11/11

It's a special day! I hope you made lots of wishes. I did.

Daylight Savings

No, this isn’t a post about some funny thing that happened to me because of a surprise time change. This is about theft. Specifically, the theft of one hour of my day.

I inherited several things from my father, i.e. crooked teeth, a love for writing, the gradual disappearing of my bum (mom contributed to that too, so my poor buttskies don’t stand a chance), an increasing use of mustard, and….the loathing of decreased daylight. You know that myth, the one about Persephone and springtime and flowers and stuff? I don’t really either, but her name sounds like mine and I feel a kinship with her. The gist is that she was captured by Hades and held prisoner in the underworld, only to be let out once a year to frolic above ground. She was so happy to see the light of day—and mother earth was equally enamored of her—that wherever she went sprang flowers and new life. Thus, the coming of Spring every year. Do you see where I’m going with this? No, I don’t consider myself the breath of life that invigorates mankind and gives new hope to the world each year. My conclusion is simply this: Not having daylight is akin to being banished to hell.

Ever since moving to California I’ve wondered when my obsession with the beach, sunshine, and warmth would run itself out of my system. Naturally, I figured that being starved of all three of these at least 9 months out of every year would result in a short-lived, wild-eyed sun frenzy, kind of like when I got addicted to not sleeping as soon as I moved away from my parents’ house and into the co-ed dorms at USU. Since that only took about a semester to wear off (the addiction to not sleeping, not the actual not sleeping), I think I figured this beach thing would too. But…alas, I remain besotted with sun.

Besotted with sun. That’s a lovely phrase.

Anyway, my relationship with daylight is very high maintenance. Since my work day is really long, sometimes I don’t see the sun all day. By the time Wednesday or Thursday rolls around, I feel weird, and by Friday I’m all messed up. Sure, this could be attributed to many other factors, but when I think to myself “I feel weird, what’s going on?” The first thing my self responds with is “Why is it dark right now? I want to go outside.” And then I’m terribly distracted with images of me, basking in the sun, not necessarily doing anything but recharging. That’s exactly what sunlight feels like to me—I’m a giant dry battery, and the sun is my charger. The weekends are barely enough to recharge me for the week, and I find myself plotting dangerous things to get more hits during my work day (like extra long lunch breaks, complete with a blanket and a book and a questionable park and pants that can be rolled up to become shorts and light layers so I don’t get too hot and sunglasses, etc. etc. etc.).

You would think moving here, the "Golden Coast," would satiate me. That’s what I thought. But as it turns out, I still have to go to work and stuff. It nearly kills me if I have to run an errand on a Saturday that involves getting in my car and going somewhere indoors. Some of you have visited and have perhaps seen how my anxiety level increases the longer I’m out of the sun on the weekends. I’m a junkie. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. Every addict reaches a point where they have to either give up and let the beast take over, or give up and get help.

In short, I’m really sad that it’s November 10 and when I leave work at 5 I only catch about 20 minutes of sunlight. No more running at Manhattan Beach.  No more happiness.

Ok, that was overdramatic. How about this instead: I will try to keep my chin up while I tap into the backup charger, which is food (more on that in subsequent posts!). In the meantime, join me and my dad in gritting your teeth and hunkering down until the dawn of the best day of the year: December 21. It only gets better from there!

Halloween 2010

I hate being away from Utah on Halloween, turns out.
I did my best with the crushing homesickness and produced this:

 I'm a tornado, duh.

And here I am spinning.

...and dancing.

...and sprouting arms in grumpiness. Probably because someone mistook me for a tampon.

And, finally, calling it a night. Riding in the car with a troll doll.

Happy Halloween, from far far away!

CUPCAKES!!!! Oh my gosh I love cupcakes.

I made cupcakes last night for a birthday. White cake mix, cream cheese frosting, done. They are SO good.
I’ve known for awhile that cupcakes are good. Like, since I was 6. That’s what I always requested for my birthday cake—vanilla cupcakes with vanilla or cream cheese frosting. Yes, I was ahead of the cupcake curve. I knew then and I know now that cupcakes are good, and why are they good? Because they are golden brown on all sides. Because they’re less formidable than an entire cake. Because in about three bites it’s over and you’re happy. NOT because they have frosting piled 6 feet high. NOT because they cost $4. And NOT because they’re exotic and overwrought with ingredients like rose hip jelly and saffron buttercream cookie crumble.

Why am I so annoyed by modern cupcakes?
No really, why? Why does this bother me so much?

I guess because I feel they’ve been prostituted. Something I liked for its very simplicity is now a convoluted, trendy mess of a confection that will make me gouge my eyes out if I see one more super hip shop dedicated solely to fulfilling your wildest cupcake dreams. Sure, they’re inherently cute and tasty and I can’t blame people for wanting to capitalize on that. But that ship sailed 10 years ago or something! We need to get over cupcakes! Well, at least over the cupcake frenzy. And we especially need to stop doing giant cupcake cakes. I’m completely mystified by a miniature cake imitating a full-sized cake by becoming full-sized. There’s a term for that, but I can’t remember....life imitating art? Meta? No, wait, I remember: super nerdy.



No offense if you’re starting a cupcake shop, had or are having cupcakes at your wedding, or if you just baked your child a giant cupcake birthday cake. I admit that these new cupcakes are sometimes really, really yummy. But like a good song that comes out and then 1 month later makes you want to surgically remove your ears because it’s been so overplayed, cupcakes need to keep their distance from me for awhile.

Words, words, words

So I’ve been reading again.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve outgrown a lot of things. Boundless energy, for one. A passion for miniature replicas of everyday items, for another. There was the turtle/frog phase, the playing orphanage phase, the pictures of shirtless Tom Cruise phase (Side note: This was when I first discovered the internet. And hot on the heals of this new delight was the revelation that one must be careful what one searches for on the internet. A shirtless Tom Cruise can very easily become a pantsless Tom Cruise, and at that point it’s only the sluggishness of a circa 1997 dial-up that preserves one’s innocence). But my childhood left me with one enduring passion: Reading. I thought maybe I’d sort of outgrown this too, but recent events have proven otherwise.

 Tom Cruise has changed. I haven't.

I spent last week in a self-imposed prison. I say prison because it’s the only word strong enough to convey the hold on me certain books can get. To say I become enthralled is not enough. Distracted, addicted, consumed…those get a little closer. But I think it’s safe to say that I am held captive by books. They don’t even have to be particularly fantastic books either—obviously, because The Babysitter’s Club has stolen many an hour of my life. But if there’s a story and I want to know how it ends, I have to say goodbye to every other thing I have going on in my life until it’s over. My family used to tease me for trying to read books at the dinner table, while walking, while I was supposed to be doing homework or practicing the piano or playing outside in the summer.

 What? I'm doing my homework.

What? I'm practicing piano.

 

What? My hair is permed. Especially my bangs.

In the last few years I’ve gone on and off with reading because I’ve become ridiculously busy. But every once in awhile, one of these books grabs hold of me and it’s not until a few days later, when I dazedly come up for air and see the shambles that is my neglected life, that I realize I have a problem.

I’m starting to think it’s not healthy. Like any other hobby, I guess it can be too all-consuming and start to steal from the other facets of life…like personal hygiene and social pursuits. Because when I read, I don’t care if I see another soul for days. I can’t seem to find the motivation to go running or eat a real meal or stick to a normal-length lunch break because the alternate world I’ve entered is much more inviting. Scary, isn’t it? I’ve always thought it was ok because, well, it’s reading. It’s not video games and it’s not porn and it’s not drugs or Renaissance reenactments or, I dunno, compulsive gambling or other things I consider deplorable. It’s reading. Reading is good for you! Reading makes you smarter! Reading is something precious, an ability and a privilege held sacred since the invention of writing. Right?

Is it possible that reading, for me, is a vice?

Nay.

I just felt like saying nay.

But really, I hope not. It’s true, I probably need to chill out a bit and not give up the few hours of sleep I’m lucky to get by finishing a few more chapters of my latest book. But I can’t do it! It’s a dang good thing that this relatively innocent thing happens to be my compulsion because the lack of self-control I’m exhibiting is frightening. I’m starting to get an idea of what life would be like if I had a fondness for alcohol. Thank goodness for acceptable pursuits!

So I’ve been reading again. And how.

In the last 2 weeks I’ve read The Hiding Place and all three Hunger Games books, and now I’m on to Don’t Get Too Comfortable by David Rakoff. Any new recommendations for me? I’m on a roll.

Dancing Queen

Well, I've found my calling in life. I suppose I've always known it, but today it's been made quite clear that I was put on this earth to dance. At people's weddings.

I've earned far too much face time on cameras doing this (most of you readers are probably nodding your heads because you've seen me plastered all over your wedding videos) and it's slightly embarrassing, because I'm usually not an integral part of anyone's wedding party. But my only defense is this: When I ask what I can do to help with someone's wedding, the inevitable response is "Dance!" Apparently there is a great need for young single girls to dance like it's going out of style so that the marriage will be successful. Those who know me know that this is a job I can do.

And, brides of the world, I am happy to do so. If I accomplish nothing more than occupying a 12x12 dance floor for 2 hours of your special day, then I've succeeded in this life.

Welcome to Summer

I know most of the country is enjoying what they consider the winding down days of summer. But here in Southern California, Summer's just beginning. This last weekend, for the first time, each day arrived with little or no fog, and finished without any chilly wind and with temperatures above 75º. Finally. I will tell you that every single Californian I've talked to says "this is the coldest summer we've had in 30 years." Seriously, we've averaged 65º probably, with it being downright cold at night. For those of you who've been suffering through very hot summers, I'm sure this sounds like bliss. It probably is bliss. But I'm a spoiled little sun worshipper who just hasn't gotten her fill this year, so I'm determined not to be satisfied with bliss--I want bliss + 10º, apparently. Anyway, I'm very excited about the sudden warmth and have spent every spare minute at the beach this weekend. I'm a lucky girl. I hope it lasts.

And now, I present some pictures because the public demands it.
Ok, nobody has actually asked for pictures. But, uh, here you go.

This is me with my friend Olliviah on the 4th of July. A crazy lady saw us take this picture and complimented us profusely on our patriotic outfits. She then asked "Are you besties?" This is a word I'm not yet comfortable with, and lots of people use it around here. It means best friends, in case you're wondering. Anyway, I just said yes to get the lady to go away, and poor Olliviah is perpetually honest and proceeded to awkwardly look at me and try to put a name on our friendship. "We're still getting to be friends, I guess. We have fun together. We don't really know each other that well yet..."
Anyway, we're friends. She's not convinced, but I am.

This is at a party celebrating my friend Aaron's status as a full-fledged fire fighter. If you can't tell, I'm putting out a fire with a very large imaginary hose in this picture. Spencer (on the right) looks drunk but isn't. I promise.

Me with godchild Claire. Claire and Melinda came to visit last month and I'm not over it yet. This baby is magical and we're in love. She makes the best faces in the world, and I haven't even been around to teach her, so that says a lot about her natural talent.

In other news, Shannon came to visit a long time ago. This is us near Main street. Those trees line the ocean I run alongside every other day. Love.

I hate blogger. It's so hard to format. Anyway, last but not least I shall show you some pics from Maria's wedding flowers I did last month also. Her wedding was fun, but unfortunately I didn't get any pictures of things besides flowers, so....boring. But I liked how they turned out.

 

 

I might be wanting to start doing some flowers around here. I like doing it and I think I'm better at it than I am at graphic design. Don't tell my boss--I've worked hard to pull the wool over his eyes.

Well, I guess that's it. Just a bit of an update this time. I should have some more exciting stories to tell next time I muster up the blog energy.

See ya, besties!

xoxo

Lately

Lately...
I don't feel much like blogging. I try to be outside as much as possible when I'm away from work, and my compy sort of hates going outside. I should probably do a real update on my life, but even now I'm getting all tense and anxious, as if my body is saying "Why are you at a desk? Why are you typing? It's the weekend. WEEKEND!"

So I'm posting some pictures soon. Not sure of what, but here are some likely candidates:
--Visits from friends and godchildren
--4th of July
--Pioneer trek

And about that last one, I returned yesterday from my long-overdue pioneer trek, and it was great. We've gone soft on these kids, compared to the stories I heard from previous victims. Seriously, Candice came back from hers talking like it was Vietnam. My trek was more like...hanging out near suburbia in long skirts and sleeping on the ground. Oh, and I died and came back as an angel. More to come after I sleep!

 

 

Simplicity

Small Victories

Isn’t it messed up that I felt happy when I saw this?

As if I’d won something?

As if my 2 hours on the freeway yesterday afternoon weren’t going completely unrecognized and unrewarded?
The saddest part is that 4 out of the top 10 winners are in California. There’s really no escaping it.

Embarrassing

Celebrations were notoriously fantastic at my old job. We partied on the less appreciated holidays in crazy and unique ways, and Cinco de Mayo 2008 was fantastic. I wrote about that day on my blog once, proclaiming my excitement over winning the limbo contest and also the group dance contest. But somehow I left out some important details that I feel I must relay now, for posterity’s sake. 

My group performed an original piece to Madonna’s “Holiday” in which we all dressed up like obscure holidays and did solos. I was Labor Day, so naturally I dressed like a pregnant woman. I wore a dress with some jeans and stuck a big sweatshirt up my dress to give me a belly. My group knew the basics of what I’d do for my solo, but the particulars I kept as a surprise. The particulars were a plastic baby doll that I also shoved up my dress, under the sweatshirt. I’d recently learned some killer moves in my breakdancing class, so my plan was this: Hobble out to the center of the floor while supporting my back, as if I’m having labor pains, and then all of a sudden bust out some funk. Everyone loves a pregnant chick getting down. I wanted to do some stalls and a backspin, you know, the usual stuff. 

Proper backspin technique 

None of this was any big shocker, but then for the finale I wanted to circle around behind my group and secretly remove the baby doll from my dress so I could sort of slide it across the floor while I hit my final pose, like “Ta da, I just dance-delivered my baby!” Mind you, I never conceived (heh heh, get it? Conceived?) of trying to pantomime a delivery or anything like that—I was just supposed to magically appear with a baby comin' atcha.

 That was the plan.

And it went off without a hitch, as far as I was concerned. I was busting a move. I was breakdancing. I was backspinning like a freaking pregnant champion. I was getting big laughs from the spectators (read: entire company) standing all around the perimeter of the room. And then, when I tossed my baby out at the end of it all, the big laughs just kept rolling. I mean, these were BIG laughs. I remember thinking “Man, easy crowd today.” I knew I was incredibly entertaining and everything, but…they were laughing really hard.

 And then they were all coming up to me, patting my back and still laughing so hard they couldn’t talk. Some of them had really big eyes and shocked expressions while laughing. Some of them wouldn’t look at me. Did I mention my dad was one of the co-worker spectators? He was one of the ones who wouldn’t look at me. So…I got a little suspicious. 

“How did you pull that off?” asked one of my friends (who couldn’t talk much through her laughter), saying she couldn’t believe I would do that. “Which part?” I asked, wondering if she meant my dance moves, my acting skills, or what.  It’s a weird situation to find yourself in, wondering why people are laughing extra hard at something you know is funny but not that funny. You know?

