Thursday, October 15, 2009

Tempted by P.C. and Kristin Cast Out October 27th

How did I not know that a new House of Night series book was coming out in just 12 days!

I'm really excited to find out what's going to happen in Tempted. Ever since I finished Hunted (was that all the way back in March? Insane) I've been waiting to hear what's going to happen since Zooey banished Neferet. Maybe we'll finally figure out which guy Zooey chooses as well. Maybe?

Although from the looks of the cover of the book...


It seems like there's going to be all kinds of live triangle drama. I can't wait.

You can read the first chapter or listen to the first two on their website here.

Friday, August 28, 2009

ModCloth, Racist?



This necklace is called, "The Fob-ulous Necklace." Is that racist, or funny?

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Love and Hate and Love

I'm supposed to be writing right now--but I'm so filled with joy that I can't focus on my story.

When you have those moments in your life when you realize that you are happy, and blessed, you have to seize them, and appreciate everything that life has given you before the moment passes.

I can say quite soberly that I am happy. I have a wonderful husband who loves me and who I love with all my heart. I have family that loves me and supports me and believes in my dreams and aspirations. I have a great job where I get to use my brain. I have my writing, which is progressing, little by little everyday and which is getting better with every attempt. I am rewarded for my hard work which makes me work harder.

There are those times in your life when you feel like there's no way out of the quagmire of difficulties and despair. But then there are moments like this, and these are the moments that bring that ray of hope in those hard times and make you believe, like Barack Obama--si se puede. Yes we can. Yes I can.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

New Moon Photos: Edward and Bella Sitting in a Tree





New New Moon photos.

Image of the Day: Ireland



I was looking for images for our Tour of Ireland content and stumbled upon this image. I wish I was there right now.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

A Canteen? Really?

I was checking out the BBC World News front page and saw this advertisement:



My initial thought was you've got to be kidding me. But then I thought about it, and I could totally see some Williamsburg hipster rocking this shit. Ugg.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Image of the Day: Blair and Chuck



click for larger image.

Well hello there, Sufjan

I've been a fan of Sufjan Stevens for quite some time, but I think I like him a little bit more now that I know what he looks like. =)



Monday, August 10, 2009

I don't need it, but I WANT IT! Supporting the Arts

I bought two prints from Catherine Campbell on etsy.





This is the type of style I could imagine for the cover of Paper Doll...if it ever gets published (I should probably finish it first).

And I donated to KCRW and you should too! You can only listen to the pledge drive for so long before the guilt overwhelms you, but you know it's totally worth it. I listen to KCRW everyday and $10 bucks a month really isn't that much, considering I pay $60 a month for my gym membership and rarely ever go.



Support the arts!

Now I just have to try really really hard not to buy this dress. I'll try really hard Boyan. Promise.


Borders, Westwood: A bookstore in decay

Many of you know one of my favorite places to be in all the world is a bookstore. I love being surrounded by books, names and titles of things I have read or look forward to exploring. I love it so much I used to work in one and enjoyed every painful second of it. So when Boyan asked me if I wanted to go to Borders with him it was more a matter of letting me know we were going rather than asking.

The parking lot of Borders in Westwood has always been a bit daunting. The ribs of the structure, covered by curdled asbestos, creek and shake as if by driving down into the lot you are entering the lungs of a cancer patient who has been smoking for eighty years. It's hot, muggy, uninviting. But you make the journey because at the end of it you are rewarded with the golden fleece, a plethora of books with a wide selection of publishers, topics, and languages.

We took the small barren elevator to the first floor and stepped out into our wonderland. But like Alice in the rabbit hole were transported into something strange and unfamiliar. The tables that held book suggestions, new releases were filled with young adult vampire books. I surpassed this area and went to the fiction section, only to notice that several stacks of books were missing, replaced with benches where people, I can only guess, were expected to sit and peruse. But peruse what? The book shelves themselves weren't fully stocked -- stacked cover forward rather than binding out -- most of them best sellers. In fact, row upon row was filled Michael Chabon, Jodi Picoult, and Meg Cabot as far as the eye could see.

I left the area and went to the Young Adult section, or should I say, the vampire section. An entire wall filled with nothing but black covers dripping with blood, flowers, moons and wide-eyed pale faces.

Upstairs the situation was worse. The music and movie section of the store had been reduced to a third of it's size. A black curtain separated the back of the store which once had a vast music selection.

The book store itself was pretty empty, uncharacteristically so for a Saturday night. Where were the young couples that came to impress their dates? Where were the mother's dragging along their children to look at picture books? Even the bum population was minimal, all took up camp in the lower north corner of the store, the only place on the first floor where there were chairs.

The staff that was there that night was tiny, maybe ten people where on a Saturday night they used to employ almost double that amount.

The most daunting thing was the quiet. A book store should be filled with light background music, punctuated by browsers questioning book sellers, squeals of children, a muffled laugh between lovers. Instead there was silence and silence breeds silence. Where in a library silence can be comforting, in a book store it's paralyzing.

I told Boyan we had to leave. It was too depressing to stay.


I predict that the borders on Westwood will fall to the same fate as did the one on third street by January 20th of 2010. And when it goes, I will remember the place I used to work, filled with young smiling people who loved books, music. Not the borders I saw this weekend. A desecrated carpus of something that used to be beautiful. A place that was alive.


Do not fear death so much, but rather the inadequate life.

Song of the Day: Wild Young Hearts by the Noisettes

Thursday, August 06, 2009

Photo Inspiration

Sometimes the best way to inspire yourself to write is to keep a hoard of images that are unique and intriguing. One of my favorite places to go is Apartment Therapy. Check this stuff out.



I would love to have high ceilings like this. And I would fill them with books just like this person. I love the wallpaper underneath the shelves.


Large windows that let in lots of light. A green background and lots of wood. An ideal place to write or get lost in a book.




Monday, August 03, 2009

Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins, Out September 1st

Oh how I wish I could get my hands on an advanced copy. I re-read it too early! Now I'm going to pull my hair out waiting until September.

You can read the first chapter of Catching Fire here (pdf), if you feel like torturing yourself.

Updates and Song of the Day: All We Ask, Grizzly Bear

It's been quite a while, and a lot of things have happened.

Nataliya, my sister-in-law, has been living with us since mid-June. We're a happy trio living in our small West L.A. apartment.

We visited my parents in Newport.









We visited my parents in Covina.



We went to the Getty.




We celebrated the Fourth of July.




We went to Vegas.



Lots more fun experiences to come.

It's been hard, cramped up in our small apartment to get anything productive done. But I have managed to read Outlander and Nation, and re-read Jane Eyre, the Thirteenth Tale, Catcher in the Rye and the Hunger Games. I even got 17 pages of writing done last night. It's been a great summer so far, I'm hoping to make it to San Diego, San Francisco and Yosemite before Nataliya leaves.

Until my next update I will leave you with a nice little live version one of my favorite songs of the moment. All We Ask by Grizzly Bear.


Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Books or People?

"Picture a conveyor belt, a huge conveyor belt, and at the end of it a massive furnace. And on the conveyor belt are books. Every copy in the world of every book you've ever loved. All lined up. Jane Eyre, Villette, The Woman in White...And imagine a lever with two labels, On and Off. At the moment the lever is off. And next to it is a human being, with his hand on the level. About to turn it on. And you can stop it. You have a gun in your hand. All you have to do is pull the trigger. What do you do?"

"Of course I loved books more than people. Of course I valued Jane Eyre over the anonymous stranger with his hand on the lever. Of course all of Shakespeare was worth more than a human life. Of course."

--Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale

Thursday, July 09, 2009

With our writing, we will live forever

An excerpt from The Thirteenth Tale:

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. I clean them, do minor repairs, keep them in good order. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head. Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books ar read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so. For it must be very lonely being dead.
Diane Setterfield is an amazing writer, and if you haven't already read The Thirteenth Tale then you really should. I think what she says here makes so much sense. As writers we share the same desires, same fears, as everyone else. With our writing, we will live forever.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Hayao Miyazaki's Ponyo



I love Hayao Miyazaki. I think I saw Princess Mononoke in the theaters three times when it came out, and Ponyo looks amazing. Make sure to watch the video in HD.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Kristen Stewart, Stoner Brat with substance?

If she keeps doing interviews like this, I might have to re-evaluate my opinion of her.

What is it like to be back on set doing another Twilight film?

It's a little bit surreal to be back doing a second one, just because it's something that I thought about for an entire year and now it's happening. But it's sort of like I couldn't wait any longer.

It's hard. Usually you finish a movie and there's a very long grieving process. You have to lose the character. You have to drop it from your mind or else it just continues to bug you. In this case, I couldn't drop her completely and I worked in between, which is a strange sensation. It's weird how easy it was to slip right back into it. I don't know if it's because I have such a reference, like the book, or because I knew that I just had to do it. I don't know, but it feels good. It feels like I can finally release the pressure.

Isn't that pressure kind of self-inflicted?

"Yeah, I have that feeling on every movie that I do. It’s just that this one, I had to wait a year. Unless there's something about the story or that character I'm playing that literally needs to be fulfilled -- like, consummated -- unless it's actually lived through and physically manifested, it's just a story and it's not done. So until you actually bring it to life, you basically have the capability of murdering the character on the page. If you don't do it justice, then nobody else is ever going to see those things and you're never going to learn from those experiences because you didn't do it right.

So yeah, the thought of having to live through something that I find so worthwhile, and then subsequently have people learn from that through your own experience, I would do anything. I would jump off a cliff for it. Oh! There's cliff-jumping in our movie. Perfect! (Laughs)"

You were virtually unknown when you shot Twilight. How has your life changed since its phenomenal success?

"My life hasn't changed. Most circumstances I find myself in are different than they were a year ago, but I myself haven't changed...however a normal 18-year-old girl would change in a year. But it makes things so much easier. I would do it for free every day [even] if nobody saw it. I cannot describe how good it feels to actually have something that is truly into your heart and soul actually affecting people. And that's amazing. So that's the biggest change."

What was it like coming back to a different director?

"As an actor, you don't work with the same director on every film. And this, it's a continuation. It's the same story but it is a different movie. I love Catherine (Hardwicke). She's a dear friend of mine, but Chris (Weitz) – it just works out.

Besides all the technical, logistical reasons, Chris is so devoted and because he's a man, there's a common question. How is it having a man director? Is it a huge difference? You can't make generalizations about people like that. He's one of the most compassionate human beings I've ever met. Unfalteringly compassionate. He cares way too much for the story, and you need that. So he's perfect."

You're still quite young. Do you want to continue making movies or perhaps go to college?

"I absolutely have no foresight. I used to think I had a lot when I was younger. I worked really hard in school to give myself options, and I've literally taken those options and thrown them down the toilet. Purposely – not to make that sound totally negative. It's what I want. I want to keep doing what I'm doing.

It's funny, people ask me all the time: "What do you do for fun? What do you do when you're not acting?"

It's a strange thing, acting. It's a business, it's a job, everything like that. All it is, is self-reflection. You just never stop caring about people and I've never stopped doing that, so I'm sure it'll seep into other areas of my life. I want to write. I'm not going to school because I can't take the structure of it, but I'm not going to stop learning."

Read the whole interview here.

So You Think You Can Dance, Week 1

My favorite dances from week one of SYTYCD, because they're fun to watch.



And because I love Evan and I want him to win.

New Glee Promo



I love this show. SO MUCH.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

A response to The Invisible Path

I found The Invisible Path by Charles Eisenstein while perusing a friend's facebook page and was so touched by it that I had to write a response.

I'm going to pick out the pieces of his essay that speak to me and respond to them, but I want to encourage you to go and read it in its entirety here.

Here is the introduction to start:

As the age turns, millions of people are pioneering a transition from the old world to the new. It is a journey fraught with peril and hardship and breathtaking discovery, a journey irreducibly unique for each of us. Because we are stepping out into the new, it is also profoundly uncertain and at times lonely. I cannot map out the details of anyone's individual path, but I can fortify you as you walk it and illuminate some of its universal features. My purpose is to give voice to what you have always known (without knowing it) and always believed (without believing it), so that you may breathe a sigh of relief and say, "Ah, I was right all along."

In a sense I am not describing a path at all, since there isn't one in the new territory of the pioneer. Indeed, what I am describing is a departure from a path, the ready-made paths laid out before us, and the creation of a new one. You know the ready-made path I'm talking about. Typified by that odious board game "Life," it begins with school, traverses the territory of marriage, kids, and career, and, if all goes well, ends in a long and comfortable retirement. This program has been crumbling for decades now, as high rates of divorce and radical career change demonstrate. I, for one, am not planning for retirement; the very concept feels alien to me, as does the notion that my Golden Years are to be any time other than right now.

I will describe seven stages of the discovery and walking of this invisible path from the old world to the new. I present them in a linear narrative, but usually their progression is not strictly linear. It is, rather, fractal: each stage interpenetrates the rest, and we may skip around a lot, revisit old territory, jump ahead to new, pass through some stages in minutes and others in years. Nonetheless, I think you will recognize some of the major landmarks in your own journey.

Stage 1: Something is Wrong / Idealism
Idealism is a belief that a more beautiful world is possible; that the world as we know it is deficient, unworthy of our full participation. When idealism is not expressed as action, it turns into cynicism...
The idealism of youth is a seed of what is to come. The teenager looks out upon some aspect of the world and is outraged. "No force in the universe will make me accept a world in which this happens! I will not be complicit in it! I will not sell out!" Usually this attitude is unconscious, manifesting either as cynicism or as rage, an uncontrollable anger directed at whatever surrogate target is available. Those teenagers with the strongest idealism are often the angriest; we think there is something wrong with them and their anger problem, but really there is something right. Their protest is misdirected, but fundamentally valid...

...In a carrot-and-stick strategy, on the one hand we entice youth into complicity with the adult world, while on the other abashing it with patronizing dismissals and intimidating it with severe punishments for lashing out. And so, bought and cowed, we earn the badge of "maturity" and enter the adult world.

Bought and cowed, yes, but never broken. That knowledge of a more beautiful world lies latent within us, waiting for an event to reactivate it.

Eisenstein is right to connect this first stage with adolescence, which for many people is the time when we realize that there is a man behind the curtain, and he's more malicious than we could think or dream him to be. But for me I think I went through this stage much later in life. As a teen and even going into college (I was only 17 when I started my freshman year at UCLA) I was too focused on superflous things like boys, track, drinking and my new-found liberty to be concerned with anything greater than myself. I think there are kids who, frustrated with the state of the world, feel this way in high school. But I think a lot of those kids wore black lipstick or listened to Rage Against the Machine.

But I also think that this is something people never grow out of. I think the world is filled with beauty but the people who populate and control it are full of shit. Moving on.

Stage 2: Refusal or Withdrawal
On some level, Stage 2 is always concurrent with Stage 1, but I will describe it separately because so many people are very nearly successful in suppressing the feeling of wrongness, suppressing the intuition of a more beautiful world that is possible, and relegating it to an inconsequential realm: their weekends, their choice of music, or most insidiously, their opinions. People have very strong opinions about what is wrong with the world and what "we" should do about it, and how life "should" be lived, but don't meaningfully act upon those opinions. They like to read about what is wrong with the world and voice their concurrence. It is as if their opinions provided a vent for the indignant anger that would otherwise power real transformation...
Isn't this so true? I feel like the internet has been built on this principle. The powers that be produce content in hopes that it will draw users and produce this type of reaction. They want individuals to be outraged, compelled to comment and voice their opinion--however meaningful or redundant--to the rest of the community. But who reads and takes stock in these comments? Is anyone ever affected by other people's opinions or are they selfishly vomiting up their own thoughts without considering the ideas and possibilities that someone else's unique perspective might bring to the table?

The suppression of the desire to transcend the old world is never entirely successful. The unexpressed energy comes out in the form of anxiety, which is none other than the feeling, "Something is wrong around here and I don't know what it is." It can also fuel addiction or escapism, substitutes for the longed-for more beautiful world. Eventually, if all goes well, these props to life-as-usual fail, initiating a withdrawal from the lives we have known.
I most definitely fuels "addiction, escapism, substitutes for the longed-for more beautiful world." I read this and think. This is why I smoke. This is why I drink. This is why I read crappy young-adult vampire romance novels. To get away from the hell of everyday struggle. Withdrawal from the lives we have known you say? See here. And here. And here. And here.
This withdrawal can take many forms. In my previous essay I discussed depression and chronic fatigue, which are unconscious or semi-conscious refusals to participate in the world. In my own life, for many years the refusal took the form of a half-hearted participation, in which I would go along with some, but not all, of the conventions of compliance. Whether in school or in work, I did just enough to get by, unwilling to fully devote myself to a world I unconsciously knew was wrong, yet not aware enough or brave enough to repudiate it fully either. If you perceive in yourself or another such "flaws" as laziness or procrastination, you may actually be seeing the signs of a valid, noble, yet unconscious refusal.

I like the idea that I was a poor student because I was unwilling to fully devote myself to a world I unconsciously knew was wrong. And that my laziness are the signs of a valid, noble, yet unconscious refusal. But I really think it was because I was lazy.

A final and very telling symptom of this stage is the experience of struggle. Because you are still trying to participate and to withdraw at the same time, life becomes exhausting. You have to expend tremendous efforts to accomplish anything. You wonder why your career is stalled, why your luck is bad, why your car keeps breaking down, why nothing seems to click, when other people's careers proceed smoothly. The reason is that unconsciously, you are expelling yourself from the world you've inhabited so you can search for another one.

Stage 3: The Search
In this stage, you are searching for something, but you don't know what it is. You begin to explore new worlds, read books you would never have been interested in before. You dabble in spirituality, in self-help books and seminars; you try different religions and different politics. You are attracted to this cause and that cause, but although they are exciting, you probably don't commit very deeply to any of them (though for a time you may convert very loudly)...You know there is another world, another life, bigger and more beautiful than the one you were acculturated to. You just don't know what it is, and you have never experienced it. It is therefore a theoretical knowledge.

The search is in vain. Sometimes you give up for a while and attempt to recommit fully to the life you have withdrawn from. You join back in, but not for long. The self-evident wrongness of that world becomes more acute, and the relapse into depression, fatigue, self-sabotage, or addiction is quick and intense. You have no choice but to continue searching.

Stage 4: Doubt and Despair
At this point, your idealism, your refusal, your search might seem like an enormous, self-indulgent error. Yet at the same time your perception of the wrongness of the world intensifies...Your situation is like that of a fetus at the onset of labor. The cervix has not yet opened: there is no light, no exit, no direction to escape the titanic forces bearing down upon you. Every promise of escape, every door you explored in your search phase, is proven to be a lie, a dead end.

At its most extreme, this is an unbearable condition that must nonetheless be borne. Subjectively it feels eternal. It is from such a state that we derive our descriptions of Hell: unbearable and eternal.

I honestly don't think I'll ever be out of this stage in my life. It feels like there is a part of the world that will always be corrupt and filled disparaging pain. It's only when you're doing what you're meant to do (what Eisenstein calls walking the Invisible Path) that you escape the doubt and despair. But for me its more like walking a tightrope over a volcano. Perilously balancing over the inevitable.

Stage 5: A Glimpse
...You have caught a glimpse of your destination, the thing you'd been searching for. You might observe that the effort of your search fell a million times short of the power that has finally brought you here. Your quest was impossible -- yet here you are! Perhaps it comes in the form of an intense experience of your true power and gifts, of joy and healing, of unity and simplicity, of the omnipresent providence of the universe, of the presence of the divine...You will be left in a state of profound gratitude and awe.
...Because it is a real knowing, sooner or later (and usually sooner) it manifests as action in the world, creative action. You begin the next stage: a walk toward the destination you have been shown.

Stage 6: The Invisible Path
You have glimpsed your destination and felt its promise, but how do you get there? Now begins a real adventure, a journey without a path. Well-marked paths exist to becoming a lawyer, a professor, a doctor, or any other position in the old world, but there is no path toward the next unfolding of your true self. To be sure, you may still embark on a training program or something as part of a radical career change, but you realize that these structures are merely something you recruit into your own pathmaking, and not a path to your destination.

In this stage, real changes happen in your life. You may experience the end of a relationship, bankruptcy, career change, moving to a different part of the country, changes in your body, an entirely different social life and different kind of intimate relationship. You may continue to undergo various crises, but they don't have the apocalyptic, desperate feeling of the earlier stages, but are rather like birth contractions, and indeed your situation is much like that of a fetus in the birth canal, being propelled toward the light. As this phase progresses, you might even have the feeling of having been reborn in the same body (or different body). While some vestiges of your old life will remain, there is no doubt that you are in new territory. You often experience a sense of newness, freshness, vulnerability, and discovery.

The walk toward the state you now know exists is fraught with pitfalls, dead ends, thickets and swamps. You have no markers, no external indicators of the right way. I said there is no path in this new territory, but that is not strictly true. There is a path, but it is an invisible path, a path you work out yourself. Your guides are your own intuition and self-trust. You learn to ignore the voices that say a given choice is foolish, irresponsible, or selfish. Your self-trust is your only guide, because the voices of your old world do not know this territory. They have never been there. It is new for you. You find your own way, groping along, taking wrong turns sometimes and doubling back, only to realize that the wrong turn was not wrong after all, but the only way you could have learned the right path.

I wanted to write more of a response to this essay, but after having started this last Thursday and the crazy weekend I had I don't have the energy. Please read the whole thing and leave your thoughts in the comments below.

Friday, June 05, 2009

Marco Brambilla: Civilization

This video is amazing, I had to share.




Get more info on the video and the artist here.

They Washed Him Away

The short story that didn't get me into Bennington College.

Today was meant to be a busy day.

I was planning on sending a big package to Chris, and it was going to take a day's worth of driving around the desert to get him a sampling of his favorite things. My first stop was a visit to my soon-to-be mother-in-law Merry's house. Chris had pretty much told me not to bother sending him anything unless there was some of his mom's cinnamon bread in it for him, and even though I'd tried to convince him it wouldn't be worth eating by the time he received it, he swore up and down he'd have it no matter the state.

Unfortunately, Merry was the kind of woman friends didn't visit when they had places to be. It wasn't entirely her fault of course, hers was a trap that most were too willing to fall prey. A quick stop to say "hello" inevitably turned into a cup of coffee, and by the time you'd finished a cup or two it was noon and Merry had made you a sandwich.

By then the sun would be a little lower in the sky, and it would be the perfect time to walk off the meal with a trip down to the mailboxes and back. After the walk she'd pour you another cup of coffee and offer to play a game of Scrabble. Before you knew it you've had dinner, dessert, a bed time story, and it's Merry kicking you out of the house so she can go to bed.

I had made it a habit to visit Merry once a week since Charlie, my would-be father-in-law passed two months back. It wasn't uncommon for our visits to last late into the evening, but today was different. I was giving myself one hour.

It was an optimistic goal to be sure, but I figured that if I could leave Merry's house by 11, I would avoid sitting down for lunch and have enough time to get everything together before the post office closed at five. So the plan was to have one cup of coffee maybe two, and get out in one hour, cinnamon bread in hand.

I pulled my truck into Merry's long driveway and passed the "For Sale" sign advertising the price, make and model of Charlie's tractor for anyone who travelled along the lonely street to see. "O.B.O." had recently been added to the bottom of the sign.

The house sat on an acre of land sloping up to the foot of what we call the Mariana Mountains. Charlie and Chris had taken great pains to make something of the area around the house by means of a yard. They had laid white stones to mark the drive, and planted small poplar trees around the edge of the property. It looked strange surrounded by a backdrop of Joshua trees and mountain ranges, but everything looks a bit forced in the desert. She was standing in the doorway when I pulled up.

"Hello, Honey!" she said reaching out to me. I reminded myself of my time limit, and rushed over to hug her. Merry was a big woman, made large by her own butter-heavy cooking, but her frame just made her more pleasant to hug. I'd gained a few pounds myself since Chris left, but the extra weight wasn't as flattering on me. I reached around and gave her a big squeeze.

One hour.

"I was just fixing some toast with jam if you'd like some."

"No thanks, I got a lot to do today. I got to run all over town to get stuff for Chris's package."

"Oh that's right! I got his cinnamon bread all done up. Let me fetch it for you."

I followed her into the small living room that led into the house. I rarely sat in here. The kitchen is where Merry conducted her business, and the cold of this room made it as dead as the kitchen was alive with warmth.

I hurried in after Merry.

The fridge was decorated with pictures of Chris and me. There we were, a new couple, posing in front of the house just a few months ago. Another one of us sitting at the kitchen table when we were nine, spaghetti sauce all over our faces. A pre-teen version of ourselves waiting at the bus stop, heavy backpacks at our feet. I am surrounded by memories here and I never want to leave.

I sat myself down at the table and brushed away the crumbs from a previous batch of toast. Coffee rings decorated the table cloth as if marking time. An old cigarette butt still lay in the ashtray.

"Oh garsh-darnit this place is a mess, I'm sorry sweetie. Did you want a cuppa coffee?"

"Yes, please," I sighed. It would have been physically impossible to refuse.

"There's a fresh pot in the thermos, help yourself."

Merry liked doing things for people, but she always made the kids do things for themselves.

I dug into the cupboard to find my cup. She keeps the sugar in one of those glass jars you see at country diners, and I watched as the stream of sugar disappeared into the black coffee. In the fridge the cream, real whipping cream, was sitting on the third shelf as always. I poured a dollop into my cup without thinking about the calories.

Merry lifted the lid to the big pot on the stove. Steam billowed up and sat in her blonde hair making it curl. The smell hit me from across the room, and my belly responded with a "glurp!" I checked my watch.

45 minutes to go.

"Are you hungry, honey? Can you stay for lunch? I made beef stroganoff."

My nose tortured my stomach and my mouth was practically spilling with saliva. I swallowed. "Actually, I have a bit of stomach ache."

"Do you need some Pepto?" She asked, starting towards the cabinet that held the medicine.

"Oh no, I'll be fine." I smiled, trying to show her I was okay.

Merry shrugged and replaced the lid on the pot. She grabbed her cup of coffee and made her way to the table. Her rear-end was halfway towards the chair when, "Whoops!" she exclaimed, hands and feet hanging in the air. She swung all four limbs down and stood herself up again.

"The cinnamon bread, I can't forget," she said, pointing and snapping in its direction. She took the Tupperware from the counter next to the sink and turned to me. She stopped and held it at her waist, looking at the blue lid.

"He loves this bread you know," she tapped her finger on the lid. "When he was little I would put the real soft parts on my finger and put it in his mouth. He's been eating this bread since before he had teeth!" The memory made her smile, "I used to have to hide it from him. We'd be having company and I'd go for the bread and it'd be gone! It was no use, he'd sniff it out like a blood hound." She placed the bowl on the table with a laugh and asked me about my mother.

Merry and my mom are real close. They had worked together at the elementary school for twenty years, my mom as the school's secretary and Merry handling the tickets in the lunch line. My mother retired last year but Merry was still there. Now they only got to see each other on the weekend, which wasn't enough for either of them, so I was obligated to tell Merry about the new hampers my mother had bought at Target the night before.

"They're wicker."

"The gray ones, or the white ones?"

"The white ones."

"I saw in the coupons that the white ones were on sale for $9.99, and the gray ones for $14.99. I just don't understand that." She shook her head, "I think something like that should be illegal, charging two different prices for the same thing. I told your Mom to buy the white ones, who cares if they look dirtier quicker. It's the principle of the thing. You can always wash 'em."

35 minutes.

It was getting hot in the kitchen so Merry turned the ceiling fan on to "push the air around a bit," as she likes to say.

"Have you heard from Chris?" I asked.

"Not since last week."

I know it's not a competition, but it had been two weeks since he called me.

"How's he doin'? Did he say how he's liking it over there?" He doesn't like to talk about it with me.

"He says it's just another desert. Says he's making friends with some of the locals."

"Well that's good I guess," I replied.

"He's never had trouble finding friends." Merry's eyes looked past me to the photo-covered fridge. "Who wouldn't like Chris? He was so popular in school, remember? Such a sweetie, wouldn't hurt a fly unless he had to."

"Well, he might have to over there," I said.

Merry shook her head. "I just worry about him, you know? He can get so hot-headed. You know if one of his friends were in trouble he'd be out there trying to help. Just the way he is, stubborn and loyal just like his father."

The idea of Charlie and Chris hung in the air. We tried not to reconcile their fates in our minds.
I broke the silence first. "Well I'm hoping this package will remind him that he's got people waiting for him at home, so he won't go off and do something stupid," I responded.

I looked at the battle-worn Tupperware. I'd seen that particular bowl in various stages of clean, dirty and food-filled for as long as I could remember. If anything would remind Chris of home it would be that bowl.

"What else are you picking up?" she asked.

"I promised him a school paper. He wants to know how the Twisters are doing without him, so I'm going over to see Coach Carl this afternoon. The players all signed something for him."

Chris was a natural born leader if there ever was one, the kind of guy that inspired confidence in his peers just by being there. I remember the war games we used to play when we were little. We'd take our BB guns into our fort and 'defend our position' against the Indians.

"I think I see one behind that hill over there," he whispered.

"I don't see anything," I said, hand over my eyes to block out the sun.

"Right there, something moved. Look!" He said, pointing.

"I see him," I answered, "It's just a scout."

"Whaddya say we give him a message to take back to the Chief?"

He lifted his rifle, taking steady aim at the Indian hiding behind the hill. A small pop went off, and a can fell from atop the mound. A "ting!" floated away into the desert.

"Nice shot! Right in the butt!"

We giggled.

"That'll teach him," he said, smiling.

25 minutes.

Merry was stirring something in a large metal bowl on the counter. Her body rose and fell with each swoop of the spoon.

"How have you been holding up?" I asked. A warm wind whipped against the house. Sand sprayed against the window as if someone were hosing it down.

"Oh, I'm alright honey. Thanks for asking." She poured the contents of the bowl into small round blobs on a baking sheet. "Been keeping myself busy you know. Denise comes by often, always complaining about things at home. Now I know it's not any of my business," she clarified, "but she's been having a hard time with her momma."

All the kids in the neighborhood stopped by Merry's house now and again. You wouldn't think kids would like to spend time with adults—that they'd be outside wanting to play, or giggling with their girlfriends about the cutest boy in school—but Merry's house was a high desert oasis. Everyone stopped by when they needed a break from the heat and heavy winds.

The first time I met Chris I had just turned five. My family had moved into the community from "down the hill," and were unpacking things from our car to bring into the house. I was sitting on the bed of my father's truck when I noticed that the overgrown creosote bush on the side of the house was shaking.

I got down from the truck bed, and made as if I were going into the house. When I got inside I ran through the back door and around the side of the house behind the bushes. His feet were dangling out the back. I grabbed them and pulled.

"Hey! What are you doing?" He asked, kicking to free himself.

"What are you doing spying on us? Who are you?" I let go and his feet hit the dirt hard. He scrambled backwards, away from me.

"I coulda killed you, you know. Sneaking up on me like an Indian. I coulda killed you."

"Oh shut up! You couldn't kill nothin'." A layer of dirt lay atop his head painting his blond hair a dull brown. "What's your name?" I asked.

"Chris, what’s yours?"

"I'm Sam."

He looked at me for a second and stood up patting the dirt out of his jeans.

"My mom made brownies, you want to come over and have one?"

I didn't quite trust him yet, but the promise of brownies put those worries on hold. "Okay. But I can't stay too long." He smiled a gap-toothed smile.

We walked up the hill, cutting through people's back yards. Small fox tails dug their way into my socks, and thorns from the tumble weeds attacked my legs.

"Don't get too close to the cholla," He warned, pointing at a spiny-looking cactus with his walking stick. "They jump at you."

Merry's house was very much the same then as it is now. Only then it was Merry and Charlie's house.

"Hey Mom, this is Sam, she just moved into the yellow house on Ocotillo."

"Well hello there, Sam." Merry said with a welcoming smile.

"I told her she could have some brownies."

Charlie was sitting in the chair against the wall. From his seat he could see the window, the door, and Merry. It was a position of defense. Smoke curled up from the cigarette resting in Charlie's thick hands.

"Now hold on a second," he said. Merry stopped what she was doing over the stove to look at Charlie while he spoke, "Does Sam's parents know she's here?"

Merry joined in, "Sam, did you tell your parents you were coming over?"

Promises of brownies disappeared into the desert air.

"No," I responded."But I'm sure they wouldn't mind if I had one brownie, we have brownies all the time at my house, and even…"

"Chris." Charlie interrupted. "What sense do you got bringing her over here without asking her parents for permission? They're probably real worried right now. And Sam," he said, focusing his attention on me, "didn't your parents teach you better than to go off without telling them where you're off to?"

It was the first time someone besides my parents had reprimanded me. I started to cry. Merry was there with a tissue.

"Now it's okay. Just relax. It'll be alright." Her warm hand rubbed my back and I buried my head in her soft chest. "We'll just take you home and explain to your parents what happened. Chris!" She yelled after her son, "You're coming with us. I can't believe you would go encouraging bad behavior like this, you know better."

Merry loaded Chris and me into the back seat of her old Toyota, and made her way down the dirt road that led to my new house. She very kindly explained to my parents what had happened, and gave me a box of brownies on her way out.

"Now you come over whenever you'd like. Just make sure you tell your parents first. Okay Honey?"
Merry was standing over the stove again. She had a rooster-shaped kitchen timer in her hands. She twisted it and it clicked several times before she set it down.

"Just twenty more minutes and lunch will be done. You sure you can't stay?"

I checked my watch. Twenty minutes was just about all the time I had left. It was perfect, I'd be able to sneak out while she was pulling everything out of the oven.

"No Merry, really…" I started to say when there was a quick tapping at the door.

"Helloooo!" Called a voice.

"Who's there?" she yelled, poking her head out towards the door, "Oh hello, Gene!"

Gene was the mailman. He usually stopped by on his route for a quick cup of coffee before hitting the rest of the houses on the street. There weren't many.

"Hey Merry, what's cooking? Smells good in here."

"Oh just some beef stroganoff, you staying for lunch?"

Gene leaned over the stove and rubbed his belly.

"I can't Merry, I wish I could. Boss has been gittin on my case lately. Says it takes me too long to deliver to the houses up here. If he knew that I'd been sneaking into your house I'd be in real hot water."

"Come on now Gene, you can at least have a cup of coffee."

"Not today Merry," he said, raising his hand, "got to prove that I'm not some kind of deadbeat. I'll get back to my regular routine next week, just wanted to bring you in the mail, save you the walk, but I gotta run. Take care, Merry. Goodbye, Sammy."

"Bye Gene," We answered. Gene was a nice man, but it was hard to shake the impression that he liked to take advantage of Merry's hospitality.

"You know, that's the first time that man hasn't stop to have coffee in over two years. Not since Rita left him, you know."

I nodded. Merry stopped wiping down the counter and put her hand on her hip. The wet rag dripped down onto her apron.

"I don't understand why everybody is always leaving all the time. Sure people stop by and keep me company, but lately it feels like everyone always has to be going. People to see, things to do…" She continued wiping down the counter, "What are they in such a rush for? I have things to do, but I make time, see? I make time for other people."

"I'm sorry Merry," I tried to resist the urge to feel guilty. "You know I'd stay if I weren't in such a hurry."

"Oh, not you honey. You and your mom are friends. But why is everyone else in such a rush to leave? All those kids down at the high school, they graduate and the first thing they do is head down the hill. It's like they can't wait to get out of here. What's so wrong with the desert?"

The heat, the wind, the lack of opportunity, I thought to myself.

She went on, "I still don't understand why Chris had to go." She was bent over the counter, hands holding her up.

I didn't understand either.

I loved Merry, almost like a second mother, but it was hard for me to comfort her about Chris. We both felt the same pain, and I didn't want to compare. Or compete.

Chris and I had been friends our whole lives, but it wasn't until four months before he shipped off that we realized we were in love. Or maybe it just took me that long.

It was right around prom our senior year. I had waited and waited for a guy to ask me, figuring that someone would get around to it eventually. It wasn't until prom was a week away that I realized I wasn't going to be asked, and I didn't know what to think about it. I mean, I wasn't the prettiest girl in school but I was nice enough. Surely there was someone would want to take me right?

Chris hadn't asked anyone, not for lack of choices, he just didn't seem to care. I didn't really have any girlfriends to talk to about it, I was closer to Chris than any of them ever could be, and they hated me for it. The girl-friends I did have only dreamed of getting asked to school dances.

I tried to hold my head high when people asked who I was going with, and I was doing fine until the Friday before the dance. The halls were buzzing with the voices of girls talking about their dresses, and boys discussing what types of sordid things they hoped to accomplish with their dates. The energy of the students was reaching a fever pitch, and the overwhelming fact that I had been so excluded from this event made me feel invisible.

I left school after the first break, running all the way home, and sat on the deck of the fort until nightfall. I had cried for a good couple hours, more out of confusion than despair, and was numb. I was just starting to feel the cold on my skin when Chris came up behind me and slung his feet off the edge of the deck.

"You okay, Sammy? I didn't see you at lunch. I was worried something happened to you."

A well of heat made its way up to my face as the day's frustrations came back to me. "Oh, I don't KNOW!" I gasped. "It's just that, no one asked me to the stupid prom. And I was fine! I was fine until today when I heard about how Megan Tinsley's dress was the exact shade of the stupid flowers in Anthony Jameson's yard! I was fine until I heard Amanda Shaffey tell Tiffany Harper that she was going to kiss Michael Fortenhaus. I didn't think it was such a big deal, and obviously it is, and I don’t know. I figured someone would ask me." I wiped my nose with the back of my hand and looked at Chris. He was concentrating very hard on my face. I went on, "I didn't know I would care so much."

Chris's hand slipped behind my neck and pulled my face close to his. He placed his lips very softly on mine, then he pulled back to look at me. The immediate shock jumped from my head into my stomach making it turn hard with a deep lash of pain. My head collapsed into his hand, and he pulled me to him again, hard. His warm lips parted mine and we kissed as if I had been perfectly fashioned to fit him.

He pulled away and collapsed into himself. He was crying. I put my hand over my mouth, my lips were sore and I was having trouble catching my breath.

"Chris," I asked, my voice coarse, "are you okay?"

His chest rose and fell heavily. "I didn't think you would ever look at me that way. I thought you were too good, too smart, too pretty to ever, ever, look at me that way." He met my eyes. "I didn't ask you because I thought you would laugh at me; but I wanted to. Every day I wanted to. The guys kept giving me a hard time, saying I was a wuss. I tried to feel it out, see if you would want to go with me, but you never seemed interested." He took my hand and moved closer. "I'm such a coward. I should've just gotten up the guts to ask you. I'm sorry I didn't. I'm sorry you were so upset today." He looked up at me and kissed me on the nose, "But Sammy, I'm happy that things turned out this way." He looked at me expectantly, and I didn't know what to say.

Was I happy about it? I didn't know what to think, and the more I tried the more my head burned with heat. Kissing Chris had been like coming home, and my entire body had felt it. Where had these feelings come from? Was it because I felt lonely and rejected? Or was it because I actually had feelings for Chris?

