(Girl We Got a) Good Thing

Today, you are four.

Four, and a force to be reckoned with.

You're all legs and arms and firmly set jawline, barreling into life with what I would almost call abandon. Almost, and yet your every move is measured. How are you only four, and already weighing risk and reward? How are you testing each boundary—physical, intellectual, and (heaven help me) parent-set—with wisdom and grace? It doesn't matter if it's a ladder at a playground, a lengthy book, or the safety measures I just told you. You will toe the line, perhaps even conquer it, and then look up at me with nonchalant triumph. Your approach to life is a cocked eyebrow and an attitude of, "Oh, really? We'll see." 

You remember everything. Books, melodies, promises, the past. I desperately wish I could fudge the words of some of your longer favorites (like the cursed Cyrus the Unsinkable Sea Serpent, which I've hidden multiple times to avoid a twenty minute bedtime read)(you always find it). But alas, after one read text is locked and loaded in your brain for eternity. If I skip a single word, you raise an imperious hand and say "no, no, no, say the right word." You still talk about Seattle every week. You remember conversations with your sitter April. You recall walks we took, sights we saw. Seeing sea-stars and collecting shells isn't a quarter of your life ago to you, it's immediate and real. I wonder how long it will stick.

Particularly since I find myself grasping at memories. I cling to moments, holding them because you're growing so fast. I blink and they're gone. And my dear, you are so enchanting, I truly don't want to miss a thing.

I want to remember the joy of checking on you after bedtime and finding you sitting upright, clutching an ill-gotten flashlight and surrounded by books. I don't think I've even been so happy, as I gave you a conspiratorial kiss and whispered "don't stay up too late." You didn't, by the way. A half hour later I peeked in. The flashlight was off and you were curled under your blankets.

You are too good.

I want to remember the way you beg for Weezer and the Beatles whenever we drive. The scowl and headbang during track five of Weezer's White Album. The way you always tell me that you don't like "Dear Prudence," but won't skip it because you know I like it.

You are considerate.

I want to remember your many laughs. The high, hysterical giggles when you have tickle fights with

daddy. The shrieks of joy when you see your neighborhood friend in the street. The triumphant "ha, HA" when you beat a level in Rayman, a video game you've mastered so well you don't bother asking me for any help. You know you're by far the better player. And my favorite, the deep and ominous chuckle you emit when you're doing something questionable, but immensely enjoyable. I never want to forget visiting Grandma and Grandpa McCarrey and going to Deception Pass. You spent your time racing down the beach and scuttling over rocky clefts, pursued by me, gurgling the throaty chortle of an evil clown all the while.

You are delightful.

Alex, you've grown immensely every year. This year, you advanced. You started school, made your very own friends, found interests we didn't force upon you (and loved some that we did). I tell you this often, but I'm so glad you are my daughter. 

You're my favorite Alex. Forever.

I love you to Jupiter and back. Happy Birthday.

1. 2. 3. 4.

A Middle-Aged, Non-Crisis Type Thing

This is me, being 30.

I LOVE THAT CARDIGAN.
Birthday present to myself, purchased on the most fantastic ladies' weekend before my birthday.
Extremely worth it.

In 2013, Rilo Kiley released rkives. That year I walked a lot, listening to the dying strains of my favorite band while anticipating what I thought would be my final Seattle summer bloom. The best stretches of my walks reached over I-5, strips of sidewalk where I could lean over and gaze on downtown to the distant south. One day, I moseyed back home after watching a movie in a theatre that would later become one of my places, and "A Town Called Luckey" came on.

"Happy Birthday, you're halfway to sixty...."

I immediately whipped out my phone, scrolling about six years in the future on my Google calendar, and added a new event:

I set it so I got an email AND a notification, just in case I forgot I was getting monumentally older.

And now, I've crossed that event off my list.

I listened to a lot of Jenny Lewis on my birthday.* I made healthy choices, I taught adolescents how to write, I ate a burger so good it almost inspires weeping. **

The most extraordinary thing is how ordinary it feels. No massive rift as one decade moves into the next. No earth shattering moments, leaving an unblemished goddess surrounded by the ruins of my twenties. Just...me. Who I am. What I have. Life going on as marvelously normal as ever.

Thirty is good so far. Twenty-nine was great. Things are ...dare I say?... going well.

I do have plans for shattering life the tiniest bit this year. But, at the risk of exposing my overly-sentimental marshmallow core, as long as I've got these two people in my life, it's fine. 

Seriously, it was one of the best birthdays. Sun! Food! Family! Yes, in that order!

I'm halfway to sixty, and apologies to Ms. Lewis, but I don't have to sing myself towards freedom. I've found myself. Happy.

29. 28. 27. 26. 25.

*It doesn't hurt that her latest album is FANTASTIC.

**See? I did plan a whole dinner this year! Uneeda=manna from the gods.

Black Days

I was raised a sheltered kid. I listened to a capella jamz (ugh) and showtunes. In high school I "rebelled" against that upbringing by listening to classic rock and only classic rock. If the band had a hit in the past twenty years, I wasn't interested. In college, I became immersed in the local band scene, and naturally grew into an indie rock chick, black-framed glasses and cardigans and all.

Which is all to say—I didn't know the music of my youth. I'm pretty sure grunge was banned in Davis County. Apparently a few counties over accidentally booked Rage Against the Machine once, and that is still the terrifying stuff of local legend.

Chris Cornell first consciously entered my brain when I was 20. I sat on a couch in Provo with two boys that I loved, loved at different times and the same time.* We watched skate videos and "Like a Stone."



I was not a rocker at that time—the hardest music I listened to was The White Stripes—but I was immediately drawn in by Cornell's voice. I'd later learn to appreciate Morello's guitar skills, but the sheer melancholy of Cornell's singing floored me. I watched that video and saw and heard true despair. I didn't know a voice could rock while carrying that level of sincere emotion.

A few months later, I made a new friend. The first time we hung out we had a massive music swap, where I foisted Andrew Bird and Rilo Kiley on his iTunes. In turn, he filled a USB with all the 90s music I missed. He gave me entire catalogs of Audioslave and Temple of the Dog and Soundgarden. He told me to listen to Superunknown, that it was an album everybody should experience.** When I got home that night I turned it on. My bud Ashley came in and said, and I quote, "This is not Cat music."

No. It wasn't. But even I couldn't resist blasting "4th of July" at full capacity, because that song was magic.



That new friend who gave me Soundgarden? His name was Taylor McCarrey. I soon saw the beauty in his childhood music, fully embracing those 90s guitars. When we were still dating, we moved to Seattle. He was depressed. I was frustrated. We both experienced some extreme growing pains that summer. We visited Volunteer Park, and I felt a kinship with the "Black Hole Sun."



I'd never put Chris Cornell or any of his projects in my top lists when it comes to music, but I can't deny that he has had an indelible effect on my life. My sorrow at his passing blindsided me. His voice was there during the most pivotal times. Its raw emotion still haunts me. There's something warm and unnerving about the edge, that soft blanket lined with sandpaper. I can't shake it, and I wouldn't want to.



*It was as dramatic and painful and beautiful as it sounds.

**He also said the same about Stone Temple Pilot's Purple and Songs for the Deaf by Queens of the Stone Age. What can I say, my husband is a wise man.

If I could be a wealthy retiree, dining on the finest Euro foods, I would be so happy

Quiet wake up, late shower.

Emailing is an exacting mistress, as is pulling together the random threads of correspondence.  It's worked out.  I'm responsible.

Rush to Harvard for impromptu breakfast with Taylor and dear Biderman.  Dark chocolate, hot.  Croissant for dipping.  Jam for tang.  Decadence never tasted so good, and I already yearn for more.  Return visit soon.

Diet Coke, errands, shipping off a birthday package.

BEACH DAY.

BEACHDAYBEACHDAYBEACHDAY.

Third one in a week.  I love the sand.  I love the taste of salt, the wind, the basking in blue.

Sandcastles from dirt that's a geological wonder, large grains with crushed white and purple shards, shells pulverized by time and seamlessly integrated.  It's the landscape.  It's nature.  It's beautiful.

White sand next to stenchy river.

Fighting waves with wild abandon, challenging them, screaming as salt streams overhead.

Running, resting, leaving late.

All-carb dinner.

Stars.

Home.

Spiritus Animalia

"What's your spirit animal?"  This has become the latest iteration of a bonding question, something asked at parties or on OKCupid profiles.  It's the new "Hey baby, what's your sign?"  And strangely enough, the aesthetic of these question-askers has remained the same.  The same waifish physiques, mustaches, neckbeards, yellow-orange plaid shirts and medallions of the seventies.  I blame the hep hipsters desperate to be original and yet homage their super underground interests.  This is why we can't have nice things.

This question has popped up at more get-togethers (and even concerts) than I care to number (methodically, and requiring both hands and feet).  Inevitably someone brings up wolves.  Because naturally, they share a pack-like mentality and appetite for raw meat with these kindred spirits.  Otters are also really big right now.  I want to say something snarky about that, but serious talk.  Otters are just too cute.  I can't.  Here's the closest I can get: Um, yeah, you totally eat food off your stomach, don't you?*  Just like those otters, huh?

I'm usually hard-pressed for an answer when the spirit animal question comes up.  Quite frankly, I don't share commonalities with any animal.  Is there an animal that likes to burrow deep into a cocoon of warmth and watch others industriously working, while it eats bread and cheese and watches the latest season of Mad Men?  No?  I mean, a queen bee doesn't quite fit that bill (no Mad Men, plus royal jelly is no bread and cheese).  But thankfully, I've found some answers to throw out when asked this inane question.  They might not fit into the spirit of the thing, but I can think of no better examples of kinship than these, my top three Spirit Animals.

And we share an affinity for skulls!