So, in short, what I gathered was this:

While I was busy busting a move, my unborn baby doll was making her way down the “birth canal” somewhat. So, when I got down and did my triumphant backspin, well…her two little legs were visible. Between my legs. And since the very nature of a backspin requires you to spin around several times, I was giving a 360º shot of this image to everybody in the room several times. To summarize: Unbeknownst to me, I put myself in a position quite similar to a birthing position, and then I sweetened the deal by having a replica of my unborn baby placed just so. And then I proceeded to display that nearly obscene scene to everybody I worked with. Including my dad.

 I swear, I didn’t do it on purpose. And that’s what made it even worse. Everyone thought it was a calculated effort. And why wouldn’t they? It all adds up as a successful attempt to totally gross out everyone in the room, which is pretty fitting for a lot of our office parties. Most people thought I was just really gutsy for doing it, but there were definitely those (dad) who were completely disgusted. Have I mentioned that my former bishop was my boss?  Wouldn’t you like to graphically pretend to give birth in front of your bishop and your dad? Me too. 

Anyway, I still cringe when I think about it, even though I think it’s so funny. My mind just doesn’t quite allow me to picture the full scene because I’m so ashamed. I swear, it wasn’t on purpose.

 Papa don't preach

I'm in trouble deep

Papa don't preach

I've been losing sleep

but I made up my mind

I'm..keeping my baby

Ooh I'm gonna keep my baby

I just figured out a major, major pet peeve of mine.

Mascots.

There's something about the way mascots are designed that just makes my skin crawl. The beefy muscles, the small waist, and everything usually tucked into basketball shorts or jeans or something. Have you seen Smokey the Bear lately? He's KILLING me. He's morphed into some sort of angry Uncle Sam/Top Gun Volleyball Scene hybrid that I find disturbing.

And then there's the way they act when doing their mascotly duties--fist pumping, gesturing, urging the crowd to "make some noise" but doing it like he'll freaking kill you if you don't. You know what I mean:

That pooch just seems like a bad dude. Not good bad, you know, BAD bad.

Apparently the Jazz Bear is quite famous, as far as mascots go. Awesome. Way to go, Utah. As if we don't have enough explaining to do, let's add the antics of a crazyangry bear to the list.

What? I'm adorable!

I know what you're thinking. Where is this coming from? I thought the same thing when my hate for these things filled me so quickly today. And I realized where it's coming from.

High school.
Doesn't it all start there?

Davis High is many things, but revered for its mascot is not one of them. Memorable, yes. Being taken seriously as a competitive threat? Not so much. I mean, we're no Beet Diggers or Farmers or any of these  but...we're darts. Darts are small. They're inanimate objects, which probably violates the first rule of mascot selection.

I feel I'm headed for some serious Dart-lover backlash, so I'll hopefully avoid that by saying I loved my high school. I didn't mind being a dart, and I don't even mind the colors. Like I've always said to anyone who tries to poke fun, "...it grows on you." Brown and gold forever!

However, there was something truly embarrassing about mascothood at Davis: Dartman. I would hate for him to read this because I really don't mean it as a slight against him. It wasn't his fault! Our school's lack of funding, energy, desire, pity or whatever for our mascot left him without a real costume--you know, the cartoon-ized, puffy types shown above. Instead he just dressed sort of like a gladiator. From K-Mart. I imagine it's hard work to inspire a crowd when you just have some spandex and a cape on.

And then there was Dartwoman.
All I will say about that is this: In the litany of women's liberation milestones, let the brief existence of Dartwoman stand as a shining example of the female struggle. Sufferage, Roe v. Wade, blah blah, Dartwoman.

But my real issue with the Davis mascot was a much more personal encounter. I was part of this, ahem, team of sorts. We helped with school spirit, you might say. Well, one day our coach decided that we needed to join forces with Dartman. I'm not sure why she felt we'd be some sort of unstoppable means of sideline distraction, but our "joining forces" meant two things: We had to hang out with Dartman; and I, specifically, had to do stunts with Dartman. Alone. That's what I got for being small.

As if parading around in a tiny skirt and yelling stuff (adorably) at people isn't enough humiliation, just picture yours truly perched precariously atop an untrained gladiator's shaky arms. He was a one-man show and that was working fine for everyone until I entered the scene and awkwardly fulfilled my co-mascot duty.

