, Volume I
I'm terrible at setting goals. I over or under estimate my capabilities, or give up along the way.
It's not that I don't like accomplishing things. Even the smallest action (paying AT&T the minute I get my phone bill or getting all the laundry washed, dried, folded and put away) makes me happy. We Cancerians love to feel needed and important, and achieving goals ticks both boxes.
So I recognize how important it is to accomplish goals, but I also know how awful it feels to give up on them. It’s worse than actually failing.
I recently read The
The whole idea is that we hit roadblocks (or “dips”) in everything we do. Whether learning to knit, completing a project at work, speaking a new language, or forging a new relationship—-there comes a lull. What Godin says (which is perfectly obvious), is that we need to realize when we’ve hit a dip, and then decide whether it’s worth pressing on and getting through the hard part, or if it's a waste of time, and then turn our attention elsewhere.
The key to getting through, he continues, is not being content with the Dip, but working hard to go forward. Try new tactics, keep an open mind, ask for help…just don’t get comfortable spinning your wheels, because that leads nowhere.
I’ve been dwelling in the dip for a long, long time. I like my job, but it’s just a job, not something I’m passionate about. I’m good at lots of sports and activities, but I don’t excel at any. I feel ok, but I don’t feel like I’m really psyched about anything.
This is tough, because some of the most important people in my life are professional or near-professional athletes, driven by the exact monomaniacal focus I seem to lack. Or they’ve identified the thing they want to do most in the world and have made a career out of it. They are passionate and driven and goal-oriented. While they sail ahead, I search for my flip flop in the gloppy, murky water near shore.
With leeches.
And water moccasins.
Obviously, this is another of my shortsighted, spoiled-brat complaints. I’m creating a problem where there really isn’t one (I do it all the time…just ask Brad).
Except, this is a little different. Yes, everything is ok, but I know it could be better, and I know that something within me is getting in the way of “better.”
I tend to lose momentum. I set a goal-—something totally doable-—but distraction or lack of motivation gets in the way of training or practicing or whatever I have to do to stay on track.
So what causes that lack of motivation? Maybe it coincides with the training getting hard (right around the day of the 18-miler in marathon training, for example), or maybe it has more to do with a mountain of dirty laundry, two dogs who need exercise and attention, a house that needs to be cleaned, and a marriage that needs to be nurtured.
Or maybe those are just excuses.
I’ve practiced Bikram Yoga on and off for 13 years. I’ve had dozens of instructors, but McKell was my favorite.
She offered an authentic calm that quieted the room and kept me focused on my own practice, not distracted by the leaner, stronger bodies around me. That calm belied a driven, goal-oriented woman, though, one who just opened her own Bikram studio in Kauai.
That news struck me because I don't associate "calm" with "driven." When I think of people achieving goals, I think of the chronic Facebook updaters, the people who tell you how many miles they ran that day, how hard they climbed, how accomplished they are. I don't think about the quiet strength I felt from McKell, which obviously works for her--goal achieved, studio opened.
I've said before that I don't want to talk about my goals because I don't want to have to report that I've failed or given up. It feels easier just to think about them on my own and either achieve them or not, without having to lose face if the outcome is "not."
But that's isolating, and when I think about the five years I've lived here, I can identify a pattern of isolation that's done absolutely nothing for me. I left the industry I love, which, for a while, was a good choice. I needed to learn new skills, needed to look at work from a different angle. I stopped climbing because I was tired of being average. I'd been in the Dip for a decade, and I didn't know how to push through. Training harder just injured me, and I tell you, I was tired of spending all my time doing something that made me feel bad, and feel bad about myself.
Half a decade later, I realize this: I've simply been avoiding putting in the hard work. Not just with climbing. With everything. I feel far away from Brad, from my friends, from the sports that fulfill me and the activities that make me feel good.
Rather than, "I want to improve my guitar skills," or, "I want to speak better Spanish," perhaps I should be saying, "I want to rejoin the world."
Blogging, while therapeutic at times, creates an environment of introspection that isn't always good for me. After writing an entry about what I need to improve, how I need to better myself, it's hard for me to face real people, because I feel worthless, and am sure they agree.
And much of what I've written about here, on this blog, is just filler. The "likes" and "ums" of the conversation of my life, the stuff I say when I don't want to get to the point.
The point is this: I've lost my sense of direction. While people around me are focusing on what matters to them and achieving their personal goals, I haven't had a real goal since 1998, when I decided to go to Nepal for a while.
So that's it. In 2010, I resolve to find my sense of direction.
Maybe I'm setting myself up for failure by making such a vague, non-quantifiable resolution, but without first finding out where I want to go, how can I possibly do anything else? Nothing matters much when I don't know how, or even if, it relates to the big picture. Who cares if I climb well, if climbing doesn't fit into the grand plan?
And anyway, I think it is quantifiable, if not exactly describable. I'll know when I figure it out. I'll know because I'll resemble the girl who had her sights set on Nepal, and figured out exactly what she needed to do to get there--arranging grants and housing and airfare and a thesis topic.
To find my way, I have to identify the things that I really care about--the things I can use to help me push through the Dip.
That'll be a happier post, I promise. Stay tuned for Volume II.
It's not that I don't like accomplishing things. Even the smallest action (paying AT&T the minute I get my phone bill or getting all the laundry washed, dried, folded and put away) makes me happy. We Cancerians love to feel needed and important, and achieving goals ticks both boxes.
So I recognize how important it is to accomplish goals, but I also know how awful it feels to give up on them. It’s worse than actually failing.
I recently read The
The whole idea is that we hit roadblocks (or “dips”) in everything we do. Whether learning to knit, completing a project at work, speaking a new language, or forging a new relationship—-there comes a lull. What Godin says (which is perfectly obvious), is that we need to realize when we’ve hit a dip, and then decide whether it’s worth pressing on and getting through the hard part, or if it's a waste of time, and then turn our attention elsewhere.
The key to getting through, he continues, is not being content with the Dip, but working hard to go forward. Try new tactics, keep an open mind, ask for help…just don’t get comfortable spinning your wheels, because that leads nowhere.
I’ve been dwelling in the dip for a long, long time. I like my job, but it’s just a job, not something I’m passionate about. I’m good at lots of sports and activities, but I don’t excel at any. I feel ok, but I don’t feel like I’m really psyched about anything.
This is tough, because some of the most important people in my life are professional or near-professional athletes, driven by the exact monomaniacal focus I seem to lack. Or they’ve identified the thing they want to do most in the world and have made a career out of it. They are passionate and driven and goal-oriented. While they sail ahead, I search for my flip flop in the gloppy, murky water near shore.
With leeches.
And water moccasins.
Obviously, this is another of my shortsighted, spoiled-brat complaints. I’m creating a problem where there really isn’t one (I do it all the time…just ask Brad).
Except, this is a little different. Yes, everything is ok, but I know it could be better, and I know that something within me is getting in the way of “better.”
I tend to lose momentum. I set a goal-—something totally doable-—but distraction or lack of motivation gets in the way of training or practicing or whatever I have to do to stay on track.
So what causes that lack of motivation? Maybe it coincides with the training getting hard (right around the day of the 18-miler in marathon training, for example), or maybe it has more to do with a mountain of dirty laundry, two dogs who need exercise and attention, a house that needs to be cleaned, and a marriage that needs to be nurtured.
Or maybe those are just excuses.
I’ve practiced Bikram Yoga on and off for 13 years. I’ve had dozens of instructors, but McKell was my favorite.
She offered an authentic calm that quieted the room and kept me focused on my own practice, not distracted by the leaner, stronger bodies around me. That calm belied a driven, goal-oriented woman, though, one who just opened her own Bikram studio in Kauai.
That news struck me because I don't associate "calm" with "driven." When I think of people achieving goals, I think of the chronic Facebook updaters, the people who tell you how many miles they ran that day, how hard they climbed, how accomplished they are. I don't think about the quiet strength I felt from McKell, which obviously works for her--goal achieved, studio opened.
I've said before that I don't want to talk about my goals because I don't want to have to report that I've failed or given up. It feels easier just to think about them on my own and either achieve them or not, without having to lose face if the outcome is "not."
But that's isolating, and when I think about the five years I've lived here, I can identify a pattern of isolation that's done absolutely nothing for me. I left the industry I love, which, for a while, was a good choice. I needed to learn new skills, needed to look at work from a different angle. I stopped climbing because I was tired of being average. I'd been in the Dip for a decade, and I didn't know how to push through. Training harder just injured me, and I tell you, I was tired of spending all my time doing something that made me feel bad, and feel bad about myself.
Half a decade later, I realize this: I've simply been avoiding putting in the hard work. Not just with climbing. With everything. I feel far away from Brad, from my friends, from the sports that fulfill me and the activities that make me feel good.
Rather than, "I want to improve my guitar skills," or, "I want to speak better Spanish," perhaps I should be saying, "I want to rejoin the world."
Blogging, while therapeutic at times, creates an environment of introspection that isn't always good for me. After writing an entry about what I need to improve, how I need to better myself, it's hard for me to face real people, because I feel worthless, and am sure they agree.
And much of what I've written about here, on this blog, is just filler. The "likes" and "ums" of the conversation of my life, the stuff I say when I don't want to get to the point.
The point is this: I've lost my sense of direction. While people around me are focusing on what matters to them and achieving their personal goals, I haven't had a real goal since 1998, when I decided to go to Nepal for a while.
So that's it. In 2010, I resolve to find my sense of direction.
Maybe I'm setting myself up for failure by making such a vague, non-quantifiable resolution, but without first finding out where I want to go, how can I possibly do anything else? Nothing matters much when I don't know how, or even if, it relates to the big picture. Who cares if I climb well, if climbing doesn't fit into the grand plan?
And anyway, I think it is quantifiable, if not exactly describable. I'll know when I figure it out. I'll know because I'll resemble the girl who had her sights set on Nepal, and figured out exactly what she needed to do to get there--arranging grants and housing and airfare and a thesis topic.
To find my way, I have to identify the things that I really care about--the things I can use to help me push through the Dip.
That'll be a happier post, I promise. Stay tuned for Volume II.
1.13.2010
Sesame Street Will Save the World
If I ever have children of the non-canine variety, I want to expose them to music and theatre at an early age. I was lucky enough to grow up with lots of opportunities to be creative and expressive: singing, playing the piano, acting in the local children's playhouse (well, not so much "acting," as dressing up in animal costumes and talking in funny voices).
I was encouraged to step, however tentatively and sometimes wearing a badger or flying monkey costume, into new arenas. It was a wonderful way to grow up.
That's why I can't say enough good about this interaction between Elmo and Andrea Bocelli. The original song, Con Te Partiro, is wildly popular, part of the neo-opera style that horrifies traditionalists but serves as an ideal gateway from inane lyrics and beats to proper liberetto and accompaniment. It's the marijuana of music.
But really, what a cool thing to introduce to kids. Just as Warner Brothers introduced generations of children to classics like Wagner's "Ride of the Valkeries" (Kill Da Wabbit) and "The Flying Dutchman" (really, we owe so much to Wagner), so is Sesame Street educating kids on subjects beyond the surface, subjects that will make then sensitive, perceptive, critical-thinking adults.
And maybe that's what we need: a generation of artists to silence the philistines that have garnered so much power, so much of the national voice. Imagine if, instead of footage of rednecks turning left, networks aired opera on Sunday afternoons. Or art-history programs.
I know. So absurd I sound naive and whiny just bringing it up. Plus, that's why we have PBS--so fruits like me don't complain about Nascar (news flash: I will always complain about Nascar).
Still, though. By hacking music and art programs, schools in Utah and everywhere else are sending the message that the skills one develops through those pursuits--perception, sensitivity, subtlety, awareness of space, knowing when to be bold and when to be soft--aren't important, aren't worth as much as sports and math and dissecting pickled pig fetuses. (Truly a lesson from which I learned absolutely nothing, except that my lab partner, who wrapped said pig's intestine around his neck, was seriously fucked up.)
But ENOUGH out of me. Let's let Elmo and Andrea take over, all charm, funny lyrics and kind intentions. "Lay down, here is your bear, you have had such a wonderful day, playing and counting to 20..." And oh my god, that dancing, slow-motion bear? Please!
I was encouraged to step, however tentatively and sometimes wearing a badger or flying monkey costume, into new arenas. It was a wonderful way to grow up.
That's why I can't say enough good about this interaction between Elmo and Andrea Bocelli. The original song, Con Te Partiro, is wildly popular, part of the neo-opera style that horrifies traditionalists but serves as an ideal gateway from inane lyrics and beats to proper liberetto and accompaniment. It's the marijuana of music.
But really, what a cool thing to introduce to kids. Just as Warner Brothers introduced generations of children to classics like Wagner's "Ride of the Valkeries" (Kill Da Wabbit) and "The Flying Dutchman" (really, we owe so much to Wagner), so is Sesame Street educating kids on subjects beyond the surface, subjects that will make then sensitive, perceptive, critical-thinking adults.
And maybe that's what we need: a generation of artists to silence the philistines that have garnered so much power, so much of the national voice. Imagine if, instead of footage of rednecks turning left, networks aired opera on Sunday afternoons. Or art-history programs.
I know. So absurd I sound naive and whiny just bringing it up. Plus, that's why we have PBS--so fruits like me don't complain about Nascar (news flash: I will always complain about Nascar).
Still, though. By hacking music and art programs, schools in Utah and everywhere else are sending the message that the skills one develops through those pursuits--perception, sensitivity, subtlety, awareness of space, knowing when to be bold and when to be soft--aren't important, aren't worth as much as sports and math and dissecting pickled pig fetuses. (Truly a lesson from which I learned absolutely nothing, except that my lab partner, who wrapped said pig's intestine around his neck, was seriously fucked up.)
But ENOUGH out of me. Let's let Elmo and Andrea take over, all charm, funny lyrics and kind intentions. "Lay down, here is your bear, you have had such a wonderful day, playing and counting to 20..." And oh my god, that dancing, slow-motion bear? Please!
1.07.2010
I’d Rather Be Blogging or, Why Everyone Needs a Golden Retriever
Sorry for the lack of new posts.
Work is kicking my ass.
I’m not helping matters, regularly flinging my arms about and stomping around. I should probably lay off the Diva Juice.
Anyway, I have big plans for 2010, and can’t wait to share them with you.
I’ll do that, I promise.
Soon.
In the meantime, have you heard about the Golden Retriever who protected her owner from a cougar?
Like I needed another reason to love Goldens.
Here's a sneak peak of what's to come (Arnie skiing with us in the Sierra):
Work is kicking my ass.
I’m not helping matters, regularly flinging my arms about and stomping around. I should probably lay off the Diva Juice.
Anyway, I have big plans for 2010, and can’t wait to share them with you.
I’ll do that, I promise.
Soon.
In the meantime, have you heard about the Golden Retriever who protected her owner from a cougar?
Like I needed another reason to love Goldens.
Here's a sneak peak of what's to come (Arnie skiing with us in the Sierra):
12.23.2009
A little something for everyone
I'm looking forward to some time off between Christmas and the New Year. Obviously, I'm excited to ski and run and play with the dogs (that's like saying, "I'm excited to breathe and consume oxygen."), but I'm also looking forward to making progress on my new quilt top, binding my first ever quilt (!), and completing some cross-stitching projects. (Yes, the f-word is always funny. Why do you ask?)
Here's one pattern I won't be completing, though. In fact, I shall now delete my browsing history and never return to this page again.
Till I write again, enjoy this iphone shot of our tiny tree flanked with delightful treats for Brad, the animals, and, perhaps, moi!
Here's one pattern I won't be completing, though. In fact, I shall now delete my browsing history and never return to this page again.
Till I write again, enjoy this iphone shot of our tiny tree flanked with delightful treats for Brad, the animals, and, perhaps, moi!
Cousin Eddie
We all have a Cousin Eddie.
A socially inappropriate, tight-pants-wearing, slicked-back-hair-having, offensive in every way relative who makes you cringe every time he (or she, I suppose) opens his mouth. Cousin Eddie is loud, embarrassing, and seemingly does things only to drive you batty.
And most of the time, he succeeds.
Not this year, though. Thanks to the helpful PSA below, we can all learn to identify Cousin Eddies before they've reached their full humiliation (of themselves and others) potential. I know I'll be paying close attention to the warning sign:
A socially inappropriate, tight-pants-wearing, slicked-back-hair-having, offensive in every way relative who makes you cringe every time he (or she, I suppose) opens his mouth. Cousin Eddie is loud, embarrassing, and seemingly does things only to drive you batty.
And most of the time, he succeeds.
Not this year, though. Thanks to the helpful PSA below, we can all learn to identify Cousin Eddies before they've reached their full humiliation (of themselves and others) potential. I know I'll be paying close attention to the warning sign:
12.16.2009
A bit much
Want:
From the terribly British sounding Cox & Cox. 85 pounds is a hefty price for a pillow, though, especially considering my dogs' tendencies to drag pillows about the house so they always have a soft place to lay their furry heads.
Maybe I'll make one. I bought the pattern for this quilt a while ago:
....so perhaps I'll make both, get all my British ya-yas (yes-yesses?) out, and then be done with the Union Jack for a while.
Not (bloody) likely, though, as I am currently carrying a Union Jack wallet, wearing Wolford tights, pulling on my wellies as often as is reasonable, mainlining Earl Grey, and cyber-stalking every British blogger I come across.
I'm having flashbacks to that episode of Arrested Development where Michael starts dating Rita (the MRF) and peppers his Californian vernacular with the Queen's English. Bloody hell.
From the terribly British sounding Cox & Cox. 85 pounds is a hefty price for a pillow, though, especially considering my dogs' tendencies to drag pillows about the house so they always have a soft place to lay their furry heads.
Maybe I'll make one. I bought the pattern for this quilt a while ago:
....so perhaps I'll make both, get all my British ya-yas (yes-yesses?) out, and then be done with the Union Jack for a while.
Not (bloody) likely, though, as I am currently carrying a Union Jack wallet, wearing Wolford tights, pulling on my wellies as often as is reasonable, mainlining Earl Grey, and cyber-stalking every British blogger I come across.
I'm having flashbacks to that episode of Arrested Development where Michael starts dating Rita (the MRF) and peppers his Californian vernacular with the Queen's English. Bloody hell.
12.15.2009
A sneak preview....
We asked our friend and housemate, the extraordinary photographer Matthew Turley, to take some photos of our pack. We wanted to send our loved ones holiday cards with our photo on them because, well, isn't it obvious? I mean, it's a photo of us! Hello?! Make room on the mantle!
Some of you will receive one of the cards soon, so I'm sorry for ruining the surprise (but really, when I emailed you asking for your address, what did you think would happen?). I know other bloggers suspend the big reveal until their cards have landed, but not me. I can't wait. Patience is for punks.
And anyway, these are the out takes, not the photo we went with for the card, so you'll still be a little bit surprised.
I love this one, because it's a wonderful example of Arnie's earnestness. There's huge activity happening here--people talking, people moving around--but Arnie is saying, as he often does, "Hey, mom, do you want to talk about it? I'm right here if you need me. In the meantime, let's just hold paws." Red is, naturally, very suspicious of the whole thing.
And in this one, you get a great sense of how we spend most of our time. Talking to the animals. We're just like the Doolittles.
And just in case you started to get a little too comfortable, Red is here to remind you that you're on thin ice, pal.
Some of you will receive one of the cards soon, so I'm sorry for ruining the surprise (but really, when I emailed you asking for your address, what did you think would happen?). I know other bloggers suspend the big reveal until their cards have landed, but not me. I can't wait. Patience is for punks.
And anyway, these are the out takes, not the photo we went with for the card, so you'll still be a little bit surprised.
I love this one, because it's a wonderful example of Arnie's earnestness. There's huge activity happening here--people talking, people moving around--but Arnie is saying, as he often does, "Hey, mom, do you want to talk about it? I'm right here if you need me. In the meantime, let's just hold paws." Red is, naturally, very suspicious of the whole thing.
And in this one, you get a great sense of how we spend most of our time. Talking to the animals. We're just like the Doolittles.
And just in case you started to get a little too comfortable, Red is here to remind you that you're on thin ice, pal.
12.10.2009
She Likes to Be Different
With all the Mormons here in Utah, the celebration of Christmas is just sort of assumed, and few thoughts are spared for the other celebrations that take place at the end of December.
I’m not Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, or anything at all. My beliefs are most aligned with Paganism, but as I uphold few of the rituals, I can’t really claim it. Plus, I don’t own a goat.
Despite this, I take offense when people assume that I observe Christmas (I do, but that’s not the point). From Thanksgiving on, I hear “What are you doing for Christmas?” at least once a day, and each time, I stiffen with indignation.
“Celebrating Kwanza,” I replied to my hairstylist.
“Lighting a menorah,” I told the cashier at the Nordstrom Rack. This retort was diluted, though, by my having to explain what a menorah is.
In truth, I’m doing neither. I’m planning to ski, nap by the woodstove, watch movies, and pet the dogs. I’ll send out cards, give (and happily receive) gifts, eat once-a-year treats, and drink lots of wine.
I’ll celebrate the snow and the fairy lights, the longest night of the year and the longer and longer days to come. I’ll observe—at least, according to the Gregorian calendar—the end of one year and the beginning of another.
And I’ll watch this commercial (a favorite since childhood), and congratulate Eat’nPark on its long-running, harmonious holiday greeting. God (and Allah and Kali and Buddha and the clairvoyant goat in the pasture) help me, it still makes me smile.
I’m not Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, or anything at all. My beliefs are most aligned with Paganism, but as I uphold few of the rituals, I can’t really claim it. Plus, I don’t own a goat.
Despite this, I take offense when people assume that I observe Christmas (I do, but that’s not the point). From Thanksgiving on, I hear “What are you doing for Christmas?” at least once a day, and each time, I stiffen with indignation.
“Celebrating Kwanza,” I replied to my hairstylist.
“Lighting a menorah,” I told the cashier at the Nordstrom Rack. This retort was diluted, though, by my having to explain what a menorah is.
In truth, I’m doing neither. I’m planning to ski, nap by the woodstove, watch movies, and pet the dogs. I’ll send out cards, give (and happily receive) gifts, eat once-a-year treats, and drink lots of wine.
I’ll celebrate the snow and the fairy lights, the longest night of the year and the longer and longer days to come. I’ll observe—at least, according to the Gregorian calendar—the end of one year and the beginning of another.
And I’ll watch this commercial (a favorite since childhood), and congratulate Eat’nPark on its long-running, harmonious holiday greeting. God (and Allah and Kali and Buddha and the clairvoyant goat in the pasture) help me, it still makes me smile.
12.09.2009
Oh yeah...
We turned on comment moderation recently, to combat all the bot spam we've been getting. We forgot we did so, though, and all your kind and lovely comments were piling up, unpublished. Please accept our apologies, and know that the problem has been addressed and is unlikely to occur again.
Signed,
The Editorial Overlords of the Wasatch Report*
*Arnie and Red
Signed,
The Editorial Overlords of the Wasatch Report*
*Arnie and Red
12.04.2009
Heaven is for Harlots
Because I am in my thirties and no longer exercise upwards of 3 hours a day, I rarely shop at Forever21. Occasionally, though, when I need a dress for a specific do, a little something I’ll probably never wear again, my sartorial sense deserts me, and I find myself drawn to the sounds of pop music and teenage girls fighting with their mothers.
Yesterday was one of those times. With the annual “Dress Like a Trollop” party* on the horizon, I grew anxious, knowing that nothing in my wardrobe of cashmere sweaters, jeans, scarves, and painted clogs would do. Thus I found myself prowling through horrifically merchandised racks of cheap fabric and gauche colors, looking for something a little hipper than a turtleneck sweater dress (the option awaiting me at home).