3. Daria Morgendorffer

A quintessential product of the nineties, Daria's flat affect and killer apathy are everything I want to be in this world.  My theory about the nineties, and why I pine after them, are that everyone cared so much.  Feelings and angst were worn on tattered flannel sleeves, so when someone disconnected with the world it meant something.  It wasn't the childish irony of today, when everything is oh-so-amusing because nothing matters.  It was an actual stand against capitalism, or declining standards, or the machine.  If Daria existed in today's television landscape, she'd probably be Zooey Deschanel, the odd girl out thanks to floral prints, ukeleles, and quirky cartoon animal pictures.**  Airiness would be the unique factor.  But thankfully it is not a product of today, and Daria remains aloof through slightly twisted channels, through padded walls and Sick, Sad World.

This is a mere artistic representation.
Seemed less creepy than a glamour shot.

2. Glen Weldon

I'm slightly cheating with this one.  See, Glen Weldon—one of the hosts of Pop Culture Happy Hour, my favorite podcast—is not quite my spirit animal.  He's more the yin to my yang.  He represents the perfect complement to my own disposition, the ideal inversion of my own tastes and predilections.  But it's in such a perfect way that I have to pay him due.  Glen Weldon writes about books and comic books for the NPR website, and is the surly, distinctly unfeeling member of the PCHH crew.  We both like comics.  We both have a distaste for schmaltz.  But it translates in slightly different ways.

1. Glen is more likely, in his personal opinions, to have a pessimistic outlook on situations.  Definitely that glass half empty type.  I, on the other hand, harbor deep disdain for everyone and everything, but in my own secret soul I'm optimistic.  A little gentler.  Life is a terrible thing, but I think it's that way because we're capable of more.

2.  When it comes to comic fandom, Glen thrives on FUN.  Give him madcappery, wildness, abandon that can only come through the wacky world of  comics.  My comic leanings go towards grit. Somber.  Dark.  Those suck me in.

These are just a few examples of the yin-yang effect, but essentially when it comes to being the group member to embrace blanket hatred, sir Weldon and I could not be more similar.  Hate on, dude.

You can practically hear the evil laughter.

1. Louise Belcher

Yes, Tina Belcher is the popular break-out star of Fox's animated Bob's Burgers.  Which I cannot understand, because there's this character called Louise, and she's perfect. She's my everything.  I think that words might fail me at this moment, since I love her too much to adequately express it.  I am not exaggerating when I say she is the ultimate.  I don't even have to specify the ultimate what, because she's that good.  Louise knows who she is, she knows what she wants, and she demands control with immediate and exacting vengeance.  Yes, vengeance.  Making the best use of Kristen Schaal since ever, including her role as Flight of the Conchords fan Mel (the less said about her 30 Rock stint the better), Louise blends bravado and sheer capacity for terror in a cocktail of complete assurance.  Everyone knows that she's the real one in charge of the Belcher family.  She's sarcastic, she's savvy (no one can manipulate folks out of their money during an art crawl like Louise), and she doesn't buy into the idea that just because she is a little girl, she has to be one.  A sharp-as-nails child with the soul of a miserly old man, Louise rocks.  She's maniacal.  She's commanding.  She's my spirit animal.

*I do, though.  I really, really do.  There just comes an optimal slouch when watching TV, and the stomach becomes the ideal platform for that dish of nachos.

**Is it obvious I quit watching the New Girl after one season?

Quarter of a Century Man*

I am, I am.

This is me, being 25.

At 25, I woke up early.  At 6:30 AM, when I was technically still 24, with only a few precious minutes before entering the 25th anniversary of my time here on earth.  Sun squirmed its way between a gap in the window and the Batman blanket I've been using as a heavy duty curtain, touching my face with the illusion of a warm day.  For a moment I was still, nestled in bed and squinting at a mix of sky and branches and houses.

At 25, I decided to treat myself to a bagel for breakfast.  Apparently, food is just as important to me as when I was 24, or 16, or 5.  Indeed, the desire and appreciation for food runs much of my daily life.  At 25, there is rarely a moment when I don't have a niggling yen for one (or both) of two things: guacamole, with the rich avocado punctuated with sharp garlic and juicy ripe tomatoes; or the Lucknow Special from Pronti Bistro.  Chunks of lamb with mushroom and feta, slathered in tamarind and mint yogurt sauce, gently couched in warm flatbread.  It's the type of meal that makes the entire world OK, opening windows of peace and harmony and happiness (only to prompt feelings of crushing loss when it is eaten and gone).

At 25, I carefully selected the first song of my new year.  I was torn between old favorites, songs that dominated this past year, or something peppy and delightful.  I ended up with "The Wind" by Cat Stevens.  A perfect choice.