Nothing personal, Dartman. I just think there are more convincing duos than the two of us. Perhaps Dartman lifting Dartwoman overhead would have been nice. Or you in a real costume and me with a disguise. The possibilities are endless.

Anyway, bygones. That was 10 years ago. I'm totally over it.
But I still kinda wish we were the Davis Raptors. I could really get into that.

Stoufapalooza 2010

Just when I thought I had nothing to live for, April 27th came along and showed me what wonderful things lie in store for me at age 28.

It turns out that I need people. A lot. If it weren't for really nice, fun, charitable people, I would never enjoy anything ever. This birthday was no different. My 2 buddies, Spencer and Aaron, accompanied me to Six Flags after everybody else bailed. Well, not bailed, but claimed they had jobs and responsibilities and stuff. Anyway, these boys are blissfully unencumbered by silly things like employment, so we set off after a breakfast of waffles to meet our fate on the X2.

If you don't know the X2, I urge you to remedy that. It's the most amazing roller coaster I've ever Xperienced. It's Xtremely scary and awesome and makes you scream Xactly like a little girl. We walked right on and then proceeded to ride it 5 TIMES! 5 times is about 3 times too many, but we had to do it because we could. On my last ride I was on the front row with another lonely rider who was celebrating his birthday, all the way from Canada. We high-fived a lot and yelled stuff like "birthdays!"

Oh, Rhianna, hey...um, you should leave your doo-rag 

in the bins provided before you get on the ride.

Then I had to take a breather.


Then we went to a ride called Tatsu, which is freaking amazing. You are laying on your stomach, in Superman position the whole time. We decided to act like kitties because that's what we looked like.

It's alarming how much I've googled kitten pictures for this blog.

So the way you do that is to paw the air like you're climbing the whole time the rollercoaster is climbing. We did this, and the view of these boys clawing and clawing in my peripheral vision was too much and I lost it. I haven't laughed that hard in a long, long time. Or drooled that much. Poor, poor people below us.

Anyway, we rode that one 3 times. An empty amusement park is an amazing place, my friends.

Then it was lunchtime, and we all got giant turkey legs so we could look like barbarians. The thought of it repulses me now, but that was some good eats. 

     

Then we rode more and more and more roller coasters. Then we took booth pictures. Then we got me a commemorative pin for my birthday, and everyone signed it. Then I got a pink superwoman cape. 

Then we drove home. No traffic! No problems the whole day, except my very apparent old age that makes rollercoastering quite quite difficult on the body. Specifically the brain.

Then I had some amazing birthday messages on my phone. I love those.

Then I went 80s dancing! This was such a good part. I was exhausted and nobody was dancing so it was kind of awkward. I decided that was enough of that so I started dancing by myself in the middle of the club. This went on for a long time. Then I got my shy friends to join me, and then we went crazy. People just sat and watched. Then some drunk girls joined us, and one of them complimented my cape. I told her it was my birthday and she freaking freaked out. She made a sort of hula hoop with her arms and slid it over my entire body. She stopped about mid-thigh and then picked me up with the hula hoop arms and carried me around the room like that. I was mystified and a little worried about her level of gay, but it was flattering and exciting nonetheless. My friends got a big kick out of that part.

I danced for 1.5 hours straight and the music was incredibly awesome and then I had to stop because I was going to fall over from exhaustion. 

Which I did, once I got home.

Very, very good birthday. The brethren will never read this, but I love them and their willingness to treat me like a princess for a whole day. Always, actually. I'm a very lucky girl and always have been and I know it. I'm happy to be 28, even if my brain doesn't take to scrambling quite like it used to.

The end.

PSYCH!

Now it's the end.