Surprisingly, I struck gold, in the form of a classy LBD. It was stuffed behind an array of artfully torn, cropped tees declaring “I Love Nerds,” and it was perfect. With cap sleeves, a nipped waist, and a tulip skirt, it was positively Hepburn-esque. The shocking thing was not its ideal silhouette, but its fabric—decent suiting material, and lined. I can’t find it on the Forever21 website, leading me to believe that it came from a far more sophisticated place (J. Crew, Nordstrom, the strip club around the corner) and was left on the rack mistakenly.
I tried it on gingerly, a bit afraid to look in the mirror because fluorescent lighting and junior sizing are nasty critics. But it fit beautifully. I was shocked. I glanced at the price tag ($27.90), and hurried to the cash register to make it officially mine.
On the way home, I congratulated myself on finding a party dress so efficiently (it was the first—and only—one I tried on). I was thrilled, too, that the dress was suitable for work on those rare days when I make an effort to look professional. (Long gone, those halcyon days of running at lunch and not bothering to change out of shorts and trainers for the afternoon.)
After greeting my dogs for the obligatory 10 minutes (cuddle, cuddle, cuddle, snuggle, snuggle, roll over, kick legs, bite the air, repeat), I pulled the dress out of the bag and hung it on a fancy padded hanger (probably worth more than the frock).
That’s when I saw them.
Small black letters on the bottom of the plastic yellow bag: “John 3:16.”
What?
I picked up the bag, sure that I was missing something. This is a store for slappers-in-training. It is not an emporium closely associated with biblical ethics.
Despite the ubiquity of John 3:16 (think sign-holding fanatics at baseball games), I’m a heathen, so I had to Google it. God gave his son because he loved the world, and if you believe this, you’ll go to heaven. Something like that.
Sidenote: look how close heathen is to heaven!
Ok, whatever. But why is Forever21 telling me this? A trip to the store’s website revealed no overt mentions of religion, though the plus-sized line is called Faith21. Being something of a conspiracy theorist, I could probably come up with some subtle references if I cared enough to comb the site, but I don’t care that much.
I’m grateful that we live in a place where people are permitted to express their opinions and beliefs, sneakily or otherwise. It’s the connection, or lack of, that’s giving me pause. If Forever21 wants me to keep the bible in mind, why does it sell the trashiest clothing I’ve ever seen? I’m serious, my LBD aside, this is the go-to store for trampy little harlots in need of something sexy. It’s the perfect spot, actually, for ladies shopping for the annual, “Dress Like A Trollop” fete.
Oh dear. I hope no one else shows up in my dress….
*Not really, but it don’t most corporate holiday parties seem that way?
Yesterday was one of those times. With the annual “Dress Like a Trollop” party* on the horizon, I grew anxious, knowing that nothing in my wardrobe of cashmere sweaters, jeans, scarves, and painted clogs would do. Thus I found myself prowling through horrifically merchandised racks of cheap fabric and gauche colors, looking for something a little hipper than a turtleneck sweater dress (the option awaiting me at home).
Surprisingly, I struck gold, in the form of a classy LBD. It was stuffed behind an array of artfully torn, cropped tees declaring “I Love Nerds,” and it was perfect. With cap sleeves, a nipped waist, and a tulip skirt, it was positively Hepburn-esque. The shocking thing was not its ideal silhouette, but its fabric—decent suiting material, and lined. I can’t find it on the Forever21 website, leading me to believe that it came from a far more sophisticated place (J. Crew, Nordstrom, the strip club around the corner) and was left on the rack mistakenly.
I tried it on gingerly, a bit afraid to look in the mirror because fluorescent lighting and junior sizing are nasty critics. But it fit beautifully. I was shocked. I glanced at the price tag ($27.90), and hurried to the cash register to make it officially mine.
On the way home, I congratulated myself on finding a party dress so efficiently (it was the first—and only—one I tried on). I was thrilled, too, that the dress was suitable for work on those rare days when I make an effort to look professional. (Long gone, those halcyon days of running at lunch and not bothering to change out of shorts and trainers for the afternoon.)
After greeting my dogs for the obligatory 10 minutes (cuddle, cuddle, cuddle, snuggle, snuggle, roll over, kick legs, bite the air, repeat), I pulled the dress out of the bag and hung it on a fancy padded hanger (probably worth more than the frock).
