I had an excellent birthday last week. I got up at 9:00am (on a Saturday!!!) and went to breakfast with my Meggie. My sister made me a beautiful cake. I got a snuggie and many other very fun things, and had fun just hanging out with my family.
That night, I went out to dinner with (most of) the fam-dam. The main conversational themes were: near death experiences (apparently, we are a dangerous bunch) and our weirdest/most memorable dreams. When we get together and start re-telling our favorite memories and stories, we just can't stop. We definitely took pictures, but I have no idea whose camera they are on. When I find them, I'll put them up.
ALSO!
I have probably mentioned this to quite a few of you (ok, probably all of you) already. November is National Novel Writing Month, and I am participating for the first time!
I have stalked NaNoWriMo for the past 2 years, just to get tips and tricks on writing, but never thought I'd participate. It is such a cool experiment in creativity. Also - it is ok if my little story totally sucks! Its about word count, baby.
At first when I decided I was going to participate, I swore I wouldn't tell anyone. I don't know why. I think I was embarrassed, and worried that people would think I had deluded myself into believing I was a 'real' author, so I was going to write a 'real' book and get it published. I'm definitely not. I'm using it as an exercise in creativity, but nothing beyond that.
Whenever I read authors say that 'they are their own worst critic,' I want to say, "Ho-hum. How humble and gracious of you. You can't possibly mean it that you are literally your own worst critic."
I totally get it now.
My characters are flat. My plotline? Weird and improbable. The dialogue is cringe-worthy. The worst, though, is when I'm especially impressed with how awesome a certain plot point or character development or narrating technique is and I scribble it down at work in between calls thinking to myself, 'Oh my gosh. I am so clever and imaginative.' Then when I get home and type it onto the computer screen, the stupidity of it reaches out and slaps me across the face and it takes all of my willpower not to erase it. That, however is the beauty of writing where quantity matters more than quality. I am temporarily banning my inner editor.
And who knows? Maybe some of the things I currently find laughable and shamefully dumb may turn out to be kind of clever, or at least interesting, when I go back through it all to edit. Knowing that kind of unlocks all of the ability to imagine and be creative, because I'm allow myself to ignore that annoying little voice in the back of my head that tells me my ideas are stupid. That voice kind of deserves to get shut up.
So...
I'm writing a novel.
11.07.2010
11.01.2010
This is Halloween.
I had quite a fantastical Halloween this year. We stayed home, made yummy food, passed out candy to trick-or-treaters, painted pumpkins, watched 'The Nightmare Before Christmas' and tried to keep our dogs from engaging in mortal combat.
I believe this is the 5th or 6th time I've dressed up as a cat. Shameful.
The pumpkin cookies and cocoa puff spiders were delish; I wish I could say the same for my batch of warm butterbeer. It was YUCK. Here's a tip: When making this warm, frothy, magical beverage, be sure you boil the cream soda before you add butterscotch chips. Or else it turns brown and looks like basilisk vomit.
Dad was even into the spirit. He used this mask to terrify both trick-or-treaters and puppies alike.
Lady left her hat on for approximately half a second.
Don't be jealous of our multi-movie franchise pumpkins! (Bellatrix pumpkin; Queen of Hearts pumpkin; Joker pumpkin; Frankenstein pumpkin)
On to my birthday! I love that my birthday comes a week after Halloween. I get so excited for Halloween festivities, I forget that it is coming up, so it's like a nice little surprise. A birthday surprise.
The pumpkin cookies and cocoa puff spiders were delish; I wish I could say the same for my batch of warm butterbeer. It was YUCK. Here's a tip: When making this warm, frothy, magical beverage, be sure you boil the cream soda before you add butterscotch chips. Or else it turns brown and looks like basilisk vomit.
Dad was even into the spirit. He used this mask to terrify both trick-or-treaters and puppies alike.
Lady left her hat on for approximately half a second.
Don't be jealous of our multi-movie franchise pumpkins! (Bellatrix pumpkin; Queen of Hearts pumpkin; Joker pumpkin; Frankenstein pumpkin)
On to my birthday! I love that my birthday comes a week after Halloween. I get so excited for Halloween festivities, I forget that it is coming up, so it's like a nice little surprise. A birthday surprise.
