Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Good Things September
* itunes V8 Genius Edition. Play a song, click on the genius icon and the program will create a playlist from your library that goes well with the song you were listening to. Genius, indeed. Rediscover your library, afterall, you bought that Nickelback album for a reason.
* Ani Difranco's newest album release, Red Letter Year. Two years in the making. Worth every minute of waiting.
*Live Your Life: TI & Rihanna's take on the unforgettable Numa, Numa. Catchy, fun, totally worthy of the $.99 itunes charges for it.
*A release date set for Dido's new album, Safe Trip Home (Nov 4). I have all of her albums and not once has she disappointed me.
*David Sedaris' new book When Engulfed in Flames. The 15 page story about his next door neighbor Helen is worthy of the $25 it costs for the book. Flawed, funny, stubborn and tragically sad, this is a character I don't think I will ever forget.
*Matisse's new donkey (aka democratic party logo) collar. When I told my mom that I had bought it she asked if I was just inviting attacks. It was then that I knew I had made a smart purchase.
*If you have a flexible schedule, a small amount in the bank account, and high expectations you can't go wrong with Direct Air. A new high class/discount airline. That means you get the leather seats and the trashy neighbor.
*TJ Maxx's Home Goods. You know the really messy "home" part of TJ Maxx? It's JUST like that except A WHOLE STORE. I'm in love.
*The fact that my husband knows all the lyrics to Hips Don't Lie by Shakira. I know I married him for a reason.
* Ani Difranco's newest album release, Red Letter Year. Two years in the making. Worth every minute of waiting.
*Live Your Life: TI & Rihanna's take on the unforgettable Numa, Numa. Catchy, fun, totally worthy of the $.99 itunes charges for it.
*A release date set for Dido's new album, Safe Trip Home (Nov 4). I have all of her albums and not once has she disappointed me.
*David Sedaris' new book When Engulfed in Flames. The 15 page story about his next door neighbor Helen is worthy of the $25 it costs for the book. Flawed, funny, stubborn and tragically sad, this is a character I don't think I will ever forget.
*Matisse's new donkey (aka democratic party logo) collar. When I told my mom that I had bought it she asked if I was just inviting attacks. It was then that I knew I had made a smart purchase.
*If you have a flexible schedule, a small amount in the bank account, and high expectations you can't go wrong with Direct Air. A new high class/discount airline. That means you get the leather seats and the trashy neighbor.
*TJ Maxx's Home Goods. You know the really messy "home" part of TJ Maxx? It's JUST like that except A WHOLE STORE. I'm in love.
*The fact that my husband knows all the lyrics to Hips Don't Lie by Shakira. I know I married him for a reason.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
A Comedy of Errors
It was a comedy of errors, really. But instead of chalking it up to beginners luck (or even the fact that I am a beginner), I had the high and unrealistic belief that sewing would come naturally. That I could just, somehow, magically whip up custom designed curtains or make a fabulous dress for a wedding we have to attend at the end of October even though I have never taken a class and don't know the first thing about draping. Or even what exactly a seam allowance is, for that matter. But in the back of mind, unconsciously sitting there and waiting for sabotage, I thought I would be the next contestant on Project Runway.
How quickly my hopes & dreams were dashed when it took me an entire afternoon to put one seam in one pillowcase. Most of the time was spent kicking myself for cutting the fabric incorrectly, unjamming my machine, learning to thread the lower portion of my machine, unjamming my machine again, and then berating myself for my lack of visualization skills that would be SO USEFUL if I had them so I could figure out if the frickin' flap needs to be sewn on the "wrong side" of the fabric or on the "right."
With the lingo of "right" and "wrong" to describe a process that i'm certain has it's very own and very specific lingo I doubt that anytime soon my impression of Tim Gunn will be get air time. In other words, maybe I should stick to drinking (which I did copious amounts of after the disaster extravaganza) rather than sewing and just pay the $20 for 2 pillowcases instead of loosing my mind over the one i'm trying to construct.
It's been 3 days since I tossed my pillowcase aside in a fit of frustration. It's been 3 days since I blamed my bad day on a piece of fabric with bright yellow Canaries on it. And in those 3 days I have contemplated packing up my sewing machine and selling it in the next garage sale. I've also thought about I've never been very good at trying things that I don't naturally excel at (some may argue this is why I don't have very many hobbies). And even after all that thinking my sewing machine still sits on it's table, my fabric remains carefully draped over the back of my chair awaiting my return to it. And even though I haven't worked up the courage to face the project again or the patience for that matter, I find that I eventually want to return to it again. Probably not today. I doubt tomorrow. Or this weekend at all, but sometime soon.
I may not be able to sew a straight stitch yet. I may have an uneven number of pillowcases because I hadn't quite mastered the importance of paying attention when cutting fabric, but I will get there. Eventually. Someday i'll have those custom designed curtains and that dress to wear to a wedding. And I would like to believe that because I want to go back and try again that i'm growing up. Learning through various lessons that a set backs don't neccessarily denote failure. That was never more evident than the other night when after 3 glasses of wine and a hissy fit in front of my husband I calmly went back upstairs and dutifully started pinning the fabric. