Marymeant

REDO ODER

2012-02-12T13:18:00.001-06:00

I wonder how much of my sudden burst of productivity has to do with the freed up time of no facebook? Or maybe it's just that I've had so much time on and off work these last few months, that I'm suddenly wanting to do something big and consuming with it. Either way, my free time lately has been put to good use. Well, maybe selective good use. I can't pretend I don't have dirty dishes in the sink or that my christmas decorations are put away. Cause both certainly exist. Instead, my art supplies continuously rotate through use and one dry paint brush launched me into an entire bedroom makeover.

My bedroom never really felt like me and hey, I got time. So a random Tuesday night I said... Let's do this. By 'let's' I mean me, myself and I. I will admit to going about this pretty impulsively. But I tend to work better that way or else I'll stew.

First stop was MOA looking for new curtains. I had my same red drapes since I moved here. I've always had good luck with clearance drapes at Urban Outfitters, if you can believe it. I head there. The MOA store lacks luster in the home department and I end up finding one clearance orange/cream drape. Why I would think it was a good idea to buy one, doesn't even make sense to me, but I bought it in faith for some reason. That I knew it would fit. Or that I would make it fit just because I liked the one drape. I stop at Marshall's to find cheap sets of drapes, sets meaning two, and wavered in debate about a tan pair and a white pair. I would always go with tan. But I went with white for some reason. No reason really. I'll just buy and return if this doesn't work out somehow. No direction. No vision. No anticipated outcome. Just grabbing and trusting.

I stop at Home Depot on the way back, walk up to the wall of paint. Pick up one sample card and hand it the mixologist. Yep, that's what he is. Ok, I guess I'm painting my room pale orange, idea coming from the single Urban Outfitter drape. What I realize on the rest of my drive home is that I was sitting next to a can of paint that was going to make my room look like a creamsicle. The irony is, I really don't like creamsicles. Actually, I hate creamsicles.

I paint it creamsicle anyway and stay up to 3am to finish one night. What else can I do to this popsicle stand??? I've never had a dresser that I've liked and have never had a real bed. Ok, those. And I'll put an arbitrary budget of $500 just to stop myself from too much damage.

I find a cheap bed that I wholeheartedly know is cheap but I think I'll like it anyway. Anything has got to better than a bed on wheels that moves itself in my sleep. Cheap, but still a huge chunk (I originally typed junk here, Freudian slip!) of my budget and I'm left with about $100 to find a new dresser if that's still my goal. I check a few consignment shops and end up finding a beautifully shaped gem at an antique store not far from my house. $80 and it'll need a new coat of paint. I got time.... what I didn't have was truck or muscle to bring the thing home. I found a truck, but no muscle and decided I was scrappy enough to bring this beast of a dresser home myself. I was sort of wrong. Got it off the truck and into the street. Then I stood in the street, wondering how in the world I was going to get it upstairs. I made it up with the kindness of a stranger, I asked and he said he was about to offer anyway because of the look on my face. He helped me upstairs and into my apartment without even killing me. What a nice guy. He did his deed for the day. And then it was time for paint....

I thought I would have gone for a browner tone, but back at Home Depot the samples just kept pulling me redder and redder. I bought the color unsure of myself yet again, but willing to give it a shot. I think it turned out smashingly.

Anyway... blah blah blah and I I I. Here's my finished in $500 & two weeks new bedroom.

Well, finished until I decide to spend even more money on it....

Nike's all washed up

2012-01-17T18:07:00.003-06:00

Never thought you'd hear that, huh? Nike's all washed up? Well, in this case... it's true.

I spent a few days in the Mayan Riviera, yep the Yucatan Peninsula. You got it. Mexico. Hola. And while sunning myself, this teeny, tiny Nike washed up on the beach. I can only imagine the journey it has been through. And where the pair remains.

Needless to say, I saw a photo op. Like all vacations, mind you, I had to force myself to actually carry around my camera, but it's moments like these that I'm glad that I did. Even IF the people on the beach looked at me crazy for laying there photographing this thing. I might even like it enough for it to earn it's place on the wall of vacation photos... we'll see...

347 friends

2012-01-03T01:23:00.002-06:00

How easily we forget. I've forgotten what it's like to make an effort. To make an effort for myself, my friends and my relationships. It's not just me, though. As we get closer & closer, more attached & more attached virtually we seem to forget the real work of anything worth while.... of people. The people that matter most to us and make life LIFE. Yet somehow the most powerful tool that brings people together, facebook, can seem utterly alienating sometimes.

Remember when you used to wonder how a person was doing and you'd call to ask them? You even knew their phone number by heart because you dialed it regularly? Today... well today.... I wonder how a person is doing and I check their facebook page. I do this so frequently that I feel caught up on people's lives that I haven't seen in years. But what am I caught up on? Just the blips and blurbs that they feel comfortable sharing with any person equally. It's not personal. They aren't telling me, Mary, anything. Just as I am not telling YOU anything about how I am really feeling right now. But somehow we all take comfort in this false sense of connection, simply because we like having 347 friends or maybe because we like talking about ourselves best of all.

I understand the attraction. It's relationships made easy. Interactions simplified to 'likes' and 'comments'. Moods boiled down to 'status's and 'wall post's. You can access dozen of friends in no time at all. But I'm starting to wonder if the easiness is just making the real stuff harder. Where suddenly a text takes too much time, a call seems out right inconvenient and a personal visit absolutely impossible.

Time and effort has been left out of the facebook equation. Zuckerberg's algorithms fall short there. And, lately, I find myself desperately craving both. I want to remember what it's like to work for the people I love. I want to feel my relations in real time. Real world. To feel my loneliness in full effect. Maybe that will force the effort out of me.

So I think it might be time to disconnect. Unplug, delete and log out.

ps - stay tuned for facebook withdrawal post....

I Arted

2011-12-31T00:11:00.002-06:00

I realized that I like to blog my art projects. Not to show off or impress my four readers (you are impressed though, aren't you four readers?), really I do it as documentation. I've said a hundred times that process attracts me to art. Even my own process I guess. But really, it's nice to have things all in one place complete with date and time stamp. Suddenly my one project's process becomes one 'previous' from the time before that and the time before that. And then .... well then you have a whole lot more....

So what happens when I can't blog my art, because the projects are for two of my four readers? Well, first I might post my pics on the places I know they will never find... twitter, instagram. Then I hold it in. And die. And hold it in. Until the secret is out.

Story goes - My sister is an indecisive art buyer. She's been looking to pay homage to her Wisconsin roots. Like all of us, the Wisconsin State Hearts floating around have been tempting her for a while. Well, shit. I can do that. But I can Mary that.

My color choices wavered, torn between oranges/browns and blues/silvers. I ended up making both. That's how my other sister ended up with one. Then I made a purple one. I'm not sure if that's for me or not. Who am I kidding? It will inevitably get hung up in my self-indulgent, own-art filled apartment... I just don't know what to do with any of it. Anyway. Here's a photo, or two, or three of me playing with stenciling and decoupage and hometown roots.

There you have it. Wisconsin Love.

Thankful for...

2011-11-24T13:20:00.001-06:00

Mid afternoon and I'm sitting on my laptop, alone in my apartment facebooking and passing time.... like it was any other day. But behind my internet browsing, my heart is really sad to spending the time just like this. It's Thanksgiving - a day for thanks, for love, for friends, for family.

It's Thanksgiving and my heart longs to be home in Milwaukee with my family. It feels weird that I won't be able to tell my dad to turn the volumn down on the football game. I won't get the chance to plop the cranberry sauce out of the can and into a sparkling dish just to hear that sucking sound. I won't be eating the world's best Company Potatoes. But worst of all, I won't be bowling a perfect 76 at Pioneer Lanes on Friday with my mother's side of the family.

What I realize, as I sit and feel sad to not take part in the Phelps tradition, is that THAT is what I am thankful for this year. The sadness! I am so glad that I have a family that are also my best friends. I am grateful to be excited to spend any and every minute that I can with them. They are amazing people, and I'm thankful that I love them enough to miss them right now.

Mom, Dad, Erica and Bridget... I love the shit out of you guys.

Oops... I swore... sorry Mom.

I am also thankful that my dad's side of the family is here to take me in for a meal with loved ones tonight.

Be thankful.
Be loved.

Mary

Never Enough

2011-10-24T18:46:00.000-05:00

We all do it
We try harder than we should
We stay longer than we ought
We give more than we've got

So...
When we become exhausted...
When we end up broken hearted...
When our dreams have died...

Why can't we walk away?

Instead we
Stay broken hearted
Stay chasing dreams
Stay where we never should be

We stay at the chance
of Hope
of Love Rekindled
of Passions Found
of Dreams Come True

Because... because... walking away... is giving up. Giving up on where it all began.

So I find
myself hanging on to possiblity
myself broken hearted longer than I ought to be
myself choosing pain for it's potential

Enough should probably be enough
But somehow ... it never is

The Blues

2011-10-08T18:19:00.000-05:00

framed up and now I'm not sure if I'm done....

Experiments

2011-10-08T00:14:00.001-05:00

I feel like I have done nothing and everything tonight...

Fish Belly

2011-09-27T15:32:00.002-05:00

In the bellyof the whale

I sit shamedlike Jonah

Failure todo the teller’s told

In the bellyof the whale

I wait,

To beswallowed

Consumed by shame

I wait,

To wait

I wait,

To be spewed

Violentlyreleased

I wait

The waitingkills me,

In the bellyof the whale

There’s noway out,

Of thisbelly in the whale

I wait

To wait inthe belly of the whale

I wait

Stenciled

2011-09-25T16:01:00.000-05:00

Apparently, I am really inspired by unemployment... I'm starting to think TIME really is a crucial part of CREATIVITY.

Started cutting out some stencils today:

Two images:

Layered look like this:

Now it's time for paint!

Something and Nothing

2011-09-23T16:53:00.000-05:00

Maybe I'm just looking for a reason to write or maybe an exhibit actually got me....

Beyond knowing that Charles Allis had a factory in Milwaukee and was an art collector, I don't know much. The mansion, Charles' home for seven years turned library turned museum and historic site, housed a variety of displays - some his, some not. Though his life was brief within these walls, one exhibit trapped him in this time, this place.

His bedroom was dark. The shades drawn on an already cloudy day. Musty as old houses always are. 100 years of smell in one place. A simple, minimally furnished room. The bed. The fireplace. A few steps to the center of the room and I realize there isn't much to look at. In my periphery I catch a change in light within the attached bathroom behind me. I spin. All seems normal. Again, I take to the center of the room and look towards the mantel. It's hardly seconds before I sense movement again in the same place there was nothing. I can feel it behind me. This room is not about what's there, rather what's not. He's here. He never left.

Startled. A crashing tin sounds the empty room. Loud. The sound rings bigger than the room itself. It's behind me again. And I spin to nothing again. No matter where I am there is something and nothing behind me. The sounds bring me to a derelict factory. Perhaps, Charles own plant devastated by modernity. Run down and forgotten as most factories exist today. Between the echoes of clanging metal, in the silence I hear the machines waiting for life.

He's here and he's bothered by what has come of his livelihood. His ghost has seen today. His ghost has brought today to this room. It haunts him while he haunts me. There's a draw to the bathroom tub and I can't help but feel like he died there. I feel like I could die there. Swallowed by the past. My chest is a little tight and reality seems far away.

It doesn't take long to put the exhibit together. Built-in surround system with localized sound effects. The bathroom light mocked by a projector behind frosted glass creating subtle and sudden changes in the environment. Just enough to make you second guess your sanity. Even knowing that though - I had a moment of being caught in the whispers of the past and the promise of an afterlife, and it kinda creeped me out.

More info: Charles Allis Art Museum

Driving Palette

2011-09-18T00:19:00.000-05:00

What about driving excuses your palette?

My usual road trip food is Combos. Nacho Cheese. Pretzel shell. I have never purchased Combos anywhere other than small town, highway exit gas stations. And I have never eaten Combos outside of my drivers seat. Call it vehicular comfort food.

I'm certain we all have them.

I deviated on my route to Milwaukee Thursday, strayed, but not far... from the norm of my poor driving palette.

I stuck with the cheese (maybe it's a Wisconsin soil thing? No... I've done Combos beyond our dairy borders...) and added coffee. Yeah, I added a Starbucks Vanilla Frappuchino to my Bucky Badger Triple Mix Popcorn.

Gross.

At the time it was perfect though. Comfort as I cruised through Fort Douglas.

Can I tell you something else? Wisconsin knows how to do cheese popcorn like no other. There's a "Chicago Mix" at the best Candyland store in Minneapolis, old fashion, been doing it right for years, but their cheese can't stand up to Bucky. Not a chance.

This cheese made the kernels almost feel wet with flavor. This cheese still sits in the beds of my fingernails, thumb and pointer on my left hand, still suggesting the blazing orange glory that was. The kind of cheese, that I actually considering what I would do with my mess of a hand if I were to get in an accident while driving.... I knew the cheese would be my last image before impact.

I could go on and on about this cheese.... but this is on TV:

And I'm finding it hard to concentrate. Too Cute! Animal Planet... dammit, you got me....

art feels good

2011-08-13T12:50:00.000-05:00

My friend's engagement photo...

so... this is what her wedding present starts out as....

piecing it together....

waiting for it to dry....

finally wrap ready....

A hot day

2011-07-31T21:20:00.000-05:00

....and I'm bored....

....really bored....

Peanuts on a Plane

2011-07-21T09:11:00.001-05:00

It was a holiday. The kind of holiday that family congregates and reminisces. I realize that could be any holiday and I suppose that’s why I can’t tell you which one and won’t attempt. Memory serves no indication of location or season, so I’m sticking with “It was a holiday”.

As all familial conversations do, the topics circled and circled and finally landed on travel. I’m sure an aunt was nervous about how her stomach would handle her upcoming cruise, which might have led to the conversation about various methods of vacationing. To this day, I have never vacationed on the water. Cruise ship travel is foreign to me. I might have said that aloud. It’s all together possible that my confession caused another aunt to admit to never having boarded a plane.

But here, here is where I remember. I remember that whatever holiday with whichever aunts (there are many!) in whatever roundabout way of conversation led me to telling them all about the first time I was ever on a plane.

My first flight was MKE to Jamaica with a friend’s family when I was a freshman in high school, in a thunderstorm no less, but that was not the story I told them. I told them the story of the first time I was on a plane. A different story all together.

I remembered being at a very young age, I’m talking pre-school young. I remember walking onto the plane and being greeted by friendly flight attendants. I remember fastening my buckle and how big it felt in my tiny child hands. We had peanuts, I definitely remember that. But this is where my memory ends.

Probably at the sound of my voice and the shape of my story, my mother’s ears perked up and she yelled out across the room to call my bluff. You see, my mom knows that we weren’t the kind of family to travel by plane. Ever. To anywhere. We were always a family of five driving a minivan with a pop-up camper in tow. The thing is... I know this fact too, which is why it came out of my own mouth as uncertain memory. It didn’t make sense. I’ll admit that and my mother thought she caught me. I could tell by the gloating excitement nestled under her tone. The words she yelled out, the words I could hear excitement poking through, were “Mary, you were never on a plane when you were little.”

I shook my head, maybe even slapped my knee and insisted that I had. I described again and again how much I remembered but that I didn’t remember going anywhere. It’s not that it was because we went somewhere and I have a failed memory (though this story may not disprove THAT theory), it’s because we really didn’t go anywhere. I remember we boarded, ate our peanuts and left.

I may have been red in the face at this point, persisting with my mother in front of my 900 aunts as they watched in disbelief. After all, mothers would know whether or not their 3 year old was boarding a plane alone. Minutes (feeling like hours) into my insistence, my mother’s face finally went soft. Her eyes sparkled the sparkle of recognition. She then told me about a daycare teacher that used to take us all on really cool field trips. She realized my memory was one of them.

I think about that memory now and it saddens me a bit. How travel has changed in 20 years, there’s no way a three year old today would be able to sit and eat peanuts on a plane to nowhere. More importantly, that a three year old would never have the opportunity twenty years later to disprove their upbringing to their very own mother.

Today, I also can’t help to think ….. Which old family friend arrived at the airport that day that my daycare provider just had to pick up mid-shift, kids in tow? “Field trip” Right….

A Series of Me

2011-06-19T21:47:00.001-05:00

This was also my experience in St. Joseph, MN. The highlight of it actually was playing with this halo.

I don't fancy myself photogenic. And it's hard to see my face as a photo over ... well, my face. But I started applying these filters to the original image and suddenly I loved the series. A series of me.
Weird. Maybe even weirdo.

A Culinary Rebellion

2011-06-19T21:14:00.007-05:00

I just got back from Saint Joseph, MN.
Aloud, that sentence is always followed by "where's that?"
I spent the last 10 days there and I'm not sure even I know how to answer that.
I mean... geographically, I'd answer "Near St. Cloud".
Then I'd hear, "that's like.... west, right?"
"Yeah, northwest. 75 miles up I-94"
"Oh.... what's in St. Joesph?"
That's where I don't know how to answer.
The College of St. Benedict I suppose.
There's a Taco John's and a Montessori.

I've never lived on campus.
Ever.
Not even during college.
I just did.
I made the right decision to not do that.

For 10 days, I gained weight on campus dining service food. For a vegetarian that means salad mostly. A ton of salad to gain weight off of. The weight gain, I'm sure, had little to do with the content and more to do with the culinary context. 3 square, scheduled meals a day. Like clockwork... we'd wake, we'd eat, we'd work, we'd eat, we'd work, we'd eat, we'd work, we'd sleep. Meals were at 8am, 12pm, and 5pm on the minute stroke.

I got home and I longed to feel hunger.
I longed for culinary liberties.
To satisfy a craving.
To eat against the norm.

So this morning, waking up in my own bed that smelled only of me.... and then laying in that smell until 11... then showering for 30 minutes in my own bathroom among my own lotions and potions.... I decided today I was going to break all the meal conventions placed upon me the last 10 days. Today, I rebel.

I let myself starve until 1pm.
My 1:10 breakfast was chex mix.
There may have been some chocolate in there.
Who am I kidding?
There was chocolate in there.
And by two o'clock I wanted the ultimate rebellion to all I have eaten since June 8.
I needed the most ridiculous vegetarian meal that St. Joe's has never seen.
Could never even dream.

I wanted marinated tofu.
AND PROTEIN!
Protein of every kind.
Give me BBQ mock duck.
Give me Thai.
Give me Japanese noodles shop.
Give me stinky Greek.

I knew I needed to go big, go extreme. Even extreme for me. To prove to myself why I can never be a small town girl. That simple life can't always satisfy. So I set out.... to confuse my taste buds.

I ended up at Birchwood Cafe.

Looks unassuming. You think you have me pegged... oh veggie burger w/ ketchup.

Nah... I'm way more hardcore than that.

Black Bean Quinoa Burger.
Strawberry-Rhubarb compote.
Bib Lettuce.
Red Onion.
Provolone.
Parsley-Fennel aoili.
On a multi-grain bun.

Compote, you mean - stewed fruit.... on a burger? Yep, this is the weirdo shit I was craving.

The order of ingredients were important. The roof of your mouth hit the compote first. Sweet and tangy, feels like the kind of fruit laden drizzle you'd find on a summer salad. Perhaps with candied nuts and twice baked brie. Your brain stays there as your teeth ripped the bib lettuce. Hmmm... refreshing. Ok, I'll buy it. What hits next is the red onion, with the piercing bite that only raw red onion knows how to deliver. Then you reach patty. Rather smokey in flavor, and the provolone is really just adding the warm gooey texture while letting the smoke of the patty do it's thing. Any other cheese would over power. The bottom of the bun spread lightly with the crisp parsley-fennel aoili, almost acting like a citrus kicker at the end.

A well rounded experience I'd have to say. And satisfying no less. My only critique is the substantial bun in combo with the hearty patty, left a bit of a dry finish at the end. I might even goes as far as suggesting it open faced. Thank goodness for the dill and vinegared cucumber, glad I saved that as my juicy last bite.

In homage of today.... my dad would say.... "And you actually liked that weirdo shit?"

Wait, there's anatomy in my Easter basket

2011-04-23T13:52:00.001-05:00

Brought the Bieber

2011-03-30T11:02:00.002-05:00

I'm glad that even Justin Bieber has a place here. Right in front of Notre-Dame no less. This trio was a rather funny act ... I would consider them hip hop queens. Poppin' n' Lockin' and swishing those hips a little too easily.

Also, does the video work?

He said it

2011-03-30T10:45:00.001-05:00

The bells, the bells!

2011-03-30T10:44:00.003-05:00

Notre-Dame

2011-03-30T10:44:00.001-05:00

Soaring

2011-03-29T13:19:00.000-05:00

Lock me up and throw away the key

2011-03-29T13:18:00.003-05:00

I should probably google this before I post it.... I'm not sure why but on many bridges there are locks decorating the fences. I like this tradition even though I don't get it. It's beautiful.

UPDATE: They are love locks. Lovers chain them there as a symbol of their devotion and throw away the key. Note to self, remember to look down at the water below. I imagine a wishing well of keys.

Tower Eiffel

2011-03-29T13:18:00.000-05:00

2011-03-29T13:15:00.002-05:00

2011-03-29T13:15:00.001-05:00

2011-03-29T13:15:00.000-05:00

Cologne Cathedral

2011-03-29T13:14:00.001-05:00

Or should I say... Koln. No, I probably should since I don't know how to get my keyboard to put the right stresses over the o. It's a double dotter.
I had a brief layover in Cologne from my train ride from Paderborn, Germany to Paris. So I stopped to see the church and window shopped a little.

Springtime in Deutschland

2011-03-29T13:11:00.000-05:00

German Countryside

2011-03-29T13:10:00.001-05:00

This was the few from my castle hotel room. Overnight trip to the south to visit a few wineries and what 'very German' looks like.

2011-03-23T12:48:00.001-05:00

I AMsterdam

2011-03-23T12:47:00.001-05:00

Sitting in museumplein, post Van Gogh museum.

Lights on the Singel Canal

2011-03-22T16:21:00.000-05:00

I guess there is a reason to go out at night.

Dam Square Reaper

2011-03-22T09:34:00.001-05:00

In all the books, they tell you to go to Dam Square to people watch. It's a beautiful day - 55 and sunny. People sit along the fringe. Most town squares are filled with street performers, musicians and magicians alike. Not today. Today it is five morbid costumes standing on milk cartons. The reaper, two V for Vendettas, a sad clown and a hell raiser type. No one approaches them, nor do they engage the passing by. Instead they each just stand there, on their crates being morbidly ignored.

*sigh* the life of a ghoul.

Lastly

2011-03-21T13:40:00.001-05:00

I really spent most of my day getting lost. Like off the map lost. After which I was nodding off to a canal boat cruise. By before being lost I spent some time at the Anne Frank House.

A weird feeling indeed. Where the tourists on the floor above you make you feel the presence of the hidden family so many years ago. I could feel their ghosts haunting that building. Anne's room still pasted with photos of celebrity and royalty... Not unlike Bridget's top bunk.

Moving. But I can't really describe why.

Nightlight

2011-03-21T13:33:00.001-05:00

The one cool thing in my room.

Should have used the real camera..

2011-03-21T13:31:00.000-05:00

So many bikes. This was a bike parking lot near central station... And I used to have troubling finding my car at Mayfair Mall. Four zigzagging levels of black cruisers.

It's cool too see everyone biking. That's how parents pick up their kids from school and how boyfriends pick up girlfriends.

Just architecture

2011-03-21T13:28:00.000-05:00

And yes, I have only been taking photos with my iPhone. But don't you worry, I am lugging my SLR around to beef up my traps.

Boats AND Architecture

2011-03-21T13:26:00.003-05:00

Boats

2011-03-21T13:26:00.001-05:00

On one of the canals whose name I can't pronounce.

You must be very very small

2011-03-21T13:24:00.001-05:00

The bathroom door is literally only 16" wide and only has 6" before it hits the side of the bed. The staircase to the fourth floor is not for the weak-kneed.

This is how Holland welcomes you

2011-03-21T13:22:00.001-05:00

Ps I can't figure out how to attach multiple photos...

My Orchid

2011-03-14T22:28:00.003-05:00

I'm not really sure how my orchid got this way. Sometimes I feed it ice cubes. Sometimes my bottom of the cup backwash. Most times I ignore it. And almost always I am waiting for the green stalk to just DO something.

I don't know how or why, but for being dormant for two years my orchid has finally bloomed. And just in time for me to be out of the country unable to enjoy it's blossom.

Oh well. I hope I don't know this much again next year and hopefully I will be around to see the fusia open.

2011-02-19T19:26:00.001-06:00

Another cold, snowy night. Welcome to Minnesota.

My year in music... if you give a shit.

2011-01-08T18:26:00.012-06:00

I've always said "I'm bad a favorites". I like things differently. So I won't be any good at the Top Albums or the Top Singles lists. Instead, here are my things to note about a year in music 2010 style... dare I call it: Mary's Music Moments of 2010. Fucking alliteration, can I be any more of a nerd?

Favorite song to turn the radio way WAY UP!:
Sleigh Bells - "Crown on the Ground"
Check out a poor quality, fan video HERE

I will gladly blow my speakers on that one. Their debut album Treats dropped last summer, so I may be a little slow on the pick up. Part of my hold up was every time I got back to my computer I could never come up with the band name. A lot of "Bells" on the scene, right? I don't know how many times I asked, "You know that song they've been playing on the Current with the dope beat and the static-y mic?" No one seemed to be able to satisfy me with an answer. Memory jogged last week. Album purchased. And it's quickly becoming one of my favorites. Can't wait to catch this Brooklyn duo in person.

PS. Don't check out their website.... it doesn't make them look awesome...

Favorite album to belt out while alone:
Florence + the Machine - Lungs

I know I bought this a year ago Christmas, so technically it must have been released in 2009, but the airwaves caught on mid 2010 with "Kiss with a Fist". Guttural and fun to sing along to. That bass drum driving your pulse and your voice box trying to keep up. If you are braving the sing along - be sure to have the track playing loud... most chords are no match for Florence's. What I really love about this album though is how sweetly dark it is. I grow tired of music that takes itself too seriously, and lyrics like "I said Hey, Girl with One Eye, Get your filthy fingers out of my pie" fit my sentiments exactly.

Check out one of my favorite tracks - Drumming Song - OFFICIAL VIDEO

Favorite female-lead girl-crush:
Oh yeah, that goes to Florence too...
We all have them, don't we?

Favorite live performance:
Dirty Projectors

Hands down!! It surprised the hell out of me too! That September night could go down as one of my all time favorite concerts. Go out and buy Bitte Orca (extended edition, that includes some nice acoustics stylings on the same great tracks [bargain price of $5.99 on iTunes today] ). I had an older album of theirs, Rise Above, and liked it enough but didn't hit the replay that often. It wasn't until I saw them live that I fell. And FUCKING HARD! Eating up anything any band member has had it's hands on. The trio of female voices were so incredibly on point with harmonies tighter than tight - it dropped the jaw of this former-singer. Throughout both albums those voices are used percussively. Live, it was UNREAL!

Perfect example, check out this live footage - Remade Horizon - LIVE

God I love that shit! To add a little romance to the love affair born that night, that show was also a killer first date for me. Bom chikka wa wa!

Favorite let down:
Haley Bonar

Now, there are some bands that are Make-or-Break when it comes to live performance. The aforementioned being the epitome of MAKE. Locally grown, Haley Bonar, was my breaking point. Now, I'm not saying she doesn't have a beautiful voice with a great album as a result, but this is the year's concert that I wish I would have just stayed home.

Why do I feel like it's important to tell you this? Because, I really liked her. I overplayed Big Star like What! I was excited to see her live and.... she broke my heart. The music was good and fine (aside from her attempt at a larger band ensemble), but I walked away not liking her as a person (how is that possible in the singer/audience relationship? I dunno, but it is somehow). She seemed ungrateful to be there with us, we were inconveniencing her somehow or maybe it was fucking PMS. Either way. I haven't listened to her album since and I'm sincerely bummed about that! I wanted to love it SO BAD!

Favorite ringing in the ears post-show:
The Black Keys

I loved every minute of that tingle. I would have taken my ringing ears right into the second night's show if he hadn't been sold out. There aren't many shows that I would be willing to pay a $35 ticket price twice to see the exact same set... enough said. Their album release Brothers easily made my most played list. It also made me back track to Attack & Release -n- beyond, and dig up Dan Auerbach's solo album (Keep it Hid) and side projects (Blakrok). Bottom line, good dish-washin' music. It gets me through every time!

Favorite song to get me through the work day:
Cee-lo Green - "Fuck You"

I don't know why, but this song always got stuck in my head during paid hours. Ok... maybe you know why... I always found myself belting out the chorus in my tight-quartered-office until I fumbled my way to 'the' lyric. As the song goes, "Fuck That Shit"! We all learned how fun swear words are to doo-wop to. The radio version being less than satisfying. Still a track that's just as catchy as Cee-lo tends to deliver... Ooo OoO OOO!

Others on the Over-Play list (I have my reasons...) :
The Tallest Man on Earth - The Wild Hunt
The xx - xx
Vampire Weekend - Contra
Ray LaMontagne & the Pariah Dogs - God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise
The Dead Weather - Horehound
Yeasayer - Odd Blood
the Books - The Way Out
Spoon - Transference

There are too many more... I don't want to do this anymore...

Bested by the Bixi

2010-07-08T22:20:00.009-05:00

So I may be a nerd...

Ok, maybe just a failed nerd.

Failed because it took me over two years to successfully acquire the most powerful nerd-tool available. Last month, I finally earned my St. Paul Public Library Card. An important merit badge of nerd-dom.

But when I finally get around to 'going' there, I 'go' all out nerd... with my new free license to knowledge.... What did I check out on loan?

Travel books.

NERD!

Travel books on a then-upcoming trip to Montreal. Internet searching is painfully slow here. But a book! A glorious book! I can take that along in my travel bag. I won't even start in on how useful the pocket sized, folded, waterproof map will be!

I spent a good week skimming those pages and geeking myself up.

My legs hit French colonized soil. The book only came out while I was afoot in the city. Pointing my toes in the right direction. That little laminated piece of illustrated city - sooo useful. I knowledgeably walked that whole freaking city.

Once Steph joined me our strides carried us down to the Vieux-Port (Old Port) in Vieux-Montréal (Old Montreal) along the Fleuve Saint-Laurent (Saint Laurence River). Yes, that is all the French I learned. 17th Century building span the waterfront of the Old city. Towering behind that wall of history is modernism in full force. G-Force even. Glass ribboned skyscrapers lurking behind the Roman Catholic figures lining the Port. As all rivers do, the St. Laurence seemed to run forever. We needed a better way to cover further ground.

All throughout Montreal, you see these:

Commuter bike rental stations. The Bixi. Directions in French, of course. I searched my photographic memory (exaggerated for the sake of the story) for flashes of the Bixi. I vaguely remembered a blurb saying something about them being $5 for a half hour, but that $5 can get you a whole day of riding if you manage to check in at one of the stations within that 30 minute limit. Of course, that article was in the book that I left on my living room table, not the book in the bag that straddled my aching shoulder...

We're women of the gambling nature, so we put all our money on my vague flash and let it ride...literally. We start shoving credit cards into the French machine and pushing any button that leads to anywhere. At one point the screen reads $250.00. The four eyes between the two of us grew wide for a second, but the trust was deep and the idea was grand. Continued to button mash until a receipt printed with a numeric code at the bottom.

Bingo. Punch in our code. Rip our bikes from the rack. And ROLL!

The Bixi stations are whizzing by on our right as the river dictates our route on the left. Well, as fast as anything can whiz when you are riding a 70 lb. tank of a bike with 4 inch tires. The stations flew too soon and frequent. We ride into our 20th minute and realize the trail is starting to look less 'commuter' and more 'leisure'. We start wondering where and when we may see the next station.

You see, despite it's appeal to foreigners, Montreal's Bixi is not a tourist system. As we pushed all those buttons and tried to decipher the giant red sign that flags each station, we realized one thing: There's no map. There is no way of visually identifying where this program takes you. A huge red sign with a big blank back to it. Perfect for a starred map of the city. But no. We had no point of reference. We also had no idea what would happen if we didn't make the 30 minute limit. Was that the context of the 250 dollar amount we saw stated in foreign text?

This was my brain at the 23 minute mark:

Hmm, another tunnel up ahead.

The trees are growing more dense.

I think the last Bixi was 3 minutes ago.

Uhhh... when is the next one?
I can't see one!

This is starting to look kinda rural....

Is that red thing....? Nope, not a Bixi sign...
Maybe we should turn BACK.

How long would it take us to turn around?

AHHHH it's minute 27!

My voice in my head was quivering, so I finally let my uncertainties vomit aloud. Steph's head was doing the same. We both just spent the last 10 minutes panicked, unable to enjoy the view. Some leisure ride! We decide to turn around and huff it to the sure thing we passed 4 minutes ago. Well, at least as much as one can huff it when you are riding a 70 lb. tank of a bike with 4 inch tires!

I spot the red flag of a sign and as we near..... The entire Bixi rack is full minus one spot! We strategize in quick, sharp tongues as we dismount our Bixis. She got her bike first and is less one minute than me, so if she checks in and then checks out really quick... I can follow suit. Fast forward button mashing!

We end up making the time crunch but our nerves are so shot, neither one of us are ecstatic about the idea of continuing on. BUT now we are stuck! The option of checking both bikes in at this location isn't possible with only one slot open. We forge ahead with no direction and diminishing fun. The sure bet would be to point our front wheels towards downtown. That's where we head.

An hour and a half time spent and we ditch our bikes at the first station we see with two stalls. We walk away knowing that our feet won't stress us out. Good old, reliable feet. And then we laugh.

We laugh at how great the idea was to explore a foreign city via bicycle. We giggle about how pedal commuter friendly this city is and how badly we wanted to be apart of that. We chuckle about how we thought we were figuring out this French system in our own stupid, American way. But mostly, what got us to the point of tears was that we were bested by the Bixi. Somehow an idea that had so much potential for fun turned into the worst, most anxious moments of travels together.

The day continued on and ended up with us at a bar late a night with a friend of Steph's playing tour guide. The host had a short walk home, which left us to our own means of making it across town. We had learned the hard way that although bars stay open until 3am, the city metro latched the revolving doors at 1am. In a 2am moment of brilliance we both thought.... the Bixis! We thought we'd give it another shot since the money was good all day. We had the relief of knowing there was a station directly in front of the Chateau Versailles. We commit to that plan and start walking her friend home with the promise of seeing some stations along the way.

I see one, hmmm... Wierd, that's empty. There was a soccer game that night maybe everyone rode them out of downtown drunk? Another! Empty. Third? Empty. Just our luck... it must have been Bixi maintance night. Every single Bixi in the city had been collected as we downed beers while taxadermied ostriches loomed overhead.

DAMMIT it's 3am and we were bested by the Bixi's AGAIN!

So you'll understand why my heart jumped to my throat when I saw this driving home last Wednesday:

THE BIXIS ARE COMING!

And then on Thursday:

~~THE BIXIS ARE COMING!~~

THE BIXIS ARE HERE!

....at least MPLS' got a map: http://www.niceridemn.org/

Oh and I ended up with a big nerdy fine of those travel books.... what an idiot!

House of Balls!

2010-06-13T21:58:00.001-05:00

What I love about this city is that you'll never find it all.

There is always some jewel to discover.

A couple of months ago, I found this jewel of a gallery. The artist opens it's doors during strange hours and got his start sculpting bowling balls. Most of his walls are covered in reclaimed material playing with the element of light. No wonder I like it... It's finding things like this that make me appreciate the creative world we live in and I'm fortunate enough to find myself a community that supports it. Take a photo tour with me... better yet, go find all the crazy I didn't capture for yourself.

Holy Moly

2010-06-13T20:23:00.003-05:00

I started this blog in November of 2008. With a handful of posts, it mostly sat unread and unwritten for 9 months.

August of last year I had a couple of weeks without internet and a bunch of 'experiences' to write about. So I sat down and decided to invest in this thing a bit.

I missed writing. My college education was writing. I needed to write.

I went hot and heavy for three months. I actually wrote everyday that I was in town.

It was right around that time that I put the visitor ticker on my page.

Today that ticker hit 1000. This post will be my 104th.

If I'm pulling out averages, in the 18 months I have had this thing that puts me at 56 hits a month. Almost two visits a day.

The truth there is I never admited to having this site until that August that I couldn't stop writing. The other truth is that those hits are probably mostly me seeing if my post formatted correctly.

Today I wonder how people keep finding themselves here. I am not that intersting, especially when I am only mustering one post a week....

and how the hell do I only have 4 followers? Own up people! I know you are there.

Ha.

Isn't this boring?

I have so many backstories I just need to get to. Will someone borrow me some time and clear thought so I can make you all giggle a little now and then? Please?

Thanks for reading.

How to cut a mango...

2010-06-13T17:30:00.012-05:00

No pun involved in the title. This really is an entry on the best way I have found to cut a mango. Food instruction isn't something usually found in my blog. But a few days ago I promised to give a lesson in mango cutting to a friend and today I just happened to get my knife out and thought it would be a waste of a mango for this promise to go unfulfilled.

To Jamie: How to cut a mango....

The important thing is to leave a little skin on the top and bottom of the mango. Gives you some grabbing points. We all know how slippery these devils can be.

1 - I always work in a bowl rather than a cutting board. First I score along the bottom of the mango. This gives the knife a stopping point when pealing.

2 - I think mangoes are the only time I get out my paring knife. Peal the darn thing!

3 - Notice I still got my non-slip skin spots.

4 - Shave off chunks down to the core. Sometimes this means cutting into and under the top and bottom skin to get all that tangy meat.

5 - The result! Lots of fruit in the bowl and nothing but nut left for the trash.

Note to self: Never try to be a hand model.

A Nice Ass Surprise!

2010-05-17T20:06:00.010-05:00

I need to remember to carry around my business cards. Every day is a new face and it is far easier to have them remember me than the other way around. Due to my inability to cough up my contact info, I have started a collection of millions. Rightly so, I need to know them all. But at this point I doubt I can project faces on these informative take-aways. They are scattering my desk at work and making the crumpled commute home, ending up one of many cluttered surfaces.

I am on the verge of surviving the 9 mile bike home. I turn off of the river and onto the city streets for the home stretch. I start daydreaming on how good it will feel to curl up on my couch for a minute. Soft cushions cradling my bruising tail bones. The slamming of my garage door settles it. I'm hard core. Now to find soft comfort for my aching joints, gasping lungs and twitching muscles.

I collapse. My midget sofa forces me to tuck my knees in tight beneath my chin. But my left leg isn't going there easily. The crease in my thigh is resisting the angle. Pockets. I am not usually a pocket stuffer. I shove my hand into my tiny pocket (don't get me started on women's pants pockets) and expect to find one of those treasure cards of information. Instead, I reach in my pocket and pull out a butt.

A 1.5" x 3" butt.

The story could end with a wildly inappropriate business card. Or it can end (or start?) this way...

That butt made it to my pocket yesterday (Yes, I may have just admitted to wearing the same jeans twice in a row. Don't pretend you don't). Spending the day studio hopping in NE Minneapolis, one of the nation's largest open gallery events was afoot. We entered dozens of work spaces. Some artists talked to us. Some waiting for us to talk to them. Some didn't talk at all and for some of those some, I am glad it worked out that way.

We enter a gallery just like the last but vastly different from the before. These studios share walls but their similarities lie and die there. This one is lined with framed photography. Figure after figure. If these bodies escaped from under their glass, there would be 40 people filling this room. But instead there were three. Me, my friend and the photographer himself, who made a bee-line for us as we entered the space. He launched into his artistic process. He tells me he paints with light. The camera is set in the dark, the model frozen in pose and the lens set on long exposure. With a flash light he traces the areas he wants captured. So that highlight on that women's left cheek was him circling and circling her bun for a good minute's time. I took his eager attitude as an attempt to make a sale. I already know I can't afford to buy anything and try to leave the conversation at a simple 'Cool, thanks. We're going to look around'.

And then the approach. My friend later told me she smelled an ulterior motive. I am none the wiser. He separates me from my friend and tells me he'd love for me to model for him. Cue cheeks. Fully flushed red, I mumbled something about not being good at cute. That's when he hands me the butt. His card. Only it's an appropriately nude business card. If there is such a thing.

Feeling a little bit like I was just undressed with a stranger's eyes, I can't recall the last of the light paintings in that room. I continue to giggle, while secretly considering it. What am I twelve?

I am under no impression that he was hitting on me. Or any other egomaniacal rant I could conjure up. In all honesty, it makes a lot of sense for an artist to solicit models in this kind of environment - in his professional studio, among his work, face to face all equate to a legitimate preposition.

What weirded me out a bit was as we were leaving the girl appeared out of nowhere. It was like a strategic tag-team. AND I'm the one getting worked over by them. She keeps trying for my eyes and I keep avoiding them because now I've caught onto the sense my friend was privy too from the get-go. I can't get by her, she stops me at the door.

As gently as she can, she starts telling me her own experience being approached by him. How, as a model, you are in complete control of how you want the shoot to go. 'He only works within your comfort limits,' she says.

I couldn't help but feel like I was in one of those strategic manipulation stories. The kind that makes you as a little kid believe that your mom was running late and had her 'friend' Al come pick you up from school and you believe Al because he has a kid your age sitting in the seat neat to him and he's driving the same minivan as your dad. (Ok, I may have just launched into a movie I recently saw ... but you get the point). A well articulated plan. The aggressor followed up by the comfort character.

It kinda gives me the heebie jeebies. Well, the story ends with my clothes on, which means if I was that kid I never would have gotten into that van.

Really, I just wanted to say that I pulled a butt from my pocket today.

The Doctor is In

2010-04-29T14:40:00.034-05:00

As I type this I hear a Mark Ronson remix. The lyrics:

"Stop me, Oh oh oh, stop me. Stop if you think that you heard this one before."

Well, too bad suckers! Most of you have heard my 'good' stories, but my good 'told in person' stories can't even touch my writing capabilities.

Whoa, I found an ego there for a minute. Awesome.

Some day I want to get around to writing down my experience over the last month about changing jobs and yada yada. People only sorta know my deal. But I don't feel like doing that today. Instead I have a St. Paul Chamber Orchestra memory that I need immortalized in word.

My previous job description itemized a list of essential qualifications. After the requirements of being just plain awesome, one bullet point reads:

Ability to work in a high pressure environment.

It's a common asset amidst my field. I'm pretty sure those words are repeated in the job descriptions within the live performance industry.

That qualification voices warning that things will get a little (who am I kidding?) a lot stressful. The problem with that line item is that it decrees that you are willing to put yourself there, not that you can handle that stress well. Everyone survives the pressure cooker differently. But I fully believe that to successfully work among the stress, you've got to bring a side of humor or it will eat you alive.

Enter Doctor Evil.

The mad scientist from the Austin Powers movies with all his bald-headed, pinky-tasting, MiniMe-having, 'One Million Dollars' saying glory. Somehow this unlikely character found it's way into the backstage of SPCO. The life sized likeness usually lives in the vestibule between backstage and onstage. Giving surprising chuckles to all that enter.

Most days Dr. Evil is kept to welcoming duty. Some days ... life for this cardboard cutout is a lot more fun.

Over the last four years the orchestra stage manager and myself have turned to the Doctor when the emotional winding gets tight.

Dr. Evil has hung from the ceiling. Peeked out behind acoustic curtains. He's worn Halloween masks. And carried signs of info for the musicians. My favorite moments took advantage of our video feed. We have a camcorder in the Music Room so people throughout the office can keep track of rehearsals via TV monitors (this also gives them to ability to watch me dance as I mop the audience risers, oh yeah and me picking my butt when I think I'm alone).

Some days a staff member in Operations might hit the power button and be faced with 1/4 Dr. Evil's face and 3/4 world class musicianship. We became masters of the silver screen. Sometimes we would throw a little uplite on the life sized. Other times we would rig up a side-entry Dr. Evil head. The longitudinal float.

Holidazzle Dr. Evil broad casted all SPCO TVs. I mean all! For this one we made a point to turn on every existing TV within the building. That included our President's office, the large conference room and the very public ticketing lobby. Amusements free of charge to unsuspecting patrons. He was once again situated in front of the orchestra but this time lit in Christmas appropriate red.

Dr. Evil has been a four year long joke. One that we've gotten exceptionally good at. I've witnessed every reaction to his existence. The startle and the giggle from the high school kids our players coach to the walker-ridden patrons that need the backstage ramp to make it to their audience seats. I've seen the biggest, hardest stagehands scream like little girls when it surprises them in the dark. I have witnessed it being planted for jokes and then the planter forgets their own planting and ends up pranking the prankster.

So many laughs. I couldn't let that humor die with my departure.

Long live the legacy.

At the time of mocking this up on my last day (Thanks Aimee for your help with the 8am photoshoot!), I did not consider the association of making myself into Dr. Evil during my rapid departure. I've come to terms with that implication for the sake of humor.

Adios SPCO!

Mom said more...

2010-04-19T16:56:00.002-05:00

Yeah, I'm sick of flowers too. Just you wait for Montreal...

Spring Has Sprung!

2010-04-16T19:35:00.002-05:00

First couple on the new camera...

I'm loving having control again!

Lost and Found

2010-04-15T17:01:00.005-05:00

Oh good! I found myself.

I was lost there for a second. Lost in a pile of words I shouldn't have been mixed up in. Lost in yuck!

Instantly this fresh air changes my direction. I'm on a better path as I write this ... one that leads to a better disposition.

Indoors, with those words, my lungs collapsed with feeling. Out here, the wind fills my empty chest. I can breathe again. With ease. And I know nature won't let my lungs deflate this time. The air goes in with power. It's impossible to forget my next breathe out here.

The blur I saw the world with indoors has sharpened. My eyes are too busy watching the happiness of the kids in this park. The green of my eyes hold true. They don't have time to well up in wetness. Instead my sight bounces from childhood memory to childhood memory. Making memories before me and recollecting memories before now.

My heart has warmed considerably by the sun. Penetrating my skin and making me love this crazy life.

My mood is so easy when all I have to do is go outside.

Glad I found me again.

In convenient stores

2010-04-11T20:01:00.014-05:00

I feel like every time I walk to Walgreen's I get a percentage of a story. A tidbit to hold onto, but maybe not quite enough to satisfy on it's own. Well today I'm stitching it together folks. Bare with me....

My Walgreen's runs are always done by foot, slow feet. More of a walk actually. It's three blocks that I can't commit my car to. Sometimes that trip is an errand for the sake of fresh air. I can convince myself the bottle of body wash is running low because of the temperature outdoors. Today the sun did not use my last square of toilet paper. That was me and me alone. But I'll take the sun's company on my journey to replenish.

As per usual, I pass the pink house with the high wooden gate. I smell the cigarettes this time before the dogs. Two scents that I can count on. Hand in hand, I can count on my reactionary thoughts of disgust as I pass. I remember to exhale as I crossed their lot. Luckily, the screen door remained closed today. The wire meshing holding back as much of the stink as it possibly can. It's a big job.

I bee-lined when I entered the store. I didn't get the chance to spot the young girl considering pregnancy tests or the older lady looking for maximum absorbency. Not this time. I go straight to the paper goods aisles. I feel like the urgency of the toilet paper directly influences the restocking quantity. Somehow knowing I'm planning ahead keeps me to the 4 -6 roll bundles. But when I used up the glue filled last sheet (didn't have to go for the Kleenex or paper towel though!) my rationale goes polar. I remember how annoying it is to be 'one-squared' and I want to prevent this feeling for as long as possible.

Hello 24 pack!

On my way up front I cave at the sight of peanut butter M'n'Ms. I give my usual glance towards cosmetics and photo. Hoping to skip the perpetually annoying line at the main registers. No luck. I'm not really sure why this is my least favorite line to be in.

The teller gives me a bag that is to large for the MnM's but not big enough for my super-sized sanitation. Mind you ... I am walking here and will be braving the next three blocks with a sign over my head that says "Just Dripped-Dry".

The Walgreen's parking lot is tidbit in and of itself. Aside from the obvious oblivious drivers. Passing these cars in slow motion stride, I have come to learn a secret to having a successful relationship. That secret is to never go to a Walgreen's with your spouse. Household/personal needs should be acquired independently on all accounts. Particularly true if the larger family is involved. Literally every time I set foot on this asphalt I find my attention drawn to the one black SUV, man in the driver's seat, woman climbing out of the passenger side with something to say and she means it. I wonder how many marriages have ended in Walgreen's parking lots. For the sake of love ... buy your prescriptions privately people!

I make it out of the parking lot unfrazzeled this time, only to see a familiar body on a familiar skateboard rolling my way. I haven't showered since Saturday morning (I think?). I just got home from an eight hour carpentry load-in. When I saw him, I stopped digging the sawdust from my fingernails.

Coincidences are rarely attractive, hey? I moved out of my MPLS relationship into my single St. Paul life and I didn't expect the second half of that relationship to head east over the Mississippi as well. Specifically 1.5 blocks east of my bachelorette pad. But somehow I have avoided this face to face run in for two years. Until today... dirty, greasy, ass-tired and holding a JUMBOTRON toilet paper.

Continued with awkward exchange.

Closing remark while eyeing my package ...
"Well, I'll let you get home to clean yourself up"

I decided not to mention where the peanut butter MnM's would inevitable lead.

If I were a Jane...

2010-03-30T20:36:00.008-05:00

I would surely be a plain one.

My closet hangs neutral (if it hangs at all). Solids outweigh patterns. Cottons beating silks. There is very little flowy-ness. Only a handful of bow ties. Hardly any sequence. There may be a few strappys.

My point is I don't really have a style. I dress for comfort firstly and secondly for comfort. Comfort would probably be the third and forth reasons too. I might accidentally strike an aesthetic chord from time to time. But I surely don't dress for attention, or flare, or flash. I'm not daring. Or hip. Or knowledgeable. Or anything really.

I'm classic t-shirt and jeans. Simple.

That's my preface to today.

Now....

Every good cowboy has one. And any good American would recognize one.

In this day and age, a sighting is followed by a "I like your... wait, what's that called?" Finger snapping coincides this remark. The questioner hopes that the click of their fingers will trigger recognition in their brains. It never does. That sound of boney flesh against boney flesh doesn't have the power we falsely bestow on it.

I said, "It's a bolo and thank you" six times today.

Yes, a bolo tie. I told you... every good cowboy has one.

OK, so my grandpa wasn't herding steer. He was simply a bolo lover. Wore one everyday. One of which I inherited.

The slide on my bolo is a nice big piece of tiger eye edged in gold. A good justification for breaking out the 80's chorus that Survivor made famous. Yes, I continuously look for reasonable excuse for sudden song/dance. "And he's watchin' us all in... the eye of the tiger"

Musical digression. My apologies.

The braided leather end in decorative gold aglets (I may or may not have wiki'ed the bolo tie). As I walked today, the aglets set a gentle, rhythmic ting to my step. This must have been the sound to my Grandpa's whole life.

This bolo usually sits with my other seldom worn but frequently considered jewelry atop my bedroom dresser. I silenced it's taunting today and put the darn thing on.

There's is really only one shirt combo I have ever braved the bolo with. The brown, button up linen. The sleeves loosely rolled to somewhere between wrist and elbow. The tiger eye nestled neatly over the second button. I'm not a first button type of girl.

I have to admit to feeling a little masculine in this get-up. For being a big ol' rock laid in frilly gold, it's the most masculine piece of jewelry in existence. The 'man-bag' to the necklace world. I countered the masculine with a pair of J-Lo Jeans. Don't judge me! I like the stretch!

I think I need to try the bolo with strappy, sequence, barely there tank. Ahhhh... but I'm not a risk taker in the closet. I already got too much attention today just being a cowboy.

Tease Me

2010-03-12T16:12:00.011-06:00

Another day. Another shade of gray.

The rain hasn't stopped. It merely changes between the hours. The thunder has rumbled into drizzle. But the streets haven't had the chance to dry.

The haze sticks to every earthly surface. It hovers and won't lift. This film over the city varies in saturation. Today it's nearly white. My eyes feel milky. The tops of buildings remain hidden. Structures built right up to the clouds.

The wet sits in my bones. Filling the calcium deficient holes. So today I try to escape the dampness and end up.... in a hotter dampness.

I trade the 40 degree damp for an 85 degree damp and find myself here.

This damp is better than the one outside this glass bubble. Eighty some degrees and the coat comes off. Here I sit with the smell of lillies over wet pavement.

Really, I am teasing myself. Just as the rain is teasing me. These smells make me yearn for new growth. New green. I want my windows open. I want my skin to feel sun.

But this is Minnesota. Tease me. Tempt me. But I know you'll make me wait for it.

And I'll wait with hope that the blooms will be more colorful or the flowers more fragrant.

This is how I spent my two bucks - Donating to the Tease.

A Day

2010-03-11T18:31:00.009-06:00

Beginning with the normal in and out of consciousness starting at 6:00am. I never need to rise at this hour and I wonder why my internal clock is set to it. This morning in particular is soundtracked to the thunder rolling outside my window and the rain puddling the cement below my windowsill.

Three hours of this in and out and at 9:00am, I give into the start of today. I had eaten my way to the edible end of my fridge and tossed everything else. Condiments with expirations dating to the golden years of 2008&9. The Glad bag was a heavy and a stinky one, but a necessary one to test it's claim of durability. We've all got to our part as consumers. I was close to finding a clothing hanger for this one.

I had a morning of serious grocery shopping to do. The kind of grocery shopping that I put my ear buds in for and cruise every aisle. Top down, screaming out 'Money ain't a thang'! It's the type of day to fill the cart and expect to drop at least a hundred dollars. I'll be lucky to get away with less than $150.

Mmmm... the most delicious $130 ever.

After lunch I force myself to take a nap. Since I know I never sleep and have to make use of the void in my schedule.

I head into work and aim to pull up to a meter at 4:00. It's tournament season; the parking is routinely poor. I am surprised that even at this hour, I circle laps not once but twice. I counted out my quarters, surely enough to buy the remain thirty minutes St. Paul requires. I count away the chance to wash my long-ignored work blacks.

My guess is it took me three minutes to vacate my vehicle, cross the parking lot, enter my building, ride the elevator up three floors, head backstage and walk the ramp to my stage door. At the top of that ramp I see something. I see out the third floor window, across the parking lot and at my car. Next to my car, a cop with a green stripey envelope in his hand. Making his move for my wiper blade. Even at this distance. A good three hundred feet hypotenuse, I'd say. I can see his disappointment. For a second I flash 'What the hell?'. Then I realize that I counted out those quarters but I surely didn't deposit them properly. I deserve that one, Copper. You win this time. I suppose I'll contribute to my Monday night street sweeping.

So the first three minutes of my shift were the unlucky ones. Got that out of way. Thank god.

A recital for middle school kids is underway. I change into my concert blacks. I've worn the appropriate and favored outfits into an unpleasant funk. I remain without quarters or the heart to pick 'the blacks' over 'the everyday' for the rare spin cycle opportunity. The last few shows I have pillaged my closet for the reject blacks. The blacks that are gray. Lack pockets. Or too tight. Or too short.

I went with the gray blacks tonight. Pulling them on, I felt something stiff in the pocket.
'Good god', I think. I haven't worn these pants in three years, 'What horribly, disgusting thing am I going to find in here?' I will admit to being nervous reaching into my pocket tonight. Bravely, I go for it. I come up with... two bucks!

For the next person that comes to my house - Will you please go into my purse, find whatever cash I may have and hide it in various pockets of mine? Finding money makes me ridiculously happy.

The show goes on with a bunch of adorably nervous kids and me scrambling to make them less so. Somewhere in there I become the telephone operator, connecting my incommunicado sister with my parents - arranging rides and dinner plans. End of show and I get to make this concert hall a blank space. I got my power tools. I got my muscle. I'm getting dizzy throwing 150 chairs.

Halfway there.

At 9:45 I take a cupcake break.

I collect my soggy ticket at 10:30pm.

Ahhh... life. A day just like any other. We'll do it again sometime, I'm sure.

To an audience member...

2010-02-21T14:39:00.001-06:00

Dear Sir,

Thank you so kindly for using my strategically placed staging equipment as your own personal coat and hat rack. I apologize that 250 people watched me asked you to remove said items during my stage change. I hope I have not caused you too much embarrassment.

Sincerely,
Your Trusty Stage Manager

Sorry

2010-02-20T14:52:00.006-06:00

Today I decided I am only here to disappoint you.

I have nothing of interest to say and surely won't make you laugh aloud.

The ticks on visits to my blog have strangely been increasing. Once and while I have someone that admits to being a reader. Even when I hear that, I don't really assume a 'regular reader' or certainly not 'an everyday checker'.

But somehow... I average 5-10 hits a day and I haven't posted anything for three weeks. The math suggests I could have disappointed 210 people with no new material, or I suppose one really rabid fan, you freak.

The point is ... I wonder if you've all scared me into writer's block. Either that or I really have nothing going on right now... ha. But in case it IS writer's block. Nervous to write aloud. I am decidedly writing the most boring blog entry ever. Just to get it out there and over with.

There was one nugget of a writing idea I had but never moved on. I'll tell you my moment.

I forget how to be a girl sometimes. Obviously, my line of work aids the forgetfulness. The lack of emotion doesn't help. And when I had short hair, the grooming process wasn't particularly lady-like in length or prep or primp.

Now I have hair again. It's weird to have hair and I tend to forget what it means to possess it in abundance. Apparently, hair gets knotted sometimes, and maybe once and a while needs a brush to untangle the mess. I forgot about how much hair we lose in the shower and the number of ways to get loose strands off your fingers. I wish I didn't have to remember how much it sucks to have one strand of hair fall between your cleavage.

So I wake up one morning, take a shower ... plaster the loose strands of hair on the tile wall. I have nothing but time this particular morning, so I thought I would actually do my hair. I dig out the blow dryer and the flat iron - yeah, a no-holds-barred type of day.

I had already dressed and donned the necklace I am making an effort to wear every day (a task in and of itself for this self-proclaimed failure of a woman). I pop back into the bathroom to commence on the speedy drying process.

I end up burning my neck from the jewelry/dryer combo. This was something I was never taught as a woman. Who knew wearing something metal around your neck would heat to a burning degree by forced air. Jewelry last I guess. I certainly was never taught that. It's amazing that I'm still learning womanly lessons everyday.

So that nugget led my mind to the idea of writing about the "womanly lessons we never get taught". It bounced around in my brain for a bit... and then I realized:

I don't have the credentials to write that story.

ART!!!

2010-02-04T21:46:00.005-06:00

I think I am finally comfortable enough to claim this beast DONE!!!!

Nature's Graff

Acrylic & Oil Pen on 18" x 24" Canvas

M. Phelps Feb'10

Written in the stars

2010-02-01T22:37:00.005-06:00

I've never been a good sleeper. It doesn't surprise me when I wake in the middle of the night. The tip of my nose feels frosty. I bet I could see my breath if my eyes would open. The dark around me is coming into focus. As much as the dark can, at least. The black opens ups to the stars. I can pick out the Big Dipper. The rest of the constellations are lost to me. Some shine brighter than others. But the snakes and frogs glow dimly...

I wish this story involved a sleeping bag and the balls to brave the winter in my new down mummy bag. Nay, she says. I'm in my childhood bedroom.

This house has an amazing way of changing while remaining the same. The walls are lavender. The furniture weird. This isn't my room. But that is my ceiling.

My mother couldn't bare to unstick all that I had stuck to my ceiling in my formative years. Glow in the dark stars in every shape, size and semblance. Every outer space needs amphibian life. A dozen or so glow mid suspension. I mean, really, what's Ursa Major without a neighboring snake?

Now, I wake in the same bedroom a different person. But my life is written in these stars.

My middle school years - my corduroys were big, my t-shirts long, and my hair shaggy. Us girls would find a reason to hit the concrete playground a few blocks over to gawk at the skater boys. One of which was a Florida transfer. Yeah, skater/surfer boy = immediate on/off crushing for the next few years of my life. All that ever came of it was one very intense night of passionate hand holding, but he was the one that started with the stars...

They were already in place. I'm sure I showed him their awesome power under the black light. When black lights were the coolest and I didn't realize how unattractive my teeth looked in front of a hot guy. I don't remember how the conversation started but I remember how it ended. He told me he was my lucky star. He took out the sharpie that every proper skater carries, mounted my blow-up chair and etched a B into one of the stars. His initial.

Over the next few years, most of the stars were lettered.

Middle of the night memories.

Some of these letters were shooting stars. People that burned bright and fierce. They left me ooOOoooing and Awwwwing, following their path with my outreached arm, but ultimately were swallowed by the darkness. My shooting stars hang heavy on my heart. Lost only to the ways of childhood friendships. Still, I wouldn't consider erasing their initial. They earned that spot at that moment in my life.

I have a North star. One that has been there no matter what direction my life has taken.

I've got stars that glow dimly over the years, but constantly. Reliable in nature and easy to find.

Then I have people that are left here. Stuck in the stars. Their memories. Their person. Stopped the day that I moved away from this ceiling. These stars aren't subject to time and change and life... these are the stars that are kept burning by feeling alone. That my heart won't change and doesn't want to.

It's hard to look up at this ceiling. I miss these people. I miss that sentiment. There are so many stories in these stars. But it's pretty cool to have a midnight space age rendezvous every time I come home... if only I still had that black light.

Happy Birthday to me!

2010-01-16T16:03:00.014-06:00

And so the story goes…

It was 25 years to the day I was born. By some stroke of luck, I had my birthday free from work for the first time in… forever… or since I started working… or maybe just since the last two years. The only downfall of this dream scenario was that in 2008 my birthday fell on a Wednesday. Hardly a day for others to come out and play. I had a single meeting tying me to the following day. With a day and half off it seemed to be the perfect opportunity to get the heck out of town for the night.

The plan: I’d head to Duluth for the night. Stop at some state parks along the drive. Stay in a kickass hotel. And I’d go it alone.

I went through the proper protocols. Single living always makes me feel like I should tell another human being when I am venturing out alone. I call ma. I don’t really know what my Wisconsin mother could really do, but somehow I know that it’s the kind of information that Mother’s are privy to.

I tell her my birthday plans. Mom’s DANGER-DANGER-dar beeped into life immediately. “Mary, you know it’s bow hunting season,” she warns. “Actually ma, it’s gun hunting season here.” Then I added, perhaps stupidly, “And they just lowered the killing age to ten.” I probably should have kept that one to myself. The frantic beeping was drowning out my own thinking.

Now, Mom is nervous, which makes me consider the threat. I know hunting isn’t permitted on state ground, but I also know that bullets don't just stop cold at territorial borders.

My second attempt at explaining my birthday plans fell to the ears of the stage hands at work. The same grizzly men that are overly protective of me. They’ve done their share of hunting and have their number of stories. After some pushing back and forth, I end up promising I will wear blaze orange.

Really?

Blaze orange isn’t a flattering color. I don’t have any blaze orange in my wardrobe. But I know where I can find some...

The stock pile of t-shirts from festivals my work puts on was picked over. Luckily for me extra extra large and obnoxious orange aren’t hot commodities. Perfect. Sorta. My brain was still grappling with, “I’m going to wear this?” I knew that it’s November weather and for the purpose it was serving (the not-getting-shot-at purpose), the giant size would fit snugly over my winter jacket.

And voila!

We have embarrassment.

I’m starting out my birthday as a humongous orange mass! A nickelodeon blob!

I actually doubted whether I could commit to the ridiculous nature of this, despite the sensibility of it all. I walked away from my van without my orange initially. I hiked down a hill and looked to the other side of the river. The non-state side of the river. God Dammit. I promised. About face.

I head back uphill and pulled the biggest shirt I have ever owned on, inside out, over my Columbia jacket. I would have been fine existing as an orange blob in my solitude. It was when I crossed paths with people donning their brown flannel and black Carhartts that turned my face a shade resembling my attire. Sometimes, I felt the urge to apologize to them. I don’t know what for. Mostly, I wanted to blurt, “My mom made me.” In reality, each time I could barely muster eye contact and felt their smirk against my skin.

It was not all for naught. I did hear some popping along my hike. I told myself they were trees falling in the forest. Lead trees exploding with a sudden burst of energy … that brought comfort.

That first stop was Banning State Park. A park that’s overlooked and underappreciated. I had never heard of it. The terrain carried some of my favorite things – water front, ruins, and rock face. The photo I am painting (still in process) was taken here, among others.

A few hours spent in the flurries and I was north bound again to Duluth. Driving towards the whirlpool suite I booked for half price at a water park resort.

I’m good at treating myself.

The water park was birthday embarrassment – round two.

My thinking while packing:

I am going to a water park alone. No one to impress. I’ll bring the more sensible one piece Speedo. That way I don’t have to do the nipple check that bikini water play requires.

This was the reality of the situation:

I am hit with humidity when I open the doors. Like entering a bar, I quickly sweep the location and survey my options. Searching for a comfortable place to put myself. I realize the huge room is divided in two. One side for the under 4 years old group and the other for the others. Without a youngster, I can hardly justify sitting under the raining daisy. As much as it may tempt me.

My territory has been reduced to half. The non-baby side houses a lazy river, a couple giant tube slides, and a rock-formation-waterfall-hot-tub of sorts. I commit to a location – the lazy river. Just as a bar, I’m finally settled in my location and can finally take in the people around me.

Shit. This is awkward.

I’m sitting in a tube in two feet of water. Flat chested and nerded out in my Speedo. And I keep circling past these college age dudes posing as life guards. I suppose they really are life guards, but for most of us... in an emergency, we can just stand up. I’m circling, in my black tube … not having a frolicky exchange with friends. Not splashing and laughing. Not telling jokes. Just circling. Flat chested. On one of my rounds I consider the slide. I decide I couldn’t bear being caught by the dude below.

There isn’t even a regular swimming pool here. Were I able to do laps, this would be a lot less weird. I head for the hot-tub, where the other young people and parents have paired up. Somehow I became the creepy dude with the hairy chest that just sits in the whirlpool and looks at everyone else, or worse, closes his eyes! I couldn’t take it anymore. I gave up and thought the whirlpool in my room, a glass of wine and free cable sounded a hell of a lot better than this. I couldn’t stop laughing at myself. At how fun this idea was supposed to be and how not fun those moments turn out.

I woke up to a beautiful sunrise over Lake Superior. Stopped at Amazing Grace Bakery & Café, then started south. I had to walk into a work meeting at three o'clock. I had plenty of time to stop at one more park along the way. I get off the highway and steer towards Interstate Park. The park is divided by Hwy 8, just off the heart of Taylor’s Falls. It’s a beautiful park, butting right up against civilization. All the bathrooms and outhouses were closed for the winter. Seclusion was out of the question, I had a choice to make… I ended up crouching mid-hike, and as I peed I watched the stop lights change from green to yellow to red.

Happy Birthday to me!

A Painting Story

2010-01-07T16:58:00.014-06:00

I sit on my laptop and see this image in the background. I lay in bed without sleep and see this scene. I wrestle with waking up in the morning and this is what is before me.

It's one of my favorite photographs. I actually have a story to go with this photo but am exhausted from uploading all these files on my tortoise Internet connection. Patience is taxing. Perhaps I will get to the story tomorrow.

What I love about art is the process. All parts of the process. The dreaming, the developing and the doing. I'm fascinated by other people's process too. I love digging through friend's trusted artistic tools. I love seeing art in it's many stages. Museums are usually received with the repetitive question of "how the hell did they DO that?".

Within the first few hours of 2010, I dug through my closet for the 18 x 24 canvas that has been collecting dust for a few years. It's been ages since I've sat down to paint. Apparently, that was how I'd start the year.

As I said, the photo is one of my favorites and I always felt the framed 8x10 on my bedroom wall just didn't do it justice. Whether taking the image into my own, untrained, unpracticed hands DOES do it justice, is another thing all together. Here's to trying.

Photos taken intermittently. There's a point in the middle that I became lost and unsure of myself... it shows. But I recovered, I hope!

The painting isn't quite finished, but is close. I still have some windows to fill out and some detailing I want to get in but I feel like it'll be days before I decide what to do there.

Thought I would post these now so people can stop reading my sad poetry.

Click on the photos for a larger image.

Final product and story to be along soon..... stay tuned!

A Sugar Maple

2010-01-03T22:23:00.014-06:00

Her roots are shallow here.

Like a Sugar Maple.

The stems branch off.

Multiplying as they go.

Right, left and up, but never down.

Unable to sink in.

Trying to grasp deeper for support.

The earth is pushing back.

All she finds is surface.

So she stays there.
Growing out but not deep.

She's feeling top heavy.

With no means of support for this place she's in.

Shallow, like a Sugar Maple.

Bring It In or Back

2010-01-02T21:17:00.010-06:00

It's below cold outside. The sun is beaming though. Bouncing from snow pile to snow pile. I slip my way towards my Toyota and mentally prepare for the morning sit-still-and-freeze-in-my-car thing.

My car starts, which is good. I have no reason to believe that it won't. I can probably still count the amount of times I have started this engine. But for some reason, I doubt it will rev up each time I feel this kind of cold. I don't trust this car. This car with it's cruise control, power locks and strawberry scent. It's the strawberry that makes me skeptical, I think. Doesn't seem trustworthy.

I promised myself, forever ago, that on cold days like this, I will wait through whichever song starts up on the radio. I figure it's a good couple of minutes for the engine to start the warming process. Having music as the time limit somehow makes the wait tolerable for me.

The starter kicks over and roars into Fatboy Slim. I'm suddenly wanting to break my own promise. For some reason the idea of changing the radio station didn't occur to me. Instead, I sit in my own irritation.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvnHtO6daQM

This song is Milwaukee High School of the Arts. Specifically, this song is the choreographed Step routine I created for Ms. Jordan's aerobics class. I can still picture my knee high kicks and flailing punches. Sexy in my puffy, checked nylon shorts. In navy blue.

I try to shake the image and the song out of my head. 1998 would let me go that easy!

Jan. 1, 2010 - My clothes are all clean. Washed before making the return trip home to the Twin Cities. The cutest little shirts and skinniest little skinny jeans were all available for the picking. For some reason, I woke up in the morning, looked at mountain of clean in front of me and chose a sweater I bought in '98. A gray knit that hardly covers my navel. I haven't worn this sweater in a few years. I'm not even sure why it's made it through all of my textile purgings. Not to mention ... why the HELL would I want to start out my year dressed as 1998!

The last week of 2009 started me on this path, I'm sure. Friends from middle school. Friends from high school. Stories of the 90's. The decade was supposed to jump forward, and I'm pretty sure I took the short bus backwards this time. If the year is 1990 for me, that puts me in First Grade. Oh man... I better find a smaller shirt.

My brain is redirected to Fatboy Slim. After about the 30th "Right about now", I give up on the Funk Soul Brothers and put the car in gear. At least, I have the icy ruts in the road to focus my attention now.

Why the HELL didn't I turn the damn radio dial?!?

"Hi" from 1990!

words

2009-12-27T19:51:00.003-06:00

I have nothing to say. My lips are rested. My vocal chords strong.

Milwaukee days seem to bring more words than the last. Their sounds come as whispers and blairing TVs. Their intentions prove heartfelt or mindless. Words recieved with laughter and consideration. Words heard or unheard.

These sounds swirl within my head all day long. From the moment I wake to the instant I fall asleep. They can even be heard in those moments between conciousness. Fading softly, slowly and unclearly.

So many words floating around my head. My ears are tired. They are tired from listening, from registering, from trying to avoid, from pretending. My ears are so tired I can't bare to give them any more - not even my own.

"Words are all I have to give to you." If Maja Ivarsson is right, I better start talking tomorrow.

A phone call from Ma...

2009-12-20T21:27:00.005-06:00

6:57PM

I sit on the brown leather couch tucked under the picture window. I don't know how many years of my life I have looked through this pane of glass. Watching nothing. Watching everything.

The living room opens into the dining room. The arched ceilings still hold an impressively done wallpaper job that is older than I am. My mother sits below the arch, quietly minding her own business around the dining room table that's dressed in Christmas Red.

Beyond the dining room, my sister sits in the kitchen on her laptop finishing the loose ends to another semester.

Distracted by football and unused to hearing my cell phone ring... instead I hear my sister's voice call "Mary, you're phone!".

I'm sure I followed with a confused, "What?" and spent a few minutes trying to quickly unwrap the burrito I have made myself into. I come to end of the throw and hop a few steps into the dining room into the kitchen and, finally, into my purse.

I made it before the last ring.

Caller ID - Parents

"What?", I think. "Hello?" is what I said, with my tone upturned.

I hear a voice of a woman. A woman who seems embarrassed by an accidental wrong number. It's the voice my mother uses when she's unsure of herself.

"Nevermind" I hear from a small voice in the next room, which then echoes into my receiver.

I start the laughter before she does.

I'm not sure it's clicked yet for her.

It surely didn't click when she searched the quick dial for my Aunt Mary.

Not quite when my sister's siren went off.

Still not as she watched me clumsily run to my phone.

My laughter flipped the switched. She laughs with me briefly. Within seconds she is back to hitting the call list, hard.

7:04PM

My phone rings again. It is my mother, "Just calling to check in."

I write this as my mom sits in her chair reading her newspaper. She tells me not to write about her and I tell her I love writing about her because I want to keep these moments.

Eight Degrees

2009-12-14T19:59:00.000-06:00

It’s eight degrees out of doors.

This degree keeps people wrapped in blankets on their sofas. Warm drink in one hand and remote in the other. Generally, there are two groups of people willing to brave this Fahrenheit at night. The first have dependencies on nicotine. The remaining are pet owners. Both of which are being brought out into this cold by a force outside of themselves.

It’s eight degrees and instead of staying in, I am running out.

The sun has already set here. It may be closing out on California by now. I can’t count on the sun’s rays to warm the tip of my nose - the only exposed skin that the sun may have warmed.

I head just far enough out of the cities for the sky to open up to the stars. The cold is beautiful.

My Petzl lights the way. Swaying back and forth with the rhythm of my stride. Bobbing in and out of the weight of my jacket’s hood. My warm exhale turns instantly to smoke before me. The beam of light catches the swirls as it leaves my body.

The combination of fog and light show convinces me KISS will spring from the next snow bank. I have the spectacle, most live performances lack, unfolding naturally before me. Moving strobe lights and fog machines. I considered dropping the red night-vision lens down for added affect, but decide that is a little too heavy metal for my mood.

It made for a dramatic hike. Could have also been an amazing horror film, but I didn't say that… since I know my mother will check her e-mail in twenty days and reply with a motherly voice of concern telling me all the things that could happen to me hiking alone at night. DANGER! DANGER!

A few have been here before me. Sparse tracks scatter over last night’s snow fall. Out of love for all the skiers in the world I avoid the nicely packed double lanes and stick to the fresh powder. The resistance feels good against my legs after a month under physical restrictions (I’m not breaking the rules; I’m sticking to the lower half!).

My breath gets heavy.
My heart gets fast.
My chest grows so warm that I can no longer feel the eight degrees.

My iPod remains in my pocket with the ear buds coiled neatly around the frame. Music follows my everyday. My career, my home, my car are rarely without. Naturally, I always reach for the mobile music when setting out for a hike, but I have never brought it out. From the very first crunch of my pink NorthFace boots, I know I will not be plugging my ears with the Swell Season or the Shostakovich that defines my everyday.

I love these sounds.
My breath.
My weight.
My pulse.
My existence within the sounds of the river’s current not yet frozen over, within the noises of the remaining winter wildlife, even within the faint sounds of civilization.

It’s eight degrees outside and I remember why I am willing to brave the weather and hike in solitude. It is my meditation. Here, my brain silences my everyday. All I notice is my body and my being.

And... maybe the occasional KISS concert...

http://www.bytecraftentertainment.com/images/kiss_concert.JPG

Next Blog>>

2009-12-11T13:22:00.000-06:00

I feel like I am waiting for the day when Facebook becomes interesting. Checking it throughout the day and hoping that this time it will be different. This time it will make me laugh. But most of the day I am looking at the same non-activity. Sadly, it has become a habit. An item within the checklist of activities that follows the motion of flipping open this computer.

I end up on facebook because I suck at the internet. I admit it. I’m a poor virtual surfer. I don’t know where to go to find mindless entertainment on this thing. Not to mention, my internet speed denies the possibility of video, audio and sometimes image streaming. So I am mostly left to reading.

As an avid reader, you would think I would be swimming in news coverage, blogs, published online literature but somehow I just wade in this material. Only willing to get in as far as my rolled up pants allow. Reading is much preferred with the weight of paper and ink in my hands.

Yesterday was another story. Yesterday I surfed the big kahuna. A reference to all those that grew up watching Back to the Beach. When the Bird was the Word.

The top of this blog has a tool bar. I’m sure you have ventured there when I get raunchy and consider reporting my abuse of this site and the English language. Next to the Report Abuse button, and ‘next to’ seems much too close I might add, is the Next Blog>> button.

I ODed on Next Blog last night. It’s a random sampling of the public worlds here on blogspot. What I read….

I spent a minimal amount of time on the Austrailian Romance Readers Association’s blog.

I found a Literature teacher that gives Tarot inspired writing assignments. Those cards did lead him to saying “All you need to do is place one word after the other...and trust...” - Mark David Gerson. Something I am taking to heart right now, because I wanted to write but had no vision, hope or direction for my words.

I ended up bothered by the cynicism of a clergy woman and scared by outright propaganda.

I learned everyone is a writer, everyone is a critic and everyone is famous.

I walked through family memories. Birthdays, vacations and childhood quotes. I am beginning to accept the fact that blogging is modern day history. It has become a record keeper for all the moments people want shared or remembered. Sad, blogspot doesn’t have that tangible aspect that I crave out of literature. It doesn’t quite capture the nostalgia of grandma’s scrapbooking and the anticipation of turning the delicate page to the next memory that waits there.

I laughed at reviews of fast-food restaurants whose coffee was deemed decent “considering the loose stool that passes for java in some fast food restaurants”- Aaron C. from That Bootleg Guy.

I was bored to tears by people’s views on everyday life and their need to show me how to live.

I discovered an English woman set out to boycott “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Klauss” because of the implied infidelity. She claimed trauma to the childhood thought of her Mommy kissing another man. Side note to this one – The word ‘infidelity’ temporily escaped me when writing this, so I was trying to google search my way to it and kept circling back to sodomy. I guess I can’t stay away from the asshole.

Mostly, there are hobbyists and journalists and sports casters and critics. In the hours that I spent hitting Next Blog>> I didn’t find anything quite like my blog. So maybe I ought to do it justice. My words weren’t anywhere else. Not even a faint echo of their sound. And yet, I always come home to the ego we all must have to keep writing, assuming people give a damn about what we have to say or ... maybe it's just how we say it...

Artistic Thievery

2009-12-09T21:13:00.000-06:00

Let's call this an exploratory essay. Shall we?

A hypothetical investigation of the best way to steal my own art.

My first year in the Twin Cities, I found myself shacked up with three strange ladies. Platonically shacked, that is. Each room of our 4 bedroom flat painted a vibrant hue different from the room proceeding it. One green, one purple, one red, and one blue.

The house was mostly established when I came on board. Wrong verb, I should say inhabitated, not established. The curb furniture was aplenty but the walls were barren.

A blank wall is my canvas.

With the help of the aging, crusty wall paint. I made four corresponding paintings. One in each bedroom tone. The joke was that they had to be random objects with no significance or reference to one another. We wanted visitors to wonder what the hell these paintings meant.

The strategy was effective. New comers and unobservant frequent travelers often asked what a red mousetrap, a blue fudgsicle, a green bowling pin and a purple bunny had in common.

Cue=>Laughter.

The ladies split up, the paintings scattered. The red canvas went to the red-room live-in. The bunny somehow ended in unrelated hands - just a friend that liked it. The green one went ignored in my possessions for years. The Fudgsicle to another friend who frequented frozen chocolaty conversation.

My dusty bowling pin didn't interest me in it's solitude, I forked it over to the bunny adopter.

Now we are at - 2 for friend A. 1 for Original red-room occupancy, & 1 for Friend B.

The red mousetrap lives in oblivion in Madison, WI. Likely stacked in neglected belongings that didn't make the cut to New York, New York.

The blue fudgsicle lays somewhere unseen in Friend B's long time home.

The green bowling pin and the purple bunny have led happier lives. They have been hung and displayed proudly since their acceptance. In fact, Friend A moved to New York by plane under luggage restrictions. There were a meager amount of belongings that traveled across the United States. My paintings were two of those things.

Through wildly entertaining, sincerely endearing and slovenly drunken texts - I am asked to track down the other two neglected images.

Moral art dilemma.

There are people that pretend to appreciate art and there are people that appreciate art. Just as there are people that appreciate the effort someone puts into something and there are some that pretend to appreciate the effort someone puts into something.

My point is... the love factor can either lead a person to displaying your work proudly or letting it lay is closets and uninhabited cities.

This is not a diss on either of those owners. They both have other works of mine out for the public eye. (I just realized that brings my total to 5 of my paintings in New York City, I'm claiming serious territory!). But for some reason, maybe it doesn't 'match' or 'fit' or they have no room to hang it... those sit neglected.

So how do I steal my own art back and put it to a loving home?

Frankly, I don't even like the paintings themselves. I liked the concept for the one year it hung in that four bedroom flat, but after that house split - so did my interest.

Can I ask for it back?
Do I have that right as an artist?
Do we get a say in our own art's destiny?
Can I intervene?
Would a bait and switch work here? Offer up a new work.
What is less offensive?
Is there really a way to tell someone they aren't doing your art justice and you want it back?
Is having them read this on a blog somewhere worse than just asking the stupid question? Ha.

Normally, I wouldn't care. Go ahead and rot, they already have for this long. But now I have someone knocking at my door. Begging me for the orphaned paintings.

Hmmm...

It just makes me consider this thing called art. I've always done it for me. Me only. I accumulate too much and gift it away to people that I feel would appreciate it. Maybe it's a silly thing to assume, that anyone would want these things. Artistic tastes vary through every one's mouth. How arrogant to assume I would taste good.

Hmmm...

It's too bad I'm broke again during the holiday season and have a million prints to give away. You will all love my work! You must!

I tried to find photo's of said paintings... but that was before my digital age. Apparently, the green bowling pin did make a breif appearence in my uptown studio. Don't follow my grandiose jesture... instead follow the ponytail to the upper left. All paintings where in that same style. Static objects.

How Dickensonian of me...

2009-12-04T12:17:00.000-06:00

I felt my life with both my hands
To see if it was there

-Emily Dickenson

Since I am such a good self-dater, I treated myself to the Louvre exhibit last night. I spent the hours of the night wandering the Minneapolis Institute of the Arts. A museum I need to take better advantage of. The perfect museum for unassuming scrabble games.

The Dickenson stanza above weaved in and out of a shadowed figure within the museum's permanent collection. The poem was scribed on a woman, in all her nude and bearing glory, with her palms to the sky. The lyric caught my attention and I vowed I would remember it (like so many other things throughout the day I pretend to make note of). Most quickly fade. That was one reason I loved writing on this blog everyday. I held so tight to those moments in life. Promised myself never to forget.

Somehow, yesterday's discovery was only partly lost to me. I cannot recall the contemporary artists who sketched those words into skin. Google has failed me on that one. Perhaps a call to MIA is in order.

I held onto those words though. I won't let it go. It can't fly away.

So today I sit during my lunch hour putting this in writing before it is lost again.

Acting Out

2009-12-01T21:58:00.000-06:00

Today I am hating maturity.

Every second of my work day I wanted to respond with a whinny girl tantrom. I hate those reactions to life though... so I kept my mouth shut. Shut tight. I was a woman of few words today. But my inner dialogue was that of a bratty, overly independent 6 year old who isn't gettting her way.

Everytime I watched someone else lift something for me ... that whinny girl was singing in my head how 'she can do this herself'. The tantrom kept circling 'how stupid this is'.

They are watching me. Everytime I leave eyeshot and hear "where are you going?", the little girl inside of me wails "shut up". The girl inside of me knows they are nagging her for what she set out to do. She wants to push that rack of chairs for herself. She wants to break the rules.

These rules were put on my body to protect me. Protect me from myself. And oh man... my egomaniac, macho-independence is not making this easy.

My body and my ego are wrestling. Two weeks of work restrictions. I am hoping that my feeling of uselessness will give way to willfull laziness. I can only hope that when a man lifts something for me over the next two weeks, I can silence the sexism and happily accept the fact that someone is doing my work for me.

Shhhhh... Resting

2009-11-26T10:44:00.001-06:00

9:24 p.m.

The Girl was very tired. Her eyelids heavy with the pull of sleep.

A usual sleepless night.

The normal 8:30 a.m. start time at work.

A reduced four hours of labor.

Roughly 7 hours behind the wheel. Facing rain and hoping the lane was unfolding before her. Faith.

At this hour, the Girl could not give into sleep. Despite the fact that it was an hour that would have been bragged about later in life. Tonight she had to wait. She had to wait for Sister to get home to celebrate the Girl's overdue birthday.

What self control. The Girl held her birthday celebration, presents, cake and wishes in for almost a week. Now she was face to face with a mountian of presents and already sneaked a peak at the baked good that would later satisfy her sweet tooth.

This self-deprivation was exhausting.

The Girl's posture out on the couch started erect. The warmth of the blanket on her lap pulled her legs up into her chest. It wasn't long before her recline became a stretched out sleeping position.

Mother told her to rest her eyes for Sister's return. Mother could resist the constant conversation and said she would finish tidying up for the nearing Holiday.

The Girl's eyelids fluttered and conciousness faded in and out.

Mother's tidying started with turning on everylight in the living room. Including the one inches from the Girl's resting head. Mother was not going to make this easy for the Girl.

The vacuum roared into life. Mother vaccumed the way we all do. Slamming the machine into the sofa's edge, thinking it would pick up what's underneith. Shuffling the remaining furniture and covering each area twice.

The vacuum was turned on and off several more times before the Girl was woken by her Sister. Sister sat perched on the Girl's hips.

Resting was no longer an option.

There it goes...

2009-11-20T23:53:00.000-06:00

The city circles the basin and washes down this drain. Laid in porcelain. It leads to a place that I’ve never really seen but is all too familiar. I have scrubbed the surrounding tiles too often… or perhaps not enough. Still, I know it well. This drain is home. The spinning water is routine. Simple physics. But this time, it’s taking away the memories my body still wore. The bits I brought with me. The pieces that survived the cab, the plane, the train, the bus and entered my every day, my here, my now.

The subway has been dug from my fingernails. Grit from handrails and metro cards all gone. I’m saddened by the thought that the Magnolia cupcake frosting has made its way out too.

My eyelids have been rubbed free of last night’s mascara. The ‘on the town’ lashes faded to ‘on the face’ smudging overnight. The dark remnants now replaced by an irritated red. A color that’s impossible to avoid with the heat of this water and the vigorous touch of erasure.

The scent from the spa shampoo washed back into my standard Rosemary Mint.

Down the drain my yesterday goes.

I watch it go. I wonder how long my back will carry the results of that massage therapist.

Around it goes. I realize the Broadway tunes are morphing in my ears’ memory. The catchy songs are unsticking or simply can’t be sung.

There it goes. I know tomorrow morning I will wake to the sound of my alarm again. I will open my garage to be reminded of how that new car got there. I will take that drive that I could do with my eyes closed … to work again. And on with life.

I twist the handles to stop the falling water. The last drops cling to each other and head to that place I’ve never seen. There is a silence that I haven’t heard in almost a week’s time. In the quiet I smile and think how happy I am to be able to lose these things. Glad to have had them at all.

I love New York.

Guts

2009-11-05T19:58:00.000-06:00

I stopped writing because I was beginning to feel like an egomaniac. I needed a break from talking about myself. And the idea of subjecting other people to my blathering was making me sick.

I wasn’t sure when I’d write again. Maybe when something funny or exciting happened.

But today I write for me. Sitting at these keys always makes me structure my thoughts. I’m not talking intros and leads in and proper grammar. Some of my bad days and uninspiring days have ended up with the funniest writing. My own self-reflection often leads to the humor in life. Cause writing out my internal grumblings makes me realize how trivial it all is. Negatives are backspaced into positives. To have my problems staring back at me in type forces a change in perspective.

So here’s hoping….

The costume was perfect. All details were materialized. The essence was captured. I aimed for hilarity. I chose Peggy Bundy for the humor. For the nostalgia. My red wig became 2/3 of my silhouette. One word ... ridiculous. As the costume came together I realized I had an added bonus I wasn’t expecting… hotness. Somehow peach leopard print still has sex appeal. I embraced every ounce and set out for my night.

It’s strange to walk to your minivan dressed as a white trash character from the 80’s and somehow feel a little sass in your step. The hotness was paused as I climbed into the driver seat and my wig slammed into the door frame, dislodging the hair piece from its strategic position. Only a minor confidence hiccup. That was the first and last time I used the mirror in my sun visor.

Small bumps in the road pressed my towering hair into the roof of my car. Stop lights hung uneasily in the air. They were all looking. I know it. But there was one person that night that surely did not see Peg Bundy coming … the driver in the car that hit me. I started that night out thinking about the potentials of who may notice me. There were people that I was hoping to be seen by. Now, the only person that I wish would have seen Peggy Bundy is this dude. The dude that told me he was too busy looking for trick or treaters that he stopped watching the road. The guy that blindly turned left into oncoming traffic – that oncoming traffic being me.

When I saw that his car was no longer waiting at the stop sign and was on route into the side of my vehicle, the only thing I could think was …. Oh Shit, I’m wearing Peggy Bundy wig!

The humiliation of climbing out of my ruined vehicle dressed as Peggy Bundy didn’t seem tolerable. I decided that this was real life – not pretend Peggy Bundy life – and quickly pulled the red locks from atop my head. This was a serious moment and needed a serious face. Instead I exited my car looking… maybe like a hussy. That seemed easier to talk to a cop in.

The accident was left on the side of the road and my night went onto Halloween activities. I wasn’t shaken by the event. I said that’s life like I always do. I wasn’t mad. I didn’t cry. Instead, I went out and had a great time. Serious life can wait curbside.

I laid awake that night wondering how to deal with all of this before my 11 am shift on Sunday. I got to a workable point. The next two days I was figuring it all out. Talking to all the people that I needed to be talking to. Asking all the right questions. Getting myself all over town by bus. There was a plan; it was in motion and working like clockwork.

Somewhere in the last two days I have lost my ability to say ‘that’s life’ and let this roll off my back. Somewhere in the last two days I can’t find the humor in any of this. My ego can’t admit to being lost. I haven’t the slightest idea what to do and I hate asking for help. This whole process has made me grateful for the people that have given me advice and rides, but ultimately this whole thing has made me feel completely alone. There isn’t a single person in the Twin Cities that I feel guilt-free asking something of them. No one close enough to utilize “that’s what friends are for”. And frankly I can’t do this one alone. A sentence that is strange from the hands of a girl that does EVERYTHING alone.

I am ashamed at how bothered I am by the total loss of my car. I am embarrassed by the fact that I told my mom to fuck herself. Last night was the first time that I’ve gotten angry in a long, long time. I can honestly say that the last time I yelled at someone was in 2003. Those kind of emotions and reactions are a waste of time in this short life I have.

I write to rethink my situation.

Here’s what I’ve got…

I am a dangerous woman. I am bringing you all down with me.

It seemed this thing started with my own bad luck, but it may have started earlier and not ended there.

I will single handedly destroy every vehicle I come in contact with. I am dictating vehicular fate and the results aren’t pretty.

An hour in that wig led to my own bad luck. On Tuesday I get a call from the owner of the other vehicle that Peggy Bundy road in that night. My rescue ride called me saying that on her drive to work a ladder fell off a truck in front of her on the highway. The ladder politely stayed on the road, instead of through her windshield, and scrapped her undercarriage and flattened her tire.

