Drunk, drunk, drunk

I feel hung over.

I honestly don’t know if I have ever felt the feelings of being hung over.

But this is how I would imagine it.

I am groggy starting the day.

My mind is rather hazy.

My body is refusing its normal actions.

I’m unsure how long these feelings with stick with me.

Or if there is a brighter day ahead of me.

But in my bones it’s hard to imagine there is a better experience waiting for me today.

I doubt it was that half of a beer I had last night that did it. Yeah, a beer! My day was really that wildly ridiculous… that I came home and opened one of the weird, random beers that someone left in my fridge ions ago. But the idea was better than the beer itself. So the beer sits on my coffee table; flat, warm and half full.

I simply feel hung over from my bad day.

Turns out my analogy is applicable.

Documented by the Webster Handy College Dictionary “hangover” is defined as “the belated effect of a previous act or condition”

Which means that yesterday when all the crazy shit was happening around me and I was reacting to this crazy shit … I was reacting in a superficial kind of crazy shit way. But today is when yesterday is settling into my little brain and making me feel… well, shitty and unwanting to return to work. I haven’t had one of those days at work in a long time. The days when it seems a truck just ran you over and then put itself in reverse and laid on the gas. Again, gear sift. Last night I was the unluckiest whore in Whoreville. I probably used the F*Bomb one hundred and three times. That averages out to once every five minutes for the duration of my shift.

But like all hangovers... I suppose this one will subside as the day ticks on. Or perhaps I should give that warm beer further consideration.

I do have to say that my silver lining of the night … or more aptly phrased to my ongoing analogy… the buzz of my downer last night was … in walked the mountain man I had publicly wished for on facebook a few nights ago. Really he worked for MPR’s Performance today. But he looked the part - Red plaid jacket, wild curly hair and a beard to boot. Nice.

The Holiday Season

There are a lot of things about the Holiday Season that I embrace whole heartedly.

Christmas lights and Charlie Brown trees.

Snowflakes and bell ringers.

Hot drinks and warm hearts.

Tradition, tradition, tradition.

The list goes on and on. The pitfall of this time of year was staring me in the face for a few too many hours this afternoon.

When people get glamed up for a night on the town, woman's attire gets more and more glittery as December creeps on.

I am an anti-glitterist. I feel so strongly that I created my own word. I spent the later half of the day .... sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, adhering off Christmas' jewels.

The rest of this entry is thanks to Google image.


Things to avoid:







Glitter in the hair. Itchy and rather whore-y.

Glitter scarfs - toxic and decapitating.

This one. Never a good idea.

So... for the good of Holiday spirit. Save my mental stability and wear cable knit instead. Happy Holidays!!!

Word of the day would be AWKWARD

It's quarter to seven and I'm killing time while the quartet on stage finishes rehearsal before the show tonight. I am well into my second shift of the day and I'm curious if it will keep up with the word of the day "Awkward".

This morning we had a education program at Wayzata Community Church. The concert was an over the top, ridiculous portrayal of Orchestra music through the ages. Geared towards kids 4-10. The education program is the only situation where I go off-site with the orchestra. I am guaranteed to see at least one of our musicians make a fool of themselves for the laughter of the kids.

Though I love the casual nature of these shows, one encounter today was just a little too lax. Hence... awkward.

It's a little past eight in the morning and I am sitting on a pew waiting. A strange sentence to write... I rarely find myself seated on pews, but if there is any time to find oneself there I suppose it would be at eight in the morning. To my right there is perhaps sixteen inches of space to the armrest. My left has a stretching ten feet. One of our violist, a flirty Hungarian man, comes to say his hello's per usual. His friendly nature leads him to sit down next to me. Not in the gaping space to my left, but snugly, uncomfortably on my right. I could have been Santa Clause. A grown man in a tiny space pressed against me with our knees practically overlapping. Our faces were maybe eight inches from each others. My bubble is much larger than eight inches. Trying to make conversation when I am that close to someones face is just unpleasant. Then I wonder... what his topic of conversation was going to be in this intimate, awkward encounter.

He proceeds to tell me about the drugs he took last night. How him and the visiting banjo guy got messed up with some potent shit. I can only assume marijuana, but I didn't want to encourage the conversation and ask. Is this really a conversation I am having with one of our musicians? I am curious as to why he thought he'd share this with me. Two thoughts come to mind. Either... he sees that I'm a young adult and assumes I get fucked up on a regular basis. He is missing one key ingredient in that assumption and that is the total, complete Nerd that I am. Yes, with a capital N. The other reasoning I could justify would be that he wanted to look cool in front of this young adult. To which I say.... really? Sad.

The second awkward encounter with a strange man came as we were loading out of the church. Hauling away all of the gear that I brought into my sweet, sweet mini-van. One of the building engineers, whom I can't read and don't know how to respond to, pulls me aside and quietly asks if I am in the Union (stagehand union). I reply with an honest no and he responds with a saddened response of "You can't move that equipment. Only our guys can touch anything. We're talking fines". I would never have guessed that a church be union and I doubted the truth in his voice...but in a work situation is it worse to call his bluff and be wrong about a serious offense, or play along apologize and feel stupid afterwards when he tells you he was kidding. With my cheeks flushed red, I chose the later. He was kidding... but coming from a creepy, weird man I didn't know how to respond. So I walked out of a great concert feeling stupid and gullible.

Let's see how the rest of my night goes...

post secret

The freshly built Minneapolis Central Library is a site to see in and of itself. The new modern shelves are lined with spines of every shade. The Dewie decimal system is nonexistent here. The endless rows are ordered and labeled by name only.

The glass staircase led me to the next floor and the second reason I crossed the river today. The library had selections from the community art project, Post Secret exhibited. I had vaguely heard of the postal phenomenon, but had never seen the collection before.

I wish I would have had someone there to experience it with me. As I read through people's realizations of their lives, their confessions and purgings ... I just wanted to talk. A lot. I don't think it was the voyeurism that compelled me. I walked from postcard to postcard with goosebumps from the thought that these people discovered their own brutally honest truth. Not only discovered it, but live up to it, faced it ... then created these powerfully beautiful images to boot. I couldn't stop thinking about each individual process.

What it would be like to pick out the picture that best draws your most painful experience.

How to capture their situation in a sentence fragment.

How carefully those words are chosen.

How other words would mean something entirely different.

Whether they laughed or cried writing out those words.

Some of the mailings are utterly depressing stories of rape, hate, fear, betrayal. Others are personal quirks and embarrassing habits.

Most show the human conscious at its most unforgiving. Measuring bodies and love.

I walked away saddened and inspired by man kind. Strange feeling. I can't even fathom what my secret would be if I sent mail to Frank's home address. Interesting to think about I suppose.