I.Like.Thingz
Bossy Taco Atlas Tea
Last weekend, Richmond. This weekend, Pittsburgh. I love weekend getaways. They keep me [almost] sane.
Some things:
1. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but reading Tina Fey’s new book, Bossypants, is like listening to my own brain, without the accounts of fame and success, of course. Husband makes comments about the similarities without my prompting, so it has to be true, right? Also how funny is this? Last weekend at a friend’s wedding, a man introduced himself and asked me my name. I replied, and he questioned, “Tina?” ha. My name doesn’t even sound close. Naturally, I ate this up.
2. Husband and I gave up Taco Bell for Lent (which is probably a good thing considering all of the flack it’s getting right now). Sadly, all of this fake beef/meat hose talk doesn’t faze me. I can’t wait to crunch down on a beef supreme chalupa.
3. All of this Greg Mortenson/Three Cups of Tea drama is disappointing. I think I’ve come to accept that nothing is true anymore. Despite the speculation, it was still an inspiring read, and I admire what he was trying to do/does/wants to do. Maybe I should write a book and claim it’s fiction, but then everyone will find out it’s actually TRUE. BAMBOOZLED.
4. I’m curious, skeptical, and excited to see Part I of Atlas Shrugged. Before you start judging my appreciation of Ayn Rand, just remember, readers CAN appreciate a solid mystery, good writing, stubborn archetypes, and a repugnance for apathy without adopting the author’s politics and world views. Don’t hate. I.loved.this.book.
5. Thinking about making the switch back to my long-time friend, Blogger. We’ll see.
I’m becoming rather obsessed with the soon-to-be-a-princess, and this blog is GOLD.
Swans & dance have appeared in the same sentence a lot this year.
Clearly, I haven’t been faithful to blogging. After a long hiatus, I find myself wanting to write about everything that’s happened over the past three-four years. That urge is suddenly squelched by the overwhelmingness of such a task. So then, of course, I write nothing at all. To prevent that pattern from recurring, I’m vowing to keep it simple.
Yesterday I saw Swan Lake performed by the Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet, and I was blown away by the performance and passion of those teenagers. But I was even more blown away by how well several young children sat enthralled throughout the entire three hour+ performance without the distraction of electronic devices. A rare sight indeed!
I have many concerns about raising my future children (albeit many of them are neurotically unnecessary), but I look forward to sharing things I like with them. I want my kids to be individuals, but I can’t help hoping that they appreciate the art and beauty of dance.
Speaking of dance, I love my three Monday night dance classes. Three different teachers with three different teaching styles challenge my memory and feet. It’s also fun to receive positive feedback whether it’s a singled-out compliment or the individual satisfaction of conquering a challenging tap step. Only in dance do I completely lose myself, and consequently, find myself.
I realize that last line is disgustingly cliche, but I can’t help it.
Driving home from last night’s tap class, I heard this quote on NPR and swooned.
I’ve always had an affinity for the off-kilter kind. Blatantly obvious beauty, talent, humor, or intelligence is fine. Sure, I recognize and appreciate it. People and things are popular for a reason, but there’s something about the offbeat that lingers in my thoughts. So I’d like to thank the unconventionally beautiful out there for keeping me interested amidst the routine of it all.
I experience many socially awkward moments, sometimes daily. Realizing that I’m walking a different wavelength than someone presents two options: 1) Explain myself or 2) Let it go.
Although I have an annoying habit of over explaining my thoughts, actions, motives, ideas, habits, etc. I usually opt for #2 in these instances, surprisingly.
I have to say that being misunderstood rarely feels good. Instead it leaves me obsessing over their misconstrued conjecture or my miscommunication. Regardless, I still like this quote and Emerson’s optimism.
I really like Michael and empathy…
and knowing that I empathized with Michael (we are making the same face!) at a young age.
Also, I always love hearing my mom’s recount of seeing “Thriller” for the first time: “It was wild and completely unlike anything we’d ever seen before. I mean revolutionary. We were glued to MTV just waiting to see it again.”
As much as I enjoy living in this technologically-advanced age, sometimes I yearn for a simpler time when people didn’t expect “the next best thing” to hit. Because when it did hit, it was actually a big deal and not just, you know, a Tuesday.
The Spray Tan
Before getting married, I wanted to check out the spray tan. So I did. And the following event, conversation, and mental anxiety really took place. I wrote them down back in the day.
Meryl smacked her gum around inside her fuchsia-lipped mouth as she bellowed, “Take ‘em off hunney buns.” I gulped as I processed her aged, orange skin. Did I just pay forty bucks for orange skin? Because that is not what the dancers’ bodies look like on Dancing with the Stars. My disappointment erupted into tangible distress (read: eye sweat) as she stepped into the dressing room with me.
“Oh, on Friends, Ross just stepped into an automated tanning machine,” I informed her. “He was alone.”
“This ain’t Hollywood hunney ducks. Take ‘em off.” Clearly, this woman was prepared to pour honey over any noun.
I quickly stripped hoping to exit this episode of New Year’s Resolution: Trying New Things Gone Bad as fast as possible. “Don’t I get plastic underwear or something?”
“Nope. Gotta get your cheeks real good.” Then Meryl loaded her paint gun as she explained the following positions, Meryl style.
“Position One: Face forward with arms and legs spread apart, like that a Da Vinci drawing.” Clever Meryl. “Position Two: Turn to the right. I Spray. Three: the same, ‘cept you turn to the left. Position Four: Turn to the back. I spray. And Five: Bend over.”
To date, I can honestly say that I’ve never been in a more vulnerable position. Meryl had complete dominance over me as I stumblingly cavorted through the numbered positions while she barked them and sprayed me down with the delicacy of a small child finger painting. Rotation after rotation, I was her dancing monkey, and she was a whirl of bleach blonde, fuchsia, and orange noted swiftly between positions five and two. Every time we approached position five, where she could get the “cheeks real good,” I felt justified in comparing myself to McCain during his POW torture, although not justified enough to tell anyone sans a sense of humor.
After what seemed like fifteen minutes (a long fifteen minutes), she stopped spraying, turned curtly on her heels, and hissed, “Dry off for ten before you dress.” She said this while I was holding my ankles in position five. Humiliating Meryl, you’re so good at your job.
I did not wait ten. I threw on my clothes and flew out the door into the chilly March air and swore to myself, “Never again. Not even into an automated machine,” because I suddenly remembered Ross’s uneven tan.
Car Hits Biker
A couple summers ago, I was driving behind a man on a road near my apartment. He stopped at a stop sign and put on his right hand turning signal. Not seeing this man’s car, a biker (riding on the street perpendicular to the man’s car) almost rode into the guy’s car. But he didn’t. He hit his brakes about a foot away from the car and yelled, “Whoa.”
I heard his, “Whoa,” because my windows were down. So you’d think that the driver and his front seat passenger, whose arm was hanging out the open window, heard it too if for any reason they already didn’t see the biker almost run into their car.
Then the car made its right hand turn and hit the biker.