10.23.2010
I have no excuse.
I know, I know. I haven't blogged in over a month. I have no excuses, actually. I have been writing, but none of it is really blog-able (more on that later). So, here is a little somethin' from the archives!
This was an assignment I did way back in 2008 during my second semester of college for a humanities course. We were assigned to read 'Why I Ride' by Jana Richman (which is a pretty good read, by the way). It is a short story chronicling the specific reasons the author has for her hobby of motorcycling across the country. We were supposed to write a present-tense creative non-fiction essay like Richman's explaining why we do the things that make us happy and relaxed.
It took me a while to think of what I would write about, because I don't really have any 'viable' hobbies like putting tiny ships in jars or building model airplanes. I like writing, but it seemed weird to write an essay explaining why I like writing. I finally realized that my favorite way to unwind is to listen to music, so I wrote my essay about that. It all just kind of came tumbling out at once. Beware: it is kind of long. I'm long-winded. Oh, also - I got an A+.
PS - The memories from my childhood are accurate as far as I can remember them. For example, I'm not positive that the actual number of Beach Boy vinyls we owned was 2 or 3; I just guessed.
(I've also included a handy-dandy playlist of the songs I mention, so you can rock out too.)
"Creative Non-fiction Short Story: The Drive"
After any particularly long day, I love to drive around with no destination in mind and blast my music at an unreasonable volume. It is the ultimate way for me to just be still – to experience and digest everything I’ve been too busy to think about that day. Today is a treat for me – I have a four hour drive from Idaho to Utah to visit my family for the weekend. I haven’t seen them in a month and I’m looking forward to the drive almost as much as I am looking forward to seeing them.
After I fill up on gas, I impatiently head down the winding residential streets and scowl at the 25 mile per hour speed limit signs. The streets turn into hilly boulevards, and then finally – the highway. I turn up the volume just enough to make my rear-view mirror vibrate. I start unwinding to the complex rhythms and beats of Muse’s ‘Apocalypse Please,’ and I whine along with the high, plaintive vocals. It’s such a beautiful, lonely song, and the desperation of it never fails to move me.
As far back as my memory reaches, I have had a deep connection with music. It has a profound effect on me, on my sense of well-being, and on my emotional state. I think it runs in my family. My dad was in a few rock bands in his young adulthood – some of his songs even got on local radio. He always had deep commitment to his music, something that led my mom to warn me and my sisters against ever dating guys in bands. “They can sometimes have mixed-up priorities,” she would say.
He still plays his old electric blue bass, sometimes. Now that I think about it, the way he looks while he plays – bobbing his head a little to the beat, squinting his eyes to read the music with a half smile on his face – is the visual representation of how I feel when I am cruising in my car with the stereo blasting. Marriage and adulthood have mellowed out his musical tastes; he mostly listens to jazz tunes now, and a little Eric Clapton. After a long day of shopping and errands, I’ve often come home to find him on the couch, nodding his head to blaring music - which he has wired, somehow, to practically every speaker on the first floor of our home. He calls it his ‘music appreciation time.’
My mother’s tastes in music have always been a little earthier. We had a record player in my childhood home in California, and some of my earliest memories are of dancing to the folk albums she would spin on it. I believe Peter, Paul & Mary, John Denver, and The Mamas & The Papas were a few of her favorites. I can still remember how easily those songs would make my occasionally scary childhood world feel softer. The Beach Boys were also in constant rotation on that old record player; we had two or three of their vinyl albums. Their tight harmonies and upbeat tempos were the backing track to most of my childhood.
It wasn’t until my adolescence that music became my most essential coping mechanism. After arriving home from junior high, I remember the sweet escape of grabbing my walkman, loading it with a homemade mix-tape, and sliding the soft headphones over my ears. I would close my eyes, and suddenly all of the awkward social interactions, all the pains of being misunderstood, and all of the terror of being thirteen would be put in perspective. Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ wouldn’t make those nasty things disappear; the comfort that song held for me was in the knowledge that someone else understood how I felt. Listening to it, I realized that I was not the only kid to ever have a horrible teenage life. The song’s sad, rhythmic chords brought peace to some of my most desolate days. It didn’t blast away the darkness of depression with cloying sweetness; instead, it made the darkness survivable.