Earthquakes 3-8, give or take

This is getting spooky.
As I was trying to fall asleep last night, I definitely felt shaking. And then again later. And then again this morning. I distinctly remember 4 different times that I felt something, but it was really subtle. It felt like those days in SoSaLa when Trax would go by and rattle my bed a bit. Apparently I've gotten used to this California occurrence, because all I did was make a mental note to check online in the morning to see where the epicenter was.

So I did.
And this is what I found.

If you're counting (and I am), that's 26 earthquakes just in the last 24 hours. Not atypical, and not all that alarming. But of those 26, 14 of them were in California!  !! I know, I know, I'm just looking at one day. But if that's anything like the normal pattern, I'm pretty freaked.

I know what you'll say next: These were tiny earthquakes. I know, and I still felt them. I really can't imagine one of those huge mothers that are happening all over the place. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm officially adding earthquakes to the growing list of Things I'm Wimpy About.

Oh, and I forgot to mention this.

Critters. 

I saw a possum running down the street by my house last night. My first instinct was to run and scream, which I did. I don’t know why, but I imagined it jumping with surprising agility and latching onto my face, like something out of a Chevy Chase movie. All in all, this and the earthquakes, combined with my frequent killer spider dreams are making nighttime pretty rough for me.

Yeah, you'd be afraid too.

End of the Golden Age

For the first time ever, I've been a bit reluctant to celebrate my birthday this year. Usually my birthday is my most favorite day of the year (and probably everybody else's too), but I'm a little sad to see this one come because I don't know what to do with myself now. My whole life I've been looking forward to the age of 27--my golden age--and now it's almost over. It went by so quickly! What in the world do I have to look forward to now, I ask you?

So as consolation, I'm going here instead of to work on my birthday this Tuesday. Wahoo!

You're all invited. Seriously. You, dear readers, my friends, are invited to Valencia, CA to ride with me on the best roller coaster I've ever experienced. The park opens at 10:30. Don't be late.

Why are you not on Facebook?


I answer this question almost daily. I've grown weary of doing so, and even more weary of the inevitable onslaught of explanations about how misguided my abstinence is. As if to say that if I only knew the virtues of social media, I would happily join in and revel in my newfound happiness. 


Well, kids, I've got news for you: Happiness, for me, never did mean unlimited access to information. I don't care how easily I can download pictures from that awesome thing we did 5 minutes ago; I don't care if I suddenly rekindle lukewarm feelings for that person I knew in math class 12 years ago; and I don't care if I don't go to your party because it was a "Facebook" thing. Ok, maybe I care, but I don't take it to mean that I should join your internet club so I can be included. I care because you've obviously forgotten how to actually be friends with people.


Whew. That felt harsh. This is bound to offend, and to that I can only say check your Facebook feelings at the door of this room, my friends. I'm not saying I'm better than people who love it; I'm not saying that there aren't things I would enjoy about it, for I've always liked being included. I'm not even saying that my feelings about this won't change. But I'm saying that I know me, and I know that for now I am better off without all of that. 


That said, I will now wax prophetic! I figured out the next big wave of social media: The anti-social media. I predict that the younger generations will start showing a distaste for all things internet, and will go back to letter writing, telegraphing, and reading books. 


Of this cause I will of course be a champion. Until it gets way too trendy and overwrought, at which point I will embrace Twitter.

In the meantime, I'm still going to ironically blog blog away about my mistrust of the internet. For me, the internet is a confusing love affair. I'm pretty enamored of it most of the time; I hate it for making me need it; I'm always a step behind; I don't understand how it does the things it does; and I am continually surprised and delighted by the little things. Often, while chatting with a friend in another country, I'll catch myself thinking "Wow! I'm talking to someone in ENGLAND!" I hope I can retain that wonder at technology, because it's completely lost on those who grow up with it. Just as we don't appreciated the amazingness of TV or movies because we've always had them, our children will have no patience for our musings about the way things used to be because there is no "used to be" for them.

I'm going to make t-shirts that say "Living in the Past: It's so now!"

Ode to Holga

Look what came out of my Holga!
I had the film cross-processed and, despite grim warnings from the film guy, the results made me so happy.