At 25, I'm coming out of a season of penetrating sadness.  But the weather is slowly warming, and is nursing my heart along with it.  One thing people don't tell you when you finally chase your dreams is that the chasing action does not instantaneously eradicate all the fears and insecurities that kept you from the dream in the first place.  Oh, it can assuage them for a bit.  For a time, your confidence will be boosted by the pure adrenaline rush of finally doing it.  And then the novelty wears off and you are left with a dream that has become mundane reality, but with an added pressure layer of hopes and expectations crusting the top of it.  And wrestling with a dream made actual can leave you staring at the void, feet dangling off the edge of the cliff as you grasp for a trail.  For somewhere safe and sure to place your footfalls.  And sometimes, you'll have to off-road it for a while, forging your own path until a trail is made.  And it's difficult.  But somehow it can be done.  Or so I repeat to myself in the malaise-worthy mornings and headache-inducing nights.

At 25, I'm hopeful.  Hopeful that the best is still ahead.  That there's a bright, comfortable future in front of me, full of books and armchairs and sunlight.  The meals will be catered and the television will always be set to the best channels (what CBS? No such thing).  There will be rooms and people and a home full of light.  There will be deeply satisfying work, and even more deeply satisfying love.  This is the richness I see for myself, and as for 25?  It's just the beginning.

*That phrase always makes me think of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying.  Specifically, the scene before this song.  I tried to find the actual point where Mr. Twimble discusses his 25-year status in the company, but alas it is not to be.  Yes, we have a grand overarching technological network that spies on us and has billions of cat videos, but it can't be bothered to include a thirty second clip of a Pulitzer prize-winning production.  This is the world we live in.

Dying to be Noticed

If you haven't read anything by John Green, you are a bad person.

Really. You should probably fix that right now. RIGHT. NOW. Stop reading my blog (which should hint at the seriousness of this situation. I love my blog, and actively want more readers). Turn off your stupid computer. And drive to the nearest library, or even better, bookstore and grab some of his books. My very favorite is Paper Towns, closely followed by An Abundance of Katherines. So check him out, if you please.

Sorry about the extreme fangirlness. It was prompted because I just finished his newest book, The Fault in Our Stars. And it was beautiful, and inspiring, and hilarious and sad, all without being too cloying or obvious. That's one of the things I love about John Green. He writes grand romances, interesting literary observations, and coming-of-age stories, but you don't realize that until after you finish the book. Because it doesn't scream "X TYPE OF BOOK" in your face. When you read, you're just completely immersed.

Take Stars, for instance. I suppose it's a cancer book. But, as it correctly identifies in the story, it's not a cancer book. Cancer just happens to be one of the problems that the characters are faced with. But it's not a Problem with a capital P. It's just a problem. It's just life. It might even be Life. Considering I finished the book fifteen minutes ago, I don't think I'm qualified to assign capital letters quite yet.

And I don't have to. Contrary to what you might think, this blog post is not a review. I'm not going to analyze Stars, or dissect the characters, or discuss how well-placed the literary allusions (Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, TS Eliot, William Carlos Williams, Ginsberg, and more!) were. Instead, I'm going to make this post about me.

Surprised? You shouldn't be. Once again, the fact I'm blogging is a testament to my self-absorbedness.

There was one question/quote in the book I particularly liked. For those who will read (all of you, please?), you might not want to read the quote. Unless you are OK with me ruining that moment of the book for you. Also, there is a swear. I refuse to edit it. Be warned.

As noted by Hazel, the protagonist: "I thought of my dad telling me that the universe wants to be noticed. But what we want is to be noticed by the universe, to have the universe give a shit what happens to us--not the collective idea of sentient life but each of us, as individuals."

Sigh. I love that. I love that even more within the grand scheme of the book.

When I was little, I wanted to be famous. As far as I knew, this was an absurd and unnatural desire. On several occasions, when I talked about that Great American Novel I wanted to write, or the Oscar I would win, my mother would look at me with bewilderment. She'd shake her head softly and say: 'You're the only one of my children who has wanted to be famous. That's so strange.' Or something to that effect.

Looking back at that urge now, I can identify what is was--a need to validate my existence. We all want to be loved, to be adored, to be lauded as intelligent and kind and wonderful. As a kid, I thought the only way to get that was through universal fame. Luckily, that fame didn't happen.

Which is almost so much better. Because now, with the wisdom that comes through such extreme age (sarcasm there), I recognize the kind of fame I wanted is more curse than blessing. I can, and DO, have that love and acceptance through simpler measures.

I can feel the small ways that the universe has acknowledged my existence. I receive love, often undeservedly, from my family, my darling man friend I'm engaged to, my friends, even near strangers. I have a warm corner of the world to call my own. I have acceptance, from others and, more importantly, from myself.

The beautiful thing about that little turn of events is that it's a two-way street. You can't curry favors from the universe without desperately noticing the wonders it holds. In pondering the many ways I've been individually recognized, I stand in awe. Along with having wonderful people around me, I'm also surrounded by that universal beauty. I live in a gorgeous city, one that constantly surprises me with a new glory every day. I know, and actively miss, such intelligent and interesting people back home in Utah. Luckily, I'm meeting and interacting with some pretty entertaining and talented folks here as well.