---
I'm coming over a particularly high, steep mountain pass. It’s the only part of the journey – one I’ve made a dozen times – that makes me anxious. I try not to notice the huge trucks zooming past me. Nervously, I switch my iPod to the next song. It’s Muse, again. ‘Falling Away With You’ is one of my favorites by them, and the sweet acoustic track does the trick. I am calm again.
My relationship with music deepened when I got my driver’s license at sixteen. My father considerately, albeit nervously, let me drive his little two-door Saturn around town and to school. One night during my senior year of high school, I made plans to watch a movie with Ryan, a good friend of mine. I skipped to the car and drove to his house. As I pulled into his driveway, I could sense something wasn’t right. All the lights in the house were off, and a group of people were on the front lawn. As I got out of the car and asked what was going on, I noticed that some of them were crying. Ryan’s mom had died, they explained, and he was on his way to the hospital to say his last good-byes. His friends had stayed behind, not knowing what to do, how to help, or where to go. The closest experience I had ever had with death previously was when my great-grandmother, whom I had only met once, passed away when I was seven. I had cried, but I couldn’t really grasp the finality of death back then. At sixteen years old, I could.
I numbly walked back to the car, pulled out slowly, and drove. It was starting to rain. I didn’t have any destination in mind; I drove because I didn’t know what else to do. I switched on my windshield wipers, and Avril Lavigne’s ‘I’m with you’ came on over the radio. Even though I generally hated Avril Lavigne’s music on principle, I turned it up and it lulled me into a safe, comfortable cocoon. I drove, sobbed, and prayed out loud for Ryan and his family. That song made me brave enough to go home and tell my family the news, which I knew would cement the reality of it all.
One year later, I made my very first grown up purchase: my own car. In the year after his mom died, Ryan and I dated and formed a close relationship. It was almost exactly one year later that he was in the car accident that took his life. Driving my car was my only escape during the initial period of shock, grief, and endless condolences that followed his death. I had to get away from all of the well-wishers because when they tried to tell me that he was in a better place, I wanted to punch them in the face. They didn’t understand. Sometimes, I would listen to the songs that had been special to Ryan and I while cruising along the winding roads in the hills above town for hours, sobbing. Driving and listening to songs like Rufus Wainwright's 'Hallelujah' was one of the best remedies for my raw pain.
---
I’m crossing the Utah state border, and the goofy ‘Welcome to Utah!’ sign with the grinning, airborne skier makes me giggle, like always. I relax a little bit; only one more hour until I get to see my mom. This is her last round of chemotherapy and it will be the most difficult one yet, but it will also be a celebration of sorts. After this treatment, her hair will start to grow back and her strength will slowly return.
If my mom had her way, she would have kept her cancer a secret until her hair started falling out – and even then, she says, she may have tried to invent some wild, non-cancer excuse for it. She is stubborn(in a good way), loving and strong; she hates to worry me and my sisters. In September of last year, her doctors found a lump in her breast that was the size of a ping-pong ball. When the news came that it was cancer, I didn’t cry. I didn’t really feel anything. I think I temporarily 'checked out' emotionally - and somewhat mentally - when my mom’s life expectancy came into question. It wasn’t until a few days later, driving around Rexburg, that I really felt the weight of it, and felt the fear - My mom could die. I drove into the Rexburg temple parking lot around sunset, turned off my engine, and turned up Green Day’s aptly titled ‘Wake me up when September ends.’ I allowed myself to have a brief, full-blown conniption fit. I cried, I screamed, I stomped... and I listened. After three plays through, I slowed my breathing to the rhythm of its simple drum beat. I turned the volume higher. I think I listened to that song eight times in a row. When it was over I felt like I could face the world, and face reality head-on. I really don’t think I would have been able to do so without the privacy to fall apart, or without the aid of that powerful song about life and loss.