That’s when I saw them.
Small black letters on the bottom of the plastic yellow bag: “John 3:16.”
What?
I picked up the bag, sure that I was missing something. This is a store for slappers-in-training. It is not an emporium closely associated with biblical ethics.
Despite the ubiquity of John 3:16 (think sign-holding fanatics at baseball games), I’m a heathen, so I had to Google it. God gave his son because he loved the world, and if you believe this, you’ll go to heaven. Something like that.
Sidenote: look how close heathen is to heaven!
Ok, whatever. But why is Forever21 telling me this? A trip to the store’s website revealed no overt mentions of religion, though the plus-sized line is called Faith21. Being something of a conspiracy theorist, I could probably come up with some subtle references if I cared enough to comb the site, but I don’t care that much.
I’m grateful that we live in a place where people are permitted to express their opinions and beliefs, sneakily or otherwise. It’s the connection, or lack of, that’s giving me pause. If Forever21 wants me to keep the bible in mind, why does it sell the trashiest clothing I’ve ever seen? I’m serious, my LBD aside, this is the go-to store for trampy little harlots in need of something sexy. It’s the perfect spot, actually, for ladies shopping for the annual, “Dress Like A Trollop” fete.
Oh dear. I hope no one else shows up in my dress….
*Not really, but it don’t most corporate holiday parties seem that way?
12.01.2009
Again with the Etsy
I know. I've become nothing more than an Etsy advertiser. I ask you, though, when the website offers prints such as this one:
Can you blame me?
I mean, come on! He's eating his tie!
Get it here.
Can you blame me?
I mean, come on! He's eating his tie!
Get it here.
11.23.2009
Diary of a Lazy Blogger
We went to Boulder last weekend. It was great fun--we saw lots of good friends, ate some wonderful food, hiked (me), climbed (Brad), strolled, laughed, and stared longingly at the many hip boutiques we don't have here in SLC (me). I'll have a recap for you soon, but in the meantime, enjoy these photos.
Here we are after stuffing ourselves with pizza and ice cream. We were hanging with the Reid family, and were "color splashed" by Little I, who'd just downloaded the app for his iPhone.
I was feeling sort of nauseated in that picture, because instead of opting for an age-appropriate ice cream flavor, I had to have "Birthday Cake," which comprises vanilla ice cream, rainbow sprinkles, a swirl of vanilla icing, and cake batter.
I know. I just threw up in my mouth while typing that. I have no idea why it seemed like a good idea yesterday afternoon...maybe it was the hangover (damn you, Rio margs!), maybe my blood sugar was low. Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm diabetic now.
Despite my unfortunate taste in frozen desserts, we liked the ice cream parlor. Brad especially felt right at home; he doesn't care for those no good hippies either.
Here we are after stuffing ourselves with pizza and ice cream. We were hanging with the Reid family, and were "color splashed" by Little I, who'd just downloaded the app for his iPhone.
I was feeling sort of nauseated in that picture, because instead of opting for an age-appropriate ice cream flavor, I had to have "Birthday Cake," which comprises vanilla ice cream, rainbow sprinkles, a swirl of vanilla icing, and cake batter.
I know. I just threw up in my mouth while typing that. I have no idea why it seemed like a good idea yesterday afternoon...maybe it was the hangover (damn you, Rio margs!), maybe my blood sugar was low. Either way, I'm pretty sure I'm diabetic now.
Despite my unfortunate taste in frozen desserts, we liked the ice cream parlor. Brad especially felt right at home; he doesn't care for those no good hippies either.
11.13.2009
I've arrived
Not only have I received my first blog heckler, I'm also getting comments from spammers, along the lines of, "viagra, viagra, viagra, viagra."
I owe you a real post, I know. Something more than lion dogs and links. Don't worry, it's turning cold and snowy outside, ideal writing conditions.
In other news, a warning:
Buy the shirt at Snorg Tees.
I owe you a real post, I know. Something more than lion dogs and links. Don't worry, it's turning cold and snowy outside, ideal writing conditions.
In other news, a warning:
Buy the shirt at Snorg Tees.
11.12.2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)