I was convinced the red hair brought this fate upon us.

Last night, a friend took me to dinner. I did not even sit in her vehicle. Didn’t even see it. But this morning I get a text that she got a flat tire on the way into rehearsal.

Ok, it’s not the hair, it’s me.

Channeling back… I guess this could have started with my friend’s car that didn’t start as they left my house last week.

I wonder what other vehicles will be left in my wake.

Somehow I managed to get the rental car back without damage.

Seriously, dangerous, dangerous woman.

I will also say that I am surprisingly saddened by the passing away of my minivan. I actually liked driving that car. This summer it was filled to the top with all my favorite things. The seats were rarely inside. I needed the room for adventure instead.

Mostly, what I will miss was the humor of driving it. I loved people’s reactions to my driving that car. I loved people’s confusion and people’s laughter. I loved owning up to the fact that I actually liked it and all its soccer-mom glory. I wore t-shirts that declared my love for it. A normal car won’t carry those moments of laughter. I mean, what will it be like to have a blind date walk me to the door of a Honda Civic? I won’t be able to count on that laugh at the end of the night.

2009-10-26T21:46:00.000-05:00

Aren't you sick of this?

The Stagehand Experience

2009-10-24T18:29:00.000-05:00

No, no. I'm not going to take you onstage with me. I'm about to go there myself in an hour's time.

Day to day I work alongside some grizzly men. The union guys that take our shifts are usually within the top 6 on the Saint Paul call list. They are guys that have been loading trucks, lifting weight and busting ass for thirty plus years. Dudes that have been physically crushed, teetering the brink of safety once or twice, and have sweat more than the average human. Some are giants and some are average size with the personality (or the self-disillusionment) of a giant.

They talk sports and late nights. They let me fake talk sports and allow my indefinite and noncommittal comments of "Yeah, Smith's had some kind of season, man".

Manly men, right? Definitely.

Unloading another midnight truck last night... I noticed a plastic bag sitting next to the crate of ratchet straps. That's a foreign object in that back of our truck. I had to peak inside. What I found... Well, I never thought I would find what I found in that back of our truck at midnight. I found a cabbage and a squash. My grizzly stage hands brought me vegetables freshly picked from the farm.

Of all the things that I could have found in that bag... so many would make sense... tools, clothes, even cookies makes sense. But Cabbage?

These men make me laugh. Their rough edges and their sensitivity has me in stitches nightly.

They notice every time I wear a new pair of shoes or jacket.
They are genuinely interested in where I got them and if I'm satisfied with my purchase.
They compliment me any time I get a haircut or am sporting a fresher face than normal.
They ask how my car is running and father me into conversations about changing the oil before I drive across state.

What a funny group of men I work with.

Cupcake Ache

2009-10-21T13:22:00.000-05:00

Hostess Cupcake at 5:00am = morning belly ache.

I blame my mom for the motivation.

And

I blame my dad for facilitating.

Hostess Cupcake will always remind me of the house I grew up in. The nostalgia outweighs the actual taste experience. Every so often a box would show up from my dad's truck. That house on 58th Street has stopped stocking the treats. But every so often, a weakness takes hold and I hear of the rare cupcake indulgence. In fact, I clearly remember an occasion where the urge was so strong that when the cupcake arrived, my mother cut my telephone conversation short. Mid sentence she interrupted me with a "Well, I'm going to have a hostess". That night I lost the attention battle to a cupcake.

I stopped at a gas station during my last long drive and headed indoors for some sugar to get me through. Craving a soft, chocolaty parcel ... I thought of Mom and knew what I was looking for. Nonexistent. Disappointed. I somehow lost to a cupcake again. I admitted my hostess failure to my mom later.

My dad comes up last night bearing a scanner and a printer that I won't have the luck of compatibility with, I'm sure... and .... a box of hostess cupcakes. Not sleeping on my tiny couch left me up and wondering at various points of the night. At 5:00am that box seemed like a good idea. How do I keep losing to deserts?

http://www.genecolan.com/fans/hostess.jpg

Doodle Overdose

2009-10-20T16:15:00.000-05:00

Maybe I have had too much freetime lately...

Literal art

2009-10-18T20:32:00.001-05:00

Bringing those pieces into work yesterday for scanning purposes made me throw them in the most sensible place ... my art portfolio for transport. Since I had it open and sprawled all over the floor, I started looking through the drawings I did in an art class long, long ago... college. Most assignments show visible signs of disinterest. There are a few where I obviously just made up objects in my head. I flipped pages quickly. Most not worth a minute of my time.

This one made me stop though. I can only assume the homework task we were given. Draw your family tree. Ok, I may have taken that too literally. I remember the fun I had with this piece and all the prep work that I did for it. I kept coming back with another layer. Anyway... Mom, don't be offended by the obvious meaning here. I love the crap out of you and will continue to call you every night whether you want to talk to me or not! But, no matter how much we love our families there are moments in life where your loved ones are supporting & strangling you at the same time.

Cleaning Up My Act

2009-10-18T19:00:00.001-05:00

I finally got my hands on a scanner for a bit. Check out Hello My Name is Simon and last month's Bi-Yearly Series for better pictures of the art I've been working on. I can no longer hide behind bad photography.

http://marymeant.blogspot.com/2009/10/hello-my-name-is-simon.html

http://marymeant.blogspot.com/2009/09/bi-yearly-series.html

Favorite North Shore Hour

2009-10-18T13:09:00.000-05:00

Illustrated story - Island Life

Hiking away from the overcrowded Lighthouse on Split Rock, the beacon of light gets farther and farther away and the tower gets smaller and smaller in size. Flat rocks, worn from the great lake current, clink together under foot. Taking a rest on a quiet rock bed, I start dreaming of what's ahead of me.

An island. Pristine in nature. Untouched by the tourists. They have seemed to thin as I make my way further from the main attraction.

The Island is begging me. The edge closest to shore taunts me with a shallow sandbar. The stones are few and mostly submerged in the bitter waters. With a naturally made bridge... how can I not? How can I see these stones and that island and not experience both? I start out with the first few and survey the surroundings. Best to step in between the rising waves. Briskly, but not too briskly. It's not until I get to the island that I spy the state sign claiming it a natural reserve and trespassing is forbidden. My socks are wet. I'm breaking the law.

I let my socks dry out in the sun. Sitting on the island that I wasn't supposed to be sitting on was the best thing I did that day. Far from the people that emerged from hiding to appreciate this sun that felt so new. Quiet aside from the wind whisking past my ears and the water crashing into rock. I sat with my thoughts and the sun on my face for a long time. I cross back to the mainland barefoot this time.

Convinced I am a total bad ass, when this low flying plane blows through, I assume it the DNR ready to arrest me. I make up a scenario where the woman that saw me cross, ran back to tattle on the reckloose heading for the island.

I loved this hour of my day.

Helping Hand

2009-10-17T22:24:00.001-05:00

Long road trips always make me thankful for my crotch. Suddenly, the space between my legs becomes a versatile wonderland.

It's a place to warm my hands before the heater kicks in.
It's a cell phone holder when I am expecting a call and need to access the device safely, safely from my crotch.
Clenching my thighs turns the area into a bottle opener, for those stubborn screw tops.
My crotch becomes a nesting place for snacks that need consumption.

Basically, my crotch becomes an extra hand. A hand for the everyday tasks that require two. Everyday tasks that I probably shouldn't be trying to use my crotch as a substitute for.

I know I am not alone in my use of crotch while driving. It is a common and expected occurrence, but sometimes when I am conscious of using my crotch as a tool, I wonder what it looks like to the drivers passing me on the left.

That girl's hand is tucked between her legs... wonder what she's doing.
That girl is twisting something between her legs ... wonder what that is.
That girl is eating something she just found between her legs... wonder what it tastes like.

Yam Savvy

2009-10-15T22:56:00.000-05:00

I’m convinced my complexion is a little orange (better than green with the ill that implies) with the five course meal I just consumed made entirely of sweet potato. It was Iron Chef with a yammy secret ingredient.

To tell you the truth, tonight was the first night that my plans pulled through this week. With a book club that I got kicked out of on Tuesday and a basketball game that I wasted tickets to on Wednesday, Thursday became the only night that ideas of grandeur became reality. Yeah, I just said that… ideas of grandeur i.e. spending the night cooking and eating a million different sweet potato concoctions. I knew what I was in for. Although, I’m not sure what I was thinking when I ate my left over butternut squash ravioli before going to this thing… Needless to say, I’m sufficiently sweeted-out. That’s a hard thing for me to do to myself! Impressive almost!

I walked into my cooking class a little apprehensive. When the chef made table-talk before things got started, I wasn’t having it. I don’t want to talk about what I’ve been cooking. I don’t know how to cook. Friends might say different, but I’m just really good at faking it. Just like when I played the clarinet in fourth grade.

On the Menu:
Parsley Sweet Potato Fries with Chipotle Aioli
Savory Mashed Sweet Potato with Cumin and Chives
Sweet Mashed Sweet Potato with Mascarpone and Candied Pecans
Sweet Potato Gnocchi with Blue Cheese and Sage
Sweet Potato Doughnuts

I am continually curious about aioli and am glad to have one under my belt. I already have big plans for the Savory Mashed. Once I can stomach the idea of eating more yams, I plan on layering it with black beans for delicious baked quesadillas. Freshly made guacamole required.

I’m excited to make the gnocchi at home. Somehow that dish is incredibly romantic to me. I don’t mean fancy food, eat on a date romantic (that too, I suppose), more so Romantic ideology. Heavy in pathos, artistry and expression. There is a reason why they are commonly referred to as ‘little pillows of heaven’. So beautiful.

I will never make doughnuts again in my lifetime. I can tell you that right now. Surprisingly tasty though.

I came home with second and third helpings of all that is orange. Somehow between leaving class and setting foot in my apartment, I managed to push all of my doughnuts onto friends and neighbors. Forcing mashed potatoes on them just seemed too aggressive. I can’t even think about my diet for the next few days… it may bring along that shade of green. Then I’d be a pumpkin!

P.S. Yams and Sweet Potato are terms used interchangeably, but one does not necessarily equal the other. “Real” yams are largely found in Africa and grow up to a hundred pounds. The hands of slavery picked a familiar root from southern US soil (the sweet potato) and relayed the yam status. Sweet Potatoes have white, firmer/drier varieties and varieties that push the color spectrum to purple. Basically, when you have a recipe for yams/sweet potatoes and the grocery stores has two things that look identical and labeled differently…. They are the same. In that case, you are just looking for the orange insides. May you never stare quizzically at these root vegetables again!

Special Delivery

2009-10-14T20:53:00.000-05:00

I never get packages. I hardly get mail.

I walked through my front door this evening and glanced towards the gold mailboxes inlaid on the wall to my left. I can usually see slivers of paper product peaking through the metal slots. I have become so good at this guessing game that I can identify whether the mail inside is worth my time. Chances are it's Time Warner Cable's special offers and I'll let it sit in there for a few days. I consider it corporate punishment.

For some reason I took a second look at the small box wedged in the magazine holder. Mary Phelps? What the hell.

I dislodge the box and the contents are clear. Tampons.

What a unusual piece of promotional mail. A free sample addressed specifically to me. How the hell did Platex get my name? And why the hell have they been talking about my menstrual cycle? I think there is a period conspiracy going on here. You're all in on it, I'm sure... whispering to each other about my flow.

The puzzlement faded away to downright sympathy. My mailman must have had a tough day. Carrying around boxes of tampons for all the ladies of the world. That's farther on the humiliation spectrum than the girlfriend forced visit to the hygiene isle "just because you're out" situation. I feel sorry for any dude that's fell victim to that one. That isle is overwhelming to me and I know what all that stuff does.

Anyway, that is my story about becoming three tampons richer!

I give this guy credit for making tampon dolls and then hugging them.

On Nothing

2009-10-13T21:21:00.001-05:00

If you are looking to wax philosophy, I will fail you.

If you are eager for topical debate, I will shrug at your outbursts.

If you are hoping to swap facts and figures, I won’t have much to offer.

I like to talk about nothing. Always have. I would rather start every sentence not knowing how I was going to finish it. I would rather laugh at the crazy rhetoricals which result. I would rather pose questions than spew knowledge.

What’s so great about conversations on nothing is you never know where it will lead you. That unknown path can often times lead to my favorite activity – laughter. With political or topical discussion the route is predetermined. You know the issues that will be breached, because everyone else has laid these conversations out for us. There will be pointless agreement or disagreement that certainly won’t result in laughter. Well, not the fun laughter at least, maybe the awkward one-sided kind.

Maybe I like nothing because starting with nothing needs imagination to become something. Or maybe I just plain don’t got the smarts in me.

This nothingness has been on my mind quite a bit. I realized this vast nothingness has consumed more than just my speech. It has reached into the spirit of my writing and is slowly encroaching on the art my hands produce.

I write about everyday nothingness because I refuse to write about life-isms. I have no right to tell anyone how to live their life and won’t try. I won’t pretend I have things figured out. Along with the life-isms that pepper FAR too many blogs out there, I am also resistant to the life-hard-isms. When it comes down to it, we all have the same problems and I know I don’t want to be reminded of mine through someone’s daily writing. Comfort in relate ability is one thing. Listening to an ongoing internal nagging narrative is another. If I succumb to either of these in my writing on a frequent basis, will someone PLEASE tell me to shut my whining yap! But I will cover my ass here and say, please don’t throw that back into my face as hypocritical if I have the rare bad day blues. I’m having a bad day - be cool, man!

Tangent! What I wanted to get at is that most of my writing is based on a 15 second blip of life that day. They are all freeze frames of my life. They are nothing special. Not weighted with significance. This blog has become a collection of my simple pleasures.

I will say, somewhat off topically, that if I ever write a book (which is something I never, ever considered until recently) I will title it the same as this entry. On Nothing. So don’t go stealing it you thieving bastards!

Lastly, my art has gotten a dose of this nothingness too. The nothing in my drawings has always been apparent in my play with negative space. I like the idea of drawing as little as I can and the emptiness fills in the rest of the lines for me. That nothing becomes something when the brain automatically connects two lines that lay on the same plane. Or maybe I am just lazy and want to draw as little as possible. That is probably best for all observing parties.

Ok, I am sufficiently bored by my own nothing, it has become too much of a something. I am moving onto rousing my sleeping leg with a brief polka interlude towards my dirtied dishes.

Sensitive Soul

2009-10-12T20:11:00.001-05:00

It was one of those Sundays where I had to give up an hour of my day to go unload a truck full of instruments. It’s hard to plan your day around such a short shift, but I prefer it to the Saturday nights that I go in at 10:30 at night. Those nights I give up on fun before it can even begin.

Each Sunday, after circling for a parking spot (I swear there are more cars in downtown Saint Paul than there are people), I walk into the main entrance of my building and head straight for the security desk. What I am looking for is the bird’s eye view on the loading dock and whether our big black truck has already lowered its hydraulics.

No truck yet. I run upstairs to grab the road chairs and stands that we had to ditch due to space constraints last week. I take the two loads down the freight and as I’m bailing the cargo I hear the garage door open. Perfect timing.

My co-worker and I can be caught in moments that only siblings know how to have. We can get sassy, snarky and snippy with each other, only to follow it up with a sly sideways smirk. Sometimes we shove. Sometimes we give nuggies. Sometimes we hear “Children! Behave!” The behavior is a direct result of the long hours we spend together and our attempt to keep it entertaining every minute.