---
I’m finally home. I run up the steps, and my impatient dog barks out a greeting before I even open the door. My mother is sitting in the front room, surrounded by my sisters. She has a fashionable cream-colored cap covering her bald head. I hug her frail body; she is thinner than she was last time I made the journey home. Dropping dress sizes is one of the nicer side effects of chemotherapy. Her eyes are still a bright, serene blue. Looking into them dissolves all of the stress and worry I’ve been harboring, and I can finally relax. I’m home.
This was an assignment I did way back in 2008 during my second semester of college for a humanities course. We were assigned to read 'Why I Ride' by Jana Richman (which is a pretty good read, by the way). It is a short story chronicling the specific reasons the author has for her hobby of motorcycling across the country. We were supposed to write a present-tense creative non-fiction essay like Richman's explaining why we do the things that make us happy and relaxed.
It took me a while to think of what I would write about, because I don't really have any 'viable' hobbies like putting tiny ships in jars or building model airplanes. I like writing, but it seemed weird to write an essay explaining why I like writing. I finally realized that my favorite way to unwind is to listen to music, so I wrote my essay about that. It all just kind of came tumbling out at once. Beware: it is kind of long. I'm long-winded. Oh, also - I got an A+.
PS - The memories from my childhood are accurate as far as I can remember them. For example, I'm not positive that the actual number of Beach Boy vinyls we owned was 2 or 3; I just guessed.
(I've also included a handy-dandy playlist of the songs I mention, so you can rock out too.)
"Creative Non-fiction Short Story: The Drive"
After any particularly long day, I love to drive around with no destination in mind and blast my music at an unreasonable volume. It is the ultimate way for me to just be still – to experience and digest everything I’ve been too busy to think about that day. Today is a treat for me – I have a four hour drive from Idaho to Utah to visit my family for the weekend. I haven’t seen them in a month and I’m looking forward to the drive almost as much as I am looking forward to seeing them.
After I fill up on gas, I impatiently head down the winding residential streets and scowl at the 25 mile per hour speed limit signs. The streets turn into hilly boulevards, and then finally – the highway. I turn up the volume just enough to make my rear-view mirror vibrate. I start unwinding to the complex rhythms and beats of Muse’s ‘Apocalypse Please,’ and I whine along with the high, plaintive vocals. It’s such a beautiful, lonely song, and the desperation of it never fails to move me.
As far back as my memory reaches, I have had a deep connection with music. It has a profound effect on me, on my sense of well-being, and on my emotional state. I think it runs in my family. My dad was in a few rock bands in his young adulthood – some of his songs even got on local radio. He always had deep commitment to his music, something that led my mom to warn me and my sisters against ever dating guys in bands. “They can sometimes have mixed-up priorities,” she would say.
He still plays his old electric blue bass, sometimes. Now that I think about it, the way he looks while he plays – bobbing his head a little to the beat, squinting his eyes to read the music with a half smile on his face – is the visual representation of how I feel when I am cruising in my car with the stereo blasting. Marriage and adulthood have mellowed out his musical tastes; he mostly listens to jazz tunes now, and a little Eric Clapton. After a long day of shopping and errands, I’ve often come home to find him on the couch, nodding his head to blaring music - which he has wired, somehow, to practically every speaker on the first floor of our home. He calls it his ‘music appreciation time.’
My mother’s tastes in music have always been a little earthier. We had a record player in my childhood home in California, and some of my earliest memories are of dancing to the folk albums she would spin on it. I believe Peter, Paul & Mary, John Denver, and The Mamas & The Papas were a few of her favorites. I can still remember how easily those songs would make my occasionally scary childhood world feel softer. The Beach Boys were also in constant rotation on that old record player; we had two or three of their vinyl albums. Their tight harmonies and upbeat tempos were the backing track to most of my childhood.
It wasn’t until my adolescence that music became my most essential coping mechanism. After arriving home from junior high, I remember the sweet escape of grabbing my walkman, loading it with a homemade mix-tape, and sliding the soft headphones over my ears. I would close my eyes, and suddenly all of the awkward social interactions, all the pains of being misunderstood, and all of the terror of being thirteen would be put in perspective. Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ wouldn’t make those nasty things disappear; the comfort that song held for me was in the knowledge that someone else understood how I felt. Listening to it, I realized that I was not the only kid to ever have a horrible teenage life. The song’s sad, rhythmic chords brought peace to some of my most desolate days. It didn’t blast away the darkness of depression with cloying sweetness; instead, it made the darkness survivable.