And then you start thinking on a grander scheme. This world holds SO MUCH. This is a world that has Andrew Bird, the Coen Brothers, Cormac McCarthy, Shakespeare and Coleridge and Beardsley and Emerson and the Beatles and the ancient Greeks and van Gogh and Beethoven and Thai food and Ella Fitzgerald and the X-Files and all things bright and beautiful. And sometimes it seems like they were all created solely for me. I suppose there is an argument out there that could say they were. Something discussing reality and consciousness.

But that's not the point. The point is that this universe is pretty amazing. As are the moments when that truth hits you, straight in the face, and your heart swells and bursts with the miracle of it all.

The Breaking Point

Me: Do you realize we have spent the past two days on the couch, in our pajamas, not doing anything? I mean, you're playing Solitaire and I'm watching Studio 60.

Annie: It's called roommate bonding. Now shut up. I'm winning.

Woah-oh-oh it's MAGIC!

I don't know how this happens, but I keep finding bags of chocolate chips on my food shelf. Not that I'm complaining. At all. I mean, this is the most magical thing I've ever experienced. A mystical food fairy that keeps hiding chocolate chips? I'll take it!

So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put those sweet things to good use.

Mm Mm Good.

Pst...ahhh

After a long day, the magical hours between two and four roll up. And when those hours hit, I roll on up to the Sonic drive-thru window.

Route 44 Diet Coke with Cranberry, easy ice.

One sip = euphoria.

Happiness.

All The Way!!!!

Today, something truly magical happened. Something fantastic. Something you only hear about in fairy tales and YouTube videos.

I SAW A DOUBLE RAINBOW.


Please ignore the poor photo quality, my phone was not intended for serious pictures. Also, I know you can't really see the second one (it's to the left), but it was there! I promise! And it was incredible.

Life is complete.

Just the Way I Roll

Sitting in the dark, flipping through the vast array of information that is the interwebs. Overworked from school, tired from work, and appreciating home for the brief respite it is. Welcome to the average roommate bonding time that occurs at Casa de Cat.

But I treasure these moments. The cathartic release that comes from going and going and giving and giving all day. The spontaneous dance parties and random pancake days and occasional bickering and constant appreciation of JEFF BRIDGES. Seriously. He is The Dude, after all.

Still, it's usually just quiet. Music wavering in the background (tonight it's Andrew Bird. Obviously, I got to the speakers first). Separate couches. Too lazy to turn on all the lights, so semi-darkness enfolds us as we sit, lone spots in the haze as computers screens fill our faces with a phosphorescent glow.

It's peaceful. That communal, comfortable feeling of resting, but not being alone.

That, and sharing the occasional gem. I'll play a music video or read some snarky commentary on pop culture, and Lauren will share some Threadless gems. Like this little beauty:


If you don't want that on a shirt, you have no soul.

Word Rant, Pt. 1

I have a feeling this is going to be an ongoing series, so welcome to the very first installment of Word Rant (copyright pending/nonexistent). Basically, it's exactly what it sounds like--a segment where I quickly vent about words that are driving me crazy. Today's offender?

Thrifted

Attention all: This is not a word. Not even a little bit. This is a sad and annoying attempt to make an adorable activity out of the reality that you need cheap clothes and are spending hours sifting through layers of dust and rags. Either that, or a method of asserting your authority and irksome hipness, since you are cool enough to possess whatever strange "talent" or "gift" comes with driving to your local DI or Savers.

That sounded bitter. I didn't mean that. In all honesty, I do admire people who can find cute and wearable clothing at thrift stores. I've experienced that once or twice, and it does feel good. To those of you who have the vision to do that often and consistently, Mazel Tov. I salute you. But for sweet Pete's sake, when someone asks where you got that stylish belt, don't square your shoulders, stick up your nose, and say "it's thrifted." Say "I got it at [fill in the blank]." It's simpler, and makes me want to punch you in the face WAY less.

But back to the initial issue. "Thrifted" is not a word. "Thrift" in itself is not a verb. It's a noun, as it represents a quality, the quality to be prudent with money. In that wise, it is possible for a person to be "thrifty" or to "have thrift." But one cannot "thrift" something. It's not an action. I repeat, thrift is not a verb. Please adjust your vocabulary accordingly.

On a different, non-rant related note, I finally had a breakthrough on the guitar. I figured out 96% of the chords in Jenny and Johnny's cover of "Love Hurts."



Fun Fact: I was at that concert. Actually, whoever shot that must have been standing pretty dang close to me, because I was right up at the front. What do you expect? My desire to marry Jenny Lewis is well advertised. I love her. And this concert was incredible.

Anyway, I finally feel like I've earned the right to say that I play a pretty mean, mediocre guitar. Which completely beats what I used to say: that I was constantly trying and failing at playing the guitar. Good times. This experience came with another bonus--it allowed me to listen to "Love Hurts" ad nauseum without anyone having to ask if I was depressed or in deep mourning. Win for me!

Also, I say that I learned 96% because I still don't have the chords for the first two lines of the bridge. Once it gets to A I'm all good, but before that it's all guesswork. Point? If any skilled musicians read my blog, now is the time to show yourself.