Sunday I came through the garage door to see him inside the truck rolling the next trunk onto the lift gate. I take the appropriate place at the lip of the lift and grab hold of the handle that just rolled up to my face. That day it was beyond snarky, that day a nerve was hit.

A new stagehand (well, new to me) was on the ground rolling the carts indoors with me. I was introduced to Don as being the one that does “all the little stuff in SPCO Center”. Nail sufficiently driven through the ego. A pile driver delivering the blow. I shot back with a tongue that mostly my family knows, “Wow, thanks for belittling me”. He caught that nerve because it’s how I’ve been feeling about my job these days, where more and more of the big production has been getting taken away from me (because they suck, not because I suck). This story actually goes somewhere else, not pity-work-party.

Just as quickly as I responded, he shot back, “ Geeze, you’re so sensitive!” I quickly laughed at how caught up in that sentence I got. I shook the serious out and said, “Sensitive is not usually a word people use to describe me.” True. I can recall more times I have been deemed insensitive over its antonym. I remember times when I’ve told whining men to use their big boy voices (which doesn’t go over well in a relationship, FYI). There’s a reason why my sister always says I’m the ‘dude’ in relationships. Now, I’m not trying to sound bad-ass, tough guy. It’s really not about being cool or hard, I just figure life is too short to spend it upset. I have my emotional moments like anyone does. But for being a dainty person, I’m pretty sure my thick skin makes up 70% of my body mass index.

Skip ahead to today. Skip with me now. Left, right, left. That’s right!

Insert another repetitive description of my occupational commute. Almost home with one stop light left to sit through. Brain is wondering again and suddenly my sinuses clear and start to burn. My eyesight gets a little blurry. I slammed into an emotional thought. A car accident in a way. It wasn’t of the self-depreciating variety. It wasn’t traumatic or problematic. It was a simple sadness that struck hard and fast. Before the moisture in my eyes could produce a tear, I snapped back into the reality of my minivan. As fast as it had come, it had gone away. I hadn’t had a moment like that in a long time. A moment where nothing exists but pure emotion. I laughed at myself and likened the experience to getting hit in the face with a basketball.

Then I came home and cooked the shit out of today. Mmmmm…

Hello my name is Simon...

2009-10-11T22:27:00.000-05:00

... and I like to do drawings!

I drew this one in six strokes.

Something productive came out of that meeting at work yesterday. Once I gave up faking interest, I started doodling on my post-it notes. I came home and unburied the art supplies I had just days before packed away. I started drawing, unaware of time and forgot to go out on a Saturday night.

Cool Guy High-Five!

Several more worthy doodles came from that meeting. Hopefully, they will be coming along soon.

What the hell am I going to do with all of these?

8:00am Pie

2009-10-10T09:22:00.000-05:00

I successfully talked myself out of every routine minute of my morning.

With a quick turn over between last night's shift and this mornings, I still had every ambition to show up to work - clean, fresh faced, fed and cheerful.

I set my alarm for 7:00am. That gives me 40 minutes of prep time and 20 to get to work by the dreadful Saturday morning hour of 8:00.

The first 5 minutes is slotted for lying in bed. It is important that this activity be done without the snooze button. I hate the snooze button. This is usually an easy time allotment to honor. I can always lie in bed for five more minutes. The reason I failed this one is because I went well beyond my limit.

From 7:05 - 7:20 I am usually falling asleep in the shower and forgetting what step I am on in the body cleansing process. I never get out of the shower until the room is properly steamed and the fingers are sufficiently pruned. I managed to excuse myself from this process all together. Sleep sounded more important than smelling nicely for our board members.

Then there is usually 10 minutes for dress and the rest.

The ten minutes before locking my backdoor is always left for breakfast. Something will be in my belly before I touch that doorknob.

I talked myself out of that one with dreams of the food stocked in the fridge at work. I knew there were fruit and pastries left over from last night's event. That seemed like a time saving idea to eat when I got to work. Or perhaps a fruitful idea (lucrative not grapes, well actually lucrative with grapes) to eat on company time.

Content on giving up my morning routine. When the alarm went off at 7:00, I reset it for 7:40.

I will admit that the extra forty minutes did not equate to forty more winks. Instead, I lay in bed analyzing all the sounds around me.

The woman staying in the efficiency on the other side of my bedroom wall woke up at her usual 6:30. I could tell by the sound of her cutlery clinking in the sink that she was washing her morning cereal bowl and spoon. It gave me comfort that she skipped the shower this morning too.

I could hear the long forgotten sound of ice scrapers against a windshield outside. I thought, "Damn, frost." I came to realize how wrong I was as I made my way down the back steps towards my garage. "Awww, snow" replaced my vulgarity. I love the first snow. I love snow in general. But it is weird to see snow covering the tomato plants that are still bearing fruit. I wish I had my camera on my way into work. There were so many flower beds dusted with a white sprinkle. Their vibrant colors poking out underneth. I didn't end up with photographs. I ended up with a slippery drive, gliding across an entire bridge span and dove tailing on black ice. MN better grow its version of sea legs quickly.

Most of the forty minutes were spent thinking about pumpkin pie. I went for the apple last night and regretted it even before I took a bite. I pictured all three pies, stacked in the fridge. I wondered if I'd settle for a pre-cut piece or if I'd be rationing my own portions. Who am I kidding? I'll be cutting my own slice. I can't wait to eat this pie. I have to sit in a 4 hour meeting now. Not having the chance to indulge in my pie fantasy yet... I will be tortured with the thought of that pumpkin pie in the room next door for far too long.

At least they will be sweet dreams over dry conversation...

Fortune Telling

2009-10-08T00:11:00.001-05:00

I walked into my house at exactly 11:30.

30 minutes prior I was chatting up half of the band at the bar.

This brain of mine.

Microwaved Mammals

2009-10-07T18:19:00.000-05:00

I bought a tasty artisan bread a few days ago that I haven' had a reason to cut into yet. A while back I learned the trick of keeping good breads in the microwave to prevent them going stale. It is an amazing trick!

A couple days have passed. No memory of grocery stores or time I might have had to do that chore.

Tonight, with a short stop home between work and the concert of my life.... I pop open the box of radiation to quickly warm a bite. The door swung open and I thought there was a mammal in my microwave! I seriously flashbacked my memory to any instances of vermin or pets that may explain a now-dead-usually-living creature. I couldn't think of anything to explain it.

Mmmm... rosemary bread.

This brain of mine.

It is possible I will be writing again from my usual post-show high. Especially with the early show. I love early shows cause I'm an old lady at heart. But.... I do have tomorrow off. I may need to party with the band... in which case I will be home by 11:30.

Hot Air

2009-10-05T23:30:00.000-05:00

My cheeks hurt from laughing.

I came home with a balloon sculpted rainbow.

I popped the rainbow.

I don't think I am meant to have happiness.

What a fun night.

***What a terribly lazy writer I have become. Really, what terribly little time I have had to tell my tales***

A birthday Vikings/Packer game had me and my favorite middle aged friends in stitches and on the edge of our bar stools all night.

We pile into Halftime Rec and the night started with a whip. Literally. There were amateur Whip Artists (?) there. I bet there is a name for these whippers. Myself and my other female partner admitted our curiousity to each other, but reluctantly refused to try the whip for it's obvious comments from the grizzly, stage hand crew we were in the company of that night.

The night proceeded with food, laughter, drinks, sports, and balloon creations.

Birthday boy in his birthday hat.

Also photographed, birthday guest in vikings hat.

The only true Packers fan got shamed with a Green and Gold helmet. The downside - she couldn't watch the game, the upside - she couldn't see her own loss.

Somehow I ended up with a rainbow. I thought it would be funny to be sad inside a symbol of happiness. Until this happened:

My happiness is fucked! My happiness is a pile of rainbow vomit spewed all over my marble floors. It still sits there to this day.

Summer Goodbye

2009-10-05T17:44:00.001-05:00

Sundresses are hung,
In the closet with care.
Wish I had a reason,
To get them out of there.

Table Talk

2009-10-03T20:07:00.000-05:00

Sitting at my kitchen table and eating a tasty falafel, I notice the weird collection of stuff that has come to clutter this marble surface. I wondered what it said about me. The breakdown:

Just beyond my tinfoil crumpling and dill drippings lies my first generation iPod. The battery is dead, of course. Old and unimpressive, sad in battery life and unable to store my full library anymore. It’s the most useless frequently used technology I own.

Next to my left elbow is my Leatherman. That was my attempt at getting it back into my purse where it belongs. It only made it this far.

There is a glass of water because there is always a glass of water within arm’s reach.

Next to that glass of water is a fancy small bottle of Acqua Panna. I wonder if I will ever drink that fancy bottle of water. It seems like special occasion water. Don’t ask how it got to my table.

Straight ahead of me there lies the deflated bladder to my CamelBak. My sister hates when I call it a bladder. She probably cringed and crossed her legs when she read that sentence.

Near the window side of this circular table is a healthy African violet that never blooms.

Towering above the violet is a newly obtained Orchid. Its flowers keep opening. I wonder if I can encourage growth.

A half eaten bar of organic, fair trade chocolate waits there, tempting me.

The center of the table carries a bottle of good old fashioned Elmer’s glue. Nothing but the best.

I have a stolen conch shell sitting here too. Yes, stolen. I am practicing my Caribbean calls. Or at least, trying to get to a point where I can respond to my neighbor’s nightly 9:30 tuba practice.

There is a wooden tray from my travels to Belize that has a few Sharpies and Minnesota Opera post-it notes thrown across its dark grain.

My Canon PowerShot rests inside its red leather case. That battery has also been drained with use.

A banana takes up a few inches of space. A banana that I just bought at a restaurant. Yeah, I’m the sucker that buys bananas at restaurants.

That random sampling of objects somehow sums my life up pretty well. It has my hobbies, my lifestyle, my successes and failures, my pleasures and over indulgences, my work and my play. Or maybe I just need to clean house.

Crowd Mentality

2009-10-01T16:16:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it is easy for my self-conscious to dig itself into a hole when surrounded by a group of strangers, but it isn't long before one single stranger can have me scrambling back up to the surface.

Last night, single ticket in hand again, was the first time I considered eating the $20 bucks I spent on Grizzly Bear. For a second after work I didn't think these feet would start moving again. I refused to let myself down and knew that once I got there it would be great. The show would be great.

I go. But I go with the baggage of uncertainty. Which is a heavy bag to carry entering a room full of strangers. I find my usual spot along the railing upstairs (I've admitted to my height and refuse to stare at someone's neck all night, though I am considering buying the most ridiculous pair of platform shoes solely for concert going). People watching is what gets me through until the talent is ready. I love me some people watching at concerts. The dim lighting at First Ave lets me do it unabashedly too. Checking out everyone and their moms, you notice certain things. You notice everyone donned their 'going-out' style. Everyone is with their friends screaming to each other over the conversations happening next door. The amount of 'cool kids' and the amount of 'not cool kids' that still managed to show up with friends ... starting gnawing at my brain.

There I am, in my dirty work jeans and hoodie. There to hear music, not bat my eyelashes. Taking the solo wide stance in an effort not to be encroached upon. Thankfully, the shortest of shorties comes along around 10:00 and squeezes next to me. This girl proceeded to bore the fun right out of me. I don't know how the dude she was with kept up with his "That's hilarious" and "You're so funny" 's during her twenty minute story about figure skating. I don't know how people are willing to feign interest. Man, I hope that guy got laid for his efforts.

This was also around the time I was put into a trance by BeachHouse and exploring some crazy rhetorical thoughts. The sea of heads below all had the categorical male cow-lick. I started thinking women need to represent and start loving themselves some music. All the concerts I've been to lately have been 85% wiener. Pondering that moved me into mind-blowing territory. I started thinking about how that guy with the shaved head and stretched ear lobes probably lives in the green house on 26th and Emerson. That all these people exist in my same world and we were bound to cross paths. Eating in the same restaurants. Walking down the same streets. I wondered how many I serviced in my customer service days. I later recognized one of my customer crushes from back in the day... so I know there was at least one.

I needed to stop this thinking and BeachHouse needed to quit with the spacey music.

Once I put my Boredom Blinders on. I was gold. I heard nothing but the sweet, sweet music. My ease dropping (shut up, don't pretend you are above it) reminded me that this mass of people surrounding me was just a bunch of individuals - the nerds, cool kids, boring-ass McGee's, and dirty-ass-solo-rocking Me's.

Morning Nugget

2009-09-30T10:50:00.000-05:00

My drive into work was just like any other. Well except that I had to turn the heat on. And I had to stop for gas. And it was 20 minutes later than I usually make the journey. I guess, what I am saying was that my drive into work was different than most mornings.

The usual exit, though, towards work - I climb the hill on the Kellogg exit and am stopped by the light. Sitting there idling, I check the clock. 5 minutes to 9:00am. I better make it to the parking lot before the rates change from bad to atrocious. I know I'll make it. I always do. Waiting at the light a man is guided across the street by the white painted dash lines. He's abiding the crosswalk perimeters but something is funny about this one. What is funny is that he is starring me down with crazy eyes. The 10 feet that it takes to clear my front end he doesn't take his eyes off of me for a second. He even turns as he passes to avoid giving me his back. Walking backwards away from me now.

The 30 seconds it took for him to cross my path, all I could do is stare back and wonder what the hell that guy was thinking. Something crazy, I'm sure. It wasn't the kind of inquisitive look you give if you think you know someone. It surely wasn't the eyes you give to someone you are attracted to. It was the look that says, "What the fuck is happening here?".

It occurred to me as I drove towards my $7/day parking lot that this was the image that crazy eyed man saw:

A figure in a dark hoodie. The hood is pulled up over their head, leaving the face in shadow. Over the sweatshirt is a zipped up, down filled puma vest. The music from the speakers of the vehicle is undoubtedly bleeding into the streets. The driver sits with one arm over the steering wheel, letting their wrist maneuver the car. They sit in a white minivan.

His ass thought I stole my car.

Or he was high and thought I was the smoke monster.

Unknown

2009-09-29T21:43:00.000-05:00

Dear Unknown Number,

Next time you dial my number, will you please leave a message? Each time it tells me I missed your call, my stomach turns into nervous knots at the knowledge of who you potentially could be. I promise I won't be mad if you are a telemarketer. In fact, I will kiss you if you are a telemarketer.

Love always (is that an appropriate goodbye for you?),

Mary

Bi-Yearly Series

2009-09-28T23:25:00.000-05:00

I got caught up in a mess tonight. A fun mess.

Came home and thought I'd have a relaxing night by the fire... who knew the wood smoke would make me so productive. I went through 3 months of neglected mail, did some filing, renewed my tabs, started cleaning out the closets, wrote some checks, wrote some thank you cards. The Thank You's is what started the mess.
A doodle gone mad.
Inspiration.
Back to the closet.
Art supplies needed.
Mess to be made.

Someone close to me will be recieving a card with the original of this finished product. You will have to pretend it is a surprise and then hang it on your fridge as if it's worth something.

Visitors in my apartment usually notice the first of these drawings. In fact, it's usually the only piece of my own (among like 20 throughout my apartment [what a narcissist]) that gets complimented. I'll include all three of what has come to be a Bi-Yearly Series.

#1 Simple Hello

#2 Simple Lasso

#3 Simple Hug

Lastly, proof of mess.

So sorry to ignore the ongoing narrative in my head tonight. I was hearing illustrations instead.

Maybe tomorrow I will tell you about how I continue to hike to nowhere in this place called Minnesota and how much I love the sound of crushing acorns with my Keens.

nite time