---
I'm coming over a particularly high, steep mountain pass. It’s the only part of the journey – one I’ve made a dozen times – that makes me anxious. I try not to notice the huge trucks zooming past me. Nervously, I switch my iPod to the next song. It’s Muse, again. ‘Falling Away With You’ is one of my favorites by them, and the sweet acoustic track does the trick. I am calm again.
My relationship with music deepened when I got my driver’s license at sixteen. My father considerately, albeit nervously, let me drive his little two-door Saturn around town and to school. One night during my senior year of high school, I made plans to watch a movie with Ryan, a good friend of mine. I skipped to the car and drove to his house. As I pulled into his driveway, I could sense something wasn’t right. All the lights in the house were off, and a group of people were on the front lawn. As I got out of the car and asked what was going on, I noticed that some of them were crying. Ryan’s mom had died, they explained, and he was on his way to the hospital to say his last good-byes. His friends had stayed behind, not knowing what to do, how to help, or where to go. The closest experience I had ever had with death previously was when my great-grandmother, whom I had only met once, passed away when I was seven. I had cried, but I couldn’t really grasp the finality of death back then. At sixteen years old, I could.
I numbly walked back to the car, pulled out slowly, and drove. It was starting to rain. I didn’t have any destination in mind; I drove because I didn’t know what else to do. I switched on my windshield wipers, and Avril Lavigne’s ‘I’m with you’ came on over the radio. Even though I generally hated Avril Lavigne’s music on principle, I turned it up and it lulled me into a safe, comfortable cocoon. I drove, sobbed, and prayed out loud for Ryan and his family. That song made me brave enough to go home and tell my family the news, which I knew would cement the reality of it all.
One year later, I made my very first grown up purchase: my own car. In the year after his mom died, Ryan and I dated and formed a close relationship. It was almost exactly one year later that he was in the car accident that took his life. Driving my car was my only escape during the initial period of shock, grief, and endless condolences that followed his death. I had to get away from all of the well-wishers because when they tried to tell me that he was in a better place, I wanted to punch them in the face. They didn’t understand. Sometimes, I would listen to the songs that had been special to Ryan and I while cruising along the winding roads in the hills above town for hours, sobbing. Driving and listening to songs like Rufus Wainwright's 'Hallelujah' was one of the best remedies for my raw pain.
---
I’m crossing the Utah state border, and the goofy ‘Welcome to Utah!’ sign with the grinning, airborne skier makes me giggle, like always. I relax a little bit; only one more hour until I get to see my mom. This is her last round of chemotherapy and it will be the most difficult one yet, but it will also be a celebration of sorts. After this treatment, her hair will start to grow back and her strength will slowly return.
If my mom had her way, she would have kept her cancer a secret until her hair started falling out – and even then, she says, she may have tried to invent some wild, non-cancer excuse for it. She is stubborn(in a good way), loving and strong; she hates to worry me and my sisters. In September of last year, her doctors found a lump in her breast that was the size of a ping-pong ball. When the news came that it was cancer, I didn’t cry. I didn’t really feel anything. I think I temporarily 'checked out' emotionally - and somewhat mentally - when my mom’s life expectancy came into question. It wasn’t until a few days later, driving around Rexburg, that I really felt the weight of it, and felt the fear - My mom could die. I drove into the Rexburg temple parking lot around sunset, turned off my engine, and turned up Green Day’s aptly titled ‘Wake me up when September ends.’ I allowed myself to have a brief, full-blown conniption fit. I cried, I screamed, I stomped... and I listened. After three plays through, I slowed my breathing to the rhythm of its simple drum beat. I turned the volume higher. I think I listened to that song eight times in a row. When it was over I felt like I could face the world, and face reality head-on. I really don’t think I would have been able to do so without the privacy to fall apart, or without the aid of that powerful song about life and loss.