In closing, I got new shoes. What a great day.

PS: The winner of the bromance poll has been determined. The overwhelming victors? Turk and JD, with Shawn and Gus as a close second. What a tight race! Thanks to everyone who participated.

ZAPTACULAR!

Oh my ... oh MY ... there are no words.

"Drink of the Miracle Sauce. Rehealthify yourself."

You'll thank me later, I guarantee it.

MILKQUARIOUS from +JOE HURSLEY+ on Vimeo.

DTR

Oh Ben. It's time to talk. You know, about our relationship.

Yeah, the one we don't really have yet, but that I just know is coming along quite nicely. I mean, look at the progress we've made! Finally, after two and a half years of regret, I managed to see you live. Live in concert. As in, playing the piano and singing in my immediate vicinity. And oh man was it joyous.

True, it wasn't quite your usual scene. I couldn't help but laugh as I saw you struggling to rein in your ribald persona, trying to keep it somewhat clean due to the presence of the Utah Symphony behind you. But even they couldn't completely contain you, and I had to chuckle/swoon as you rock star mugged at the camera during "Not the Same", shoving your face near the screen, hands outstretched and lights swirling behind you.

As for me, I just stretched out and enjoyed, nibbling on chocolate cake and letting your deliciously whiny white-boy voice surround me as dark light from condos and trees kept good company.


Basically, our love is strong, dear Benjamin. And hey, if you ever find yourself in the market for a fifth wife, I'll be here.

Shameless Self Promotion

Howdy folks!

Not many people know this, but it's been a lifelong (well... month-long. Maybe weeks-long) dream of mine to be a featured guest blogger. And now, thanks to the talented and loveable Lucas over at Juxtapose, my dream has finally come true! He let me handle a way-too-technical and beautiful camera for a week, and now is presenting some of the photographic gems, complete with a short and pithy explanation of what the experience helped me realize. Overall, I'd say it's a pretty neat project.

You can find his blog on my sidebar, or for the more lazy of you who want instant gratification, click here to go right to it. After you've checked out my super cool pictures, spend some time and look around. I guarantee you'll come out satisfied-- Luke's got a way with the camera. I bet you like it.

Enjoy, my friends! Cat OUT.

A European Explosion

Prepare yourself. Here comes a completely random, thrown at the screen rundown of all the odd, slightly blog worthy thoughts I have had over the past two or three weeks. WARNING: this post contains a great amount of text, with no pictures whatsoever. This should be an adventure.

Mini blog A: Wherein Rick Steves is God

So, traveling with two older ladies has been a vast, VAST change from bombing around the UK with 30 kids my age. I have never been so resistant to something in my life, but sadly my easy adaptability won out. I found myself quoting Rick Steves opinion at every landmark, treated his guidebooks like the Bible, and exhaled "how lovely!" at every brightly colored apartment building and sparse field of wildflowers. Following my mother and aunts example, I fed "scenery into a hungry, one-eyed camera eager to eat the world one monument at a time" (I've been listening to Billy Collins poetry lately. Check out "Consolation"), snapping artsy pictures of lamposts and skylines, churches framed by tree branches and details of statuary. I did resist the 9:30 bedtime, but I still went to sleep far earlier than the 3-7 schedule of London.

Mini blog B: My Soundtrack*

I listen to music far too often, and some songs work to define parts of my life. Drama class in junior year? "Don't Bring Me Down" summons memories of crouching in the wings of the stage, bobbing my head and worrying about the latest scandal with the choir kids before I left that behind me forever. Summer of freshman year? Walking across campus like a gangsta, cruising to "Seven Nation Army". OK, this walk down memory lane was not the purpose of this segment. I swear. What I really meant to talk about was the songs I've had on repeat the past few days, the songs that have embodied my post-London self.

1. West Coast, by Coconut Records.
All right, guy I kind of sort of dated but not really February aught eight. I owe you a big thank you for all those mix CDs. I didn't give them enough attention, missing little jewels like this song I didn't even know I had. I'm sorry I wasn't responsive to your wooing, but you're married now so you probably don't care. Still, thanks for the great tunes.

I played this song over and over the last week of my study abroad. Even though I wasn't heading back to the states, I still identified with leaving places and people I loved, friendships that would never be the same and the desire to take it all with you. And the fact that it's the awkward kid from Rushmore singing to me makes it even more special and bittersweet. Somehow. Don't ask me how that works. Also, the line "rains a lot this time of year" fit perfectly into the theme of my actual travels, which leads us to ...

2. Why Does it Always Rain on Me?, by Travis.
Major kudos to Kate for gifting me this awesome Brit band right before I left, and then to my buddy Grant for noticing them on itunes and giving me this particular beauty. Along with being yet another angsty, reflective song about the past, this quite literally described my trip. No joke, after the third day of traveling every, single, place we went to was cloudy and hazy and then rained at least once. This proved a saving grace in the oppressive heat of Italy, but grey skies make for some tricky, monotonous pictures.

3. So So, by Gary Go
Ladies and gentlemen, this is THE SONG. It is me the week after the program ended. It is the way I felt, wrapped up in one glorious feat of lyricism. Basically, each line expresses the emotions I was dealing with, the sense of loss and growth that I experienced. And have I mentioned how magnificently angsty it is? All of these songs made me so "emo", even though I prefer the term ruminative. Yes, that's it. They made me contemplative and reminiscent, as I was transported to a time, not too far off, that I missed. And Gary Go himself was such a part of my London adventure. From running around town looking for music stores to buy his album, to playing it on Allison's laptop and dozing off in a Stratford guest room with a gaggle of girls, to sharing it with members of the group, Gary Go was the quintessential English music find, and So So is the ultimate in London nostalgia. "Take me back to the London Town, when it felt good to be around..."

Mini blog C: Spew, a.k.a., Random Observations from the Road

When you are in the Italian countryside, the air tastes like wheat and sun-dried tomatoes and you almost fall in love. And then you get to the city, where the air tastes like garbage and acrid cigarette smoke that makes you miss English tobacco, and then you almost vomit.

Clouds that wisp like sulfuric steam rising from Roman baths of old are pretty neat.

Absence does not make the heart grow fonder.

Italian men are an even bigger letdown than the British accent's aphrodisiac power. Hint: ear piercings aren't as cool as you think they are.

Venice manufactures romance like it's cheap insulation, but you still fall for it.

You never know who you will run into and where. And how you will look when you run into them. And when that time comes, you will always regret not taking a shower that morning.

Germans are definitely not Nazis anymore, and are in fact quite warm and hospitable. And make freaking amazing food.

What is it about countries where they speak a different language that suddenly makes you want to eavesdrop on every conversation you hear?

*From now on, I've decided every song I mention on this blog can be found on the playlist to the right (with certain exceptions, like Gary Go, which is not on playlist.com but you should look him up anyway). Important ones will be near the top, but all should be found by browsing, along with several other great tunes that help me survive at work. Enjoy!

Wolverine, I will punch you in the face.

Seriously. No joke.

So the point of this post? If you value brain cells, don't see this:


You will regret it.

This particular cinematical experience made me want to claw my eyes out. I spent well over half the movie writhing in pain and smothering laughter. SO. BAD. If you want to see a movie full of death scenes that make you laugh out loud, shoddy special effects including claws that look like cartoons coming out of Wolverine's hands, and a script that is nothing but a long laundry list of cliches, this is the show for you. Honestly, every. Single. Word sounds like it's a sound byte taken from a particularly awful B-movie. Like so:
"You shouldn't have come back here!" "I had to stop you!" "I can't be stopped!" "What you're doing is wrong!" "What would you know! You're an animal. Be the animal you are!" "I'll never look back! I am more!"
*Cat bashing her head against the seat in front of her*
Ack. So much bad movie. Well, at least I have something in common with one of my heroes, Dr. Perry Cox from Scrubs. We both share an undying and completely justified hatred for Hugh Jackman. Hugh, you're officially On Notice.

But at least something marvelous happened the next day, as if Fate was officially apologizing for awful films. I went on A Magical Mystery Tour, walking around London and checking out prominent Beatles sites! Thank you Universe!

I think I salivated appropriately over everything. Our tour guide was competent, only missing a couple of stories I found imperative. Not telling the "rattle your jewelry" anecdote? Shameful! Anyway, a couple of highlights.

Paul McCartney's office (his is the one with the arched window):



3 Saville Row, location of the last rooftop performance:



The art gallery where John met Yoko (also where Peter Asher displayed his work, co-owned by Paul):

The pub where the Beatles frequently visited, also where Jimi Hendrix was discovered:



And of course, the penultimate moment of the tour, Abbey Road Studios and ABBEY ROAD!!!:





I can die happy.

Cheers!

I think that is my favorite English phrase so far. That and "no more getting your dongle out", but that's a different story for a different audience. Contact me if you want a more detailed version.



Things in cheery ol' London are going swimmingly. I've been fighting jet lag tooth and nail, allowing myself one morning of exhaustion before pushing myself to get out of the flat, rarely to return. It's working out pretty well. Five to six hours of sleep a night versus twelve hours of walking a day? Where do I sign?!?

Here's some words of wise thought from my British experience:



1. Chocolate is ruined for me forever. It's so much better here! Even though I'm not sure if that's reality speaking or my expectation that all British things are hip and mucho better than America. I expect the latter. I mean, NO. Chocolate is better! And there are many more Cadbury varieties. Mmmmmmm...

2. British accents don't automatically make a boy more attractive. I know. It came as a shock to me too. They might not be the automatic aphrodisiac I thought, but seriously, they sure do help. Just not always.

3. Diversity= Goodness. I went to my ward for the first time today, and it was AMAZING. Over 75% of the members are first generation and from Nigeria or someplace similar. I love being so close to new testimonies, where everyone is full of excitement and fervor. Smaller wards are my favorite. Plus, I want a black child with hugenormous rich brown eyes, like the three year old I flirted with during sacrament meeting. Sorry redheaded babies, you've been replaced.

4. Cliques are for losers and squares. The more people you know, the more people there are to mooch off of when the occasion requires it. See? You learn something new every day.

5. Nothing can compete with Shakespeare. Ever.




So go London! Or go to London. Come on. Everybody's doing it.

The Eighty One-th

I wasn't that excited for this years Academy Awards, because let's face it. 2008 was a sucktastic year for movies. I hadn't seen most of the nominees, and none of them were surrounded by extremely positive buzz. It was mostly "pretty good" films in a sea of "astoundingly mediocre".


The Academy was definitely feeling the pressure, as seen by the amount of press they were putting into advertising this years "changes". Some were good, some were disappointing, and overall it was a solid meh. I watched to see Ledger win the first posthumous Oscar, and that's about it. But I did get caught up in some things. It's the movies. I dare you not to.

First off, Hugh Jackman. Oh Hugh. Yes, you are the sexiest man alive, according to a questionable magazine that apparantly has the last word on attraction. He wasn't bad as a host, managing to be at least as funny as the last Stewart run. I loved his confidence, especially in the first number where I laughed out loud at the milk carton Batpod, Anne Hathaway (yes! Don't judge. You chuckled at the potential Frost/Nixon forbidden love too), and the complete lack of anything pertinant to The Reader. His enthusiasm for song and dance got a tad old after a while, especially with the whole "musicals are back!" rigamarole. Once Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens got on stage, I was ready for a return to the old formula of showcasing the Best Song Nominees--sidenote, I really missed that part. I loved getting fully acquainted with the songs, and the mash up right before announcing the winner didn't do it for me.

But as long as we're talking about Zac and Vanessa, let's get to my main complaint about the 81st Annual Academy Awards. Where the crap were the freaking celebrities?!? It looked like the first row was packed with all the nominees, and the entire theater behind them was full of faceless extras, or sound and editing people. And most importantly, WHERE WAS JACK NICHOLSON????? It's just not an awards show without Jackie Boy sitting front row center, wearing those sunglasses that allow him to look both old man creepy and lecherously cool. I mean if it wasn't for a nomination, I bet Meryl Streep wouldn't even be there. The whole thing had a B-list feel that left me feeling dirty and cheap. I mean Zac and Vanessa? Miley Cyrus? Robert "Edward" Pattinson? Apparently teenage girls wrote the guest list. Please, kill me now. Even Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie looked more stiff and uncomfortable than usual. And that's saying something.

Also, my last complaint (maybe)... Sean Penn? Again? Hasn't the man won enough? We get it Sean. You're edgy, and outspoken, and take dangerous roles and pull them off. Bully for you. But I wanted it to be Mickey Rourke's turn. I don't really know why, but I was rooting for that man to win in the worst way. It's not like I've seen The Wrestler, or really have any intention of seeing it. But America loves a success story. Just look at Robert Downey Jr. We are estatic when someone makes a spectacular comeback, and man was Rourke's one for the ages. Plus, I really wanted to see a randy hobo pimp accept the Oscar. Please Academy? Couldn't you have done this one for me?

But the Awards were not without their charm. The majority of presenters was full of inspired groupings. I have a slight crush on Jack Black, and dug the easy way he and Jennifer Aniston (who is totally hot, even though she feels some need to validate that fact all the time) interacted. And the ever elegant Natalie Portman and Ben Stiller. Who doesn't a love a well placed Joaquin Phoenix jab? I know I sure do. And I secretly want Tina Fey and Steve Martin to run away together and make small bundles of hilarity. But the definite highlight was the montage set to Pineapple Express. I don't think I've laughed so hard at a contrived awards show sketch in my life. I almost died at James Franco's sudden thoughtful expression after the Milk kiss. And a lauded cinematographer saying "suck it"? Priceless.

Finally, a quick runthrough of the wins that brought me joy. When Wall-E won I nearly jumped out of my chair. I was so nervous about all the Kung-Fu Panda upset predections, and it's great to see that the Academy didn't deprive Pixar of an award they fully deserved, especially after the Best Picture snub. Also, I was fully expecting Gus van Sant to win for director, and LOVED it when Danny Boyle won instead. His films are always a little odd with plenty of quiet beauty (even when it involves running from Rage infected "zombies"), and I was pleased to see someone so beneath the radar take home the big prize. And then there's Kate Winslet, looking gorgeous and humble and honestly so pleased to receive this honor. I loved her speech, loved her dress, just loved her.

Still, this year was kind of a bummer, with no tense anticipation or real competition. The overall feel was apathy, and that does not make for a great Oscar show. But the previews for upcoming movies gave me hope for the 82nd Academy Awards. With Public Enemies, Up, Watchmen, and my personal favorite, 500 Days of Summer opening soon, there should actually be some shows worth watching this year. I can't wait.