I looked at him. Every part of my body reacted to the space between us and ached. A light had come on from his porch and was shining into the now darkened fort. His face, lit sideways though the cracks in the walls, showed a pair of wet blue eyes and an orange smile. I smiled and kissed him hard, both of us falling backwards onto the splintered wood.

I learned later that random guys had approached Chris, asking him if I'd want to go to the prom with them. He'd told them I didn't want to go. He lowered his head in embarrassment when he'd explained what he'd done. It just made me love him more.

The news of our new relationship spread through the school like wildfire, only to disappear quickly, replaced with easy acceptance. Apparently they had all known what I didn't. Chris had been in love with me since we were little. At first I was embarrassed by all the attention, but eventually I didn't care when people talked about us. I was just happy to be in on the secret.

When Chris and I told the rest of our family we were dating, they looked at us like we were telling them something they'd already known.

"You think we're stupid?" my mom asked.

"Honey, we already think of you as our daughter," Charlie said to me, before turning towards Chris. "And you! You little shit," he yelled while trying to spear him with his cane from across the table, "You just keep it in your pants while you're in this god damn house." Chris laughed and made an evasive sweep sideways to avoid the attack.

We spent the rest of the time in school and that summer after graduation learning things about each other that'd we'd never known before. It was like each of us was completely new, and at the same time, like we'd known each other forever.

When he asked me to marry him, it was as if he'd asked me if to pick up milk at the store. The answer was so obvious it didn't need to be said.

5 Minutes.

The heat of Merry's kitchen made my skin stick to my clothes. My face was especially hot, tears made their way down my protesting face.

"Oh honey," Merry said rushing over. She put her arms around me and squeezed tight, her head of curls resting heavily on top of my own, "You okay?" she asked with real concern.

"Oh," I replied, shaking my head, "I'm fine Merry. I just," I took a deep breath; "I just miss him."

"I do too, honey. I do too. But we gotta have faith that he's going to be okay. If we sit here and worry he's just gonna be over there worrying about us." She shook me a bit, kissed me on top of the head and returned to the oven.

My heart began to settle down when there was another knock.

"Hello?" she called. There was no response. Merry wiped her hands on her apron and hurriedly made her way to the front door.

I took a sip of my coffee, now a bit cold and sour, and looked out the window. There was a van with an insignia parked on the street in front of the house. Merry was always having things delivered from various home shopping networks, but this van looked different.

"Hello, Ma'am. Are you Merry Matteson?" The pitch of his voice was deep. The tone flat.

She responded yes.

"We are sorry to inform you that your son Private Christopher Matteson…" His voice blanketed the room. The deep tenor echoed in the farthest corners of the house. A chair screeched against the tile.

When I got to the next room a black man in a neatly presented uniform had Merry by the elbow and was helping her from the floor onto a chair. She was hugging something against her chest, eyes on the wall in front of her.

The man looked at me, "I'm very sorry for your loss. We have his things here." As if on cue, two men in uniform made their way into the house, stacking file boxes in front of the couch. The man bent over as if to bow, and nodded at us. His eyes were dark, I couldn't make out where his irises ended and his pupils began.

The house seemed to slow when he left, the vibrations petering out before dying completely.

Merry sat in the chair staring at the patterns of the cinderblocks that made up the walls. I stood looking at the boxes. It was cold.

The timer in the kitchen went off, fluttered against the counter before falling onto the kitchen floor. There was a thud, the deep thrum of the alarm against the tile melted away into the silence.


It was 11. Time was up.

"They brought his stuff." I said, staring at the boxes.

Merry doesn't respond. Her eyes stay fixed on the wall.

I get up and go into the kitchen. I flip the dials on the stove and oven off. I go back to the cold room and look at the boxes. They look fake to me. I want to break them down and carry them out to the dumpster.

There is no smell. All the warmth in the small house is gone. There is a blanket next to me on the couch. Nothing about it looks comforting.


The quiet in the room is stagnant. I try to think of anything but my mind is locked. The post office would be closed by now. I haven't eaten anything all day. I try to think of food, and feel sick.


It was close to dinner time when Merry reached over and pulled a box towards her. Dirt from the bottom of cardboard screams as it is dragged across the floor.

What was she doing? I brought my hand up to my mouth trying to hold it back.

"No!"

Merry pressed her hand gently on the top of the box. With one sharp motion she flipped the lid off.

"Stop!" Every savage party of my body screamed in protest, "Please, stop!"

It was as if she didn't hear me. Mindlessly she started lifting things, one by one out from the box and onto the table.

Inside, stacked neatly were magazines, letters, and a ragged notebook.

His name and rank were scratched out in layers of black ink in his handwriting. They were his notes, his diary. I wanted to hold it to my chest and run. I wanted to squeeze them in my hands until they cut me and I bled.

"Stop! Stop touching them!"
Merry looked up at me.

"This is my baby. My baby." Her voice shook, her finger pointed sideways. She pushed the first box to the side and opened the lid of the second. On top, was Chris's football sweater. The sweater he wore nearly every day for the past three years.

We both stared at it, and before I could realize what she was doing Merry's hands had ripped the sweater from the box.

She brought it up to her face.

She begun to cry.

Her pain paralyzed me. Merry's thick fingers and long nails dug into the green cotton collar.

"He's gone Sam." She said, her eyes moving from the sweater to my face. "You can't even smell him, they washed him away."

She handed it to me. I brought it up to my face and I took a deep breath in. The smell of bleach and chlorine filled my nose and my stomach lurched. I was going to be sick. I ran out of the house, through the yard and into our fort. I collapsed onto my knees, head hanging over the edge of the deck. Sharp wooden splinters dug into my knees, the pain sent ripples of comfort through my body.

The light shone directly onto the fort and the wood was warm. I closed my eyes and brought my face up to the sun. The valley was heating up, and soon the dirt would smell as sweet as a freshly baked pumpkin pie. Hot tears traveled down my face and evaporated quickly on my skin, leaving it sticky. A soft breeze swept through the fort and whirled around me on its way towards the rest of the desert. I took a deep breath, the cool air reaching deep into my stomach.

I sat back on my heels and dug my face into the sweater. The dark cotton had already absorbed quite a bit of heat and it was hot on my face. I inhaled deeply and the scent of bleach burned my nostrils again. I took another sniff, it was hotter, a sharp pain stabbed between my eyes. I filled my lungs with the cool desert breeze and brought the sweater to my nose one last time; then I got him. I breathed him in, each whiff intoxicating.

I could smell him, feel him in that other desert.

I hugged the sweater to my face and lay down on the deck.

When I woke my body was racked with pain; my joints stiff underneath my sunburnt skin. The moon painted the horizon for miles, filling up the voids between the handfuls of houses and stables on our block. I remembered sitting here less than a year ago. I remembered Chris's smile, the way he tasted and how soft and warm his hand was against my neck.

There was a shuffle behind me, and for the first time I noticed Merry sitting on the floor of the deck, back propped up against the wall. She must have been sleeping there next to me, she was sun-kissed and swollen.

I reached up and touched my own face. I had rubbed the skin raw and it throbbed. The sweater was still in my hands, the joints of my fingers bone white from gripping it. I brought it up to my nose, my skin screamed as I attempted to bring him back one last time. The sweater was cold now. He was gone.

I rose to my feet, ignoring the pieces of wood and sand imbedded in my skin, and made my way over to Merry. Her eyes opened slowly and looked up at me. Bending down, I handed her the sweater. She took it, and we both pressed it to her chest.

Thursday, June 04, 2009

We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to

--Somerset Maugham

I just spent $520 on a novel writing class for the summer.

Now, Boyan can attest that I have always said that "Education is priceless," and I truly believe it--but 500 dollars is a lot of money and I'm poor!

The way I look at it, I'm going to need some time away from the apartment to work on my writing now that we'll be adding another housemate to the mix.
And I have more than half of a book written that I need help with.
And I wrote SO MUCH in the last class I took so I know it will help me.
And Les Plesko is supposed to be an amazing teacher.
I know the class is worth the money, but wouldn't it be nice if some rich benefactor to the arts could support me in my literary endeavors? Wouldn't it?

If you know anyone who wants to support a struggling writer then send them my way.

I'm so excited for this class and all the things I will learn coming out of it, I don't mind being poor for a little while.

"The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me" -- Ayn Rand

Twilight is a sickness

I went to happy hour with some colleagues last night, and one of them who wasn't quite familiar with Twilight starting asking me some questions about the books/films/actors and I immediately felt the bile rise up in my throat.

I realized while I was explaining things to her that I like twilight just as much as I hate it. I'll peruse Twilight blogs, search perez and pinkisthenewblog hoping to see an update on the cast members and immediately feel dirty afterward. And when I found out there was a twitter account that detailed exactly where Robert Pattinson was in the world--I felt equal measures of disgust and fascination.

It was then that I figured it out.

What I have wasn't a guilty pleasure, or an obsession. It is a sickness.

I binge and purge Twilight.

Its like a disease that I can't control. Impulsive, corrosive, damaging and pleasureful all at the same time.

They say that the first step towards recovery is admitting you have a problem, so that's what I'm doing. I don't know what the treatment is however -- I can't just not read the stuff about Twilight online, and of COURSE I'm going to see New Moon.

Any suggestions on how I can curse myself of this disease will be much appreciated.

If you'd like to indulge your own Twilight Obsession with some twilight blogs, here are a few I find fun to peruse:

1. What the Forks?!?
2. Confessions of a TwiCrack Addict
3. Lion and Lamb Love
4. OH NO THEY DIDN'T

Together we can conquer this addiction. One day at a time.

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

To err is human, to spend is divine

So remember when I said I wasn't going to spend money in May? Well--that didn't really work out as well as I thought it would.

I mean, I thought I was doing really well! I had not allowed myself to go out onto the promenade--thought I had been avoiding temptation and staying true to my promise.

But then life happened.

Janea and Jon came to visit. We had a party. I got my motorcycle permit (costs $30 bucks people!).

Things were going good and then I lost my wallet. Which actually helped prevent me from spending, but then I had to get a new wallet. And my sunglasses broke so I had to replace them.

THEN I needed (seriously folks, NEEDED) a new *easily visible* backpack to wear on the scooter.

It's bomb right? $70 bucks but still pretty great.

And we had our team-building bike ride and I needed to pick up a pair of socks, a sports bra and a sweater from the GAP because I'd forgotten to bring them from home.

And on that bike ride I got a really gnarly wife-beater tan. So I had to go to the drug store and by some tanning stuff to fix it.

See what happens?

The loss of my wallet was pretty devastating, considering Boyan bought if for me and I was absolutely in love with it. I'm still feeling the after shocks of separation anxiety. So to quell those aftershocks (and because I have a wedding to go to this weekend) I went out and bought a dress.



I would like to say about the dress that:

A. I've been drooling over it since I saw it in the spring catalog
B. It was on sale from $170 to $90
C. It's a truly well-made dress
D. I went to H&M and Forever 21 first damnit!

I also spent $100 at Sephora on make-up. But remember what I said in the post about things I want vs. things I need? I REALLY needed makeup. I was using eyeliner and shadow from before college and it was making my eyes water.

The colors of the cheek stain, eyeliner and star powder are different then what is shown.

With the summer coming up I know it's going to be hard to not spend money, especially with Nataliya coming, and a Vegas trip, etc.

It's expensive being a girl!

I'm going to try to be better. Like for instance, I'm not going to go buy these sandals. I won't.

I won't buy a new dress for my Vegas trip, and I'll try to bring my lunch to work as much as possible.

Promise, promise.

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

Good Writing: Natasha Vargas-Cooper

Natasha Vargas-Cooper
From Jesse James Hollywood on Trial, The AWL

Though these outbursts are theatrical—and, to my layperson’s eye, unprofessional—they are welcome. The sobs, finger-pointing, frantic gesticulating; watching Hollywood’s face curve with a smile or going slack when testimony seems unfavorable; all this affords some small level of pathos, or at least drama. It’s satisfying to watch the illusions of impartiality and civility break, and to see a witness’s tribal urge to humiliate the person they believe to be a bad person.

New Mad Men promo

We have to wait until August for the new season of Mad Men? Are you serious?

New Regina Spektor music video

Laughing With


I like the message, but this doesn't sound like the quirky melodic Regina I've come to know and love.

True Blood Season 2 New Trailer



June 14th!!!

Monday, June 01, 2009

I want to read this, The Image

Daniel J. Boorstin, The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America

Has anyone out there read this? I want to read this.

Today's reads, 6.1.2009

He Shall be Levi by John Jeremiah Sullivan
"Levi gave me no dirt on the Palins. He is dirt on the Palins. He is what they are pretending to be."

Jesse James Hollywood on Trial by Natasha Vargas-Cooper
"The numb savagery involved in the murder is the kind of stuff that any amateur sociologist could base a thesis on: the suburbs breed their own brand of wanton boys with too much money and too much time, etc."

What I Learned In Creative Writing Class by Anna Holmes
"McGurl's [Mark McGurl] most interesting point — and one he made when I saw him speak last year — is that creative writing programs allow writers whose race or class puts them outside the mainstream to gain positions of cultural authority. Rather than making their writing less authentic (the idea that the "authentic" experience of people of color is a fundamentally uneducated one is, as McGurl points out, insulting and reductive), creative writing programs can make former cultural "outsiders" into authority figures, their work into instructional texts."