---
I’m finally home. I run up the steps, and my impatient dog barks out a greeting before I even open the door. My mother is sitting in the front room, surrounded by my sisters. She has a fashionable cream-colored cap covering her bald head. I hug her frail body; she is thinner than she was last time I made the journey home. Dropping dress sizes is one of the nicer side effects of chemotherapy. Her eyes are still a bright, serene blue. Looking into them dissolves all of the stress and worry I’ve been harboring, and I can finally relax. I’m home.
9.22.2010
PMS.
Today at work I sat next to this young man who kept. talking. to. me. Not in a friendly way, but in a loud, mumble-mumble-mumble way while staring at my face. At first I tried to smile and give sympathetic nods every so often, but after 3 hours I just stopped making any eye contact with him whatsoever. Because if I were to pay attention to his ramblings as much as he wanted me to, I would not have been able to listen to my headset and therefore not been able to do my job well.
So. About three hours into my shift, my mumbly co-worker started to draw a picture in his notebook with a pencil. No big deal, right?
Wrong. He is left handed, which meant that his drawing hand kept almost-touching my right hand. I couldn't move said hand because my mouse was on that side of my keyboard. After furiously erasing parts of his drawing, he would energetically brush the eraser shavings off his paper and ONTO. MY. ARM.
On a normal day, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have bugged me that much. However, today was not a normal day. Today was one of those "my-OCD-flares-up-in-epic-and-hilarious-ways-when-I-have-PMS" days.
That is why when I saw him about to flick his eraser boogers into my personal computing space for the tenth time, I shot an involuntary laser-beam look of death at him. I hope it conveyed my (also spontaneous) mental warning to him, which was:
"If you do that one more time, I will definitely punch you in the neck."
So. About three hours into my shift, my mumbly co-worker started to draw a picture in his notebook with a pencil. No big deal, right?
Wrong. He is left handed, which meant that his drawing hand kept almost-touching my right hand. I couldn't move said hand because my mouse was on that side of my keyboard. After furiously erasing parts of his drawing, he would energetically brush the eraser shavings off his paper and ONTO. MY. ARM.
On a normal day, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have bugged me that much. However, today was not a normal day. Today was one of those "my-OCD-flares-up-in-epic-and-hilarious-ways-when-I-have-PMS" days.
That is why when I saw him about to flick his eraser boogers into my personal computing space for the tenth time, I shot an involuntary laser-beam look of death at him. I hope it conveyed my (also spontaneous) mental warning to him, which was:
"If you do that one more time, I will definitely punch you in the neck."
9.15.2010
No speaky?
While I'm at work, the people I call for surveys sometimes pretend they don't speak English. How do I know they're pretending? This is how:
*Ring Ring*
Them: "Hello, this is the Robinson residence."
Me: "Hi, we are doing a survey today and we'd like to include your opinions in it. Is that okay?"
Them: "NO SPEAKY ENGLAIS!"
*Click*
When this happens, I totally want to fake them out and force them to take back their imaginary language barrier by saying something like,
"Oh no! That's too bad. We were rewarding our participants today with a $500 gift card. Well, see-ya."
It would be kind of like the old cliche technique of scaring a fake-paraplegic out of his unnecessary wheelchair by yelling "Fire!" ...but less 90's sitcom-ish.
*Ring Ring*
Them: "Hello, this is the Robinson residence."
Me: "Hi, we are doing a survey today and we'd like to include your opinions in it. Is that okay?"
Them: "NO SPEAKY ENGLAIS!"
*Click*
When this happens, I totally want to fake them out and force them to take back their imaginary language barrier by saying something like,
"Oh no! That's too bad. We were rewarding our participants today with a $500 gift card. Well, see-ya."
It would be kind of like the old cliche technique of scaring a fake-paraplegic out of his unnecessary wheelchair by yelling "Fire!" ...but less 90's sitcom-ish.
9.07.2010
We are.....PARAMORE!
(This post is from the archives. I wrote it, but never got around to posing it! I know, I'm weird. The concert was this past May.)
Okay, so.
I had such an amazing time at the Paramore/Relient K concert! There is seriously nothing like going to see one of your favorite bands live, and to be right there while they're singing your favorite songs. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I got goosebumps on my arms approximately 3 times. I always used to laugh when my friend Meg (Hi Meg!)would tell me about how the Celine Dion concerts she went to were "seriously a religious, out-of-body experience," but I don't laugh now! I SO get it.
Anywho. They performed a much longer set than the last time I went to see them, because last time they were opening up for No Doubt. I like No Doubt, but I don't love them. This time, however, Paramore was the headlining band - and it made such a difference. The sound quality was better, the lights were better, our seats were better (we were closer, but we were also directly behind these ginormous speakers); pretty much everything was improved.
.... Well, except for the nasty couple in front of us who kept touching tongues and taking pictures of themselves doing so. (Sick.) I tried to photobomb them each time, but I was unsuccessful.
I was even tempted to go down to the mosh pit. However, I decided against it because 1)I am old, and 2)I don't like the smell of 17 year old hipsters.
Anyways, Hailey's vocals were superb; her range has really expanded on their new album. Next time one of my favorite bands comes to town, I am SO going.
I have to.
I am addicted.
And I will get even better seats.
PS: Here's a little video I made, complete with annotations:
Okay, so.
I had such an amazing time at the Paramore/Relient K concert! There is seriously nothing like going to see one of your favorite bands live, and to be right there while they're singing your favorite songs. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I got goosebumps on my arms approximately 3 times. I always used to laugh when my friend Meg (Hi Meg!)would tell me about how the Celine Dion concerts she went to were "seriously a religious, out-of-body experience," but I don't laugh now! I SO get it.
Anywho. They performed a much longer set than the last time I went to see them, because last time they were opening up for No Doubt. I like No Doubt, but I don't love them. This time, however, Paramore was the headlining band - and it made such a difference. The sound quality was better, the lights were better, our seats were better (we were closer, but we were also directly behind these ginormous speakers); pretty much everything was improved.
.... Well, except for the nasty couple in front of us who kept touching tongues and taking pictures of themselves doing so. (Sick.) I tried to photobomb them each time, but I was unsuccessful.
I was even tempted to go down to the mosh pit. However, I decided against it because 1)I am old, and 2)I don't like the smell of 17 year old hipsters.
Anyways, Hailey's vocals were superb; her range has really expanded on their new album. Next time one of my favorite bands comes to town, I am SO going.
I have to.
I am addicted.
And I will get even better seats.
PS: Here's a little video I made, complete with annotations:
8.05.2010
Home again, home again, jiggity jig
I am now officially living at home again! However, I am not officially organized yet. Not even close. That is ok, though, because I've been doing things like hanging out with my fam, watching shark week, boating, and getting sunburned. Annnnnd peeling. (bleh)
I am aware that my goal to blog weekly has been woefully neglected the past few months, and I am going to fix that. I promise! I actually have literally a dozen posts that I've written (just run-of-the-mill observations and thoughts), but never published. If I can't find anything worth blogging about during the week, I'll just edit and post those. In the mean time, please enjoy this gem of a news story. The news-part of this story is not humorous. It is serious. However, the eyewitness account that starts about halfway through? Hilarious.
Introducing: Antoine Dodson! I want to be his bff.
"He's claimin in your windows, he's snachin your people up!"
I am aware that my goal to blog weekly has been woefully neglected the past few months, and I am going to fix that. I promise! I actually have literally a dozen posts that I've written (just run-of-the-mill observations and thoughts), but never published. If I can't find anything worth blogging about during the week, I'll just edit and post those. In the mean time, please enjoy this gem of a news story. The news-part of this story is not humorous. It is serious. However, the eyewitness account that starts about halfway through? Hilarious.
Introducing: Antoine Dodson! I want to be his bff.
"He's claimin in your windows, he's snachin your people up!"
7.06.2010
Dogs that are slow in the brain.
I know that it doesn't really count as 'blogging' when all I do is post links to other blogs, but finals are coming up and I have little to no 'fun time.' Anyways, this one made me laugh so hard. The pictures are so spot-on accurate.I can't wait until I get to hang out with my borderline-below-average-intelligence dog, Ozzie, again. He has a new sidekick, Lady, who is unfortunately way, WAY smarter than he is. Luckily, he's too dumb to realize that.
Lady stealing Ozzie's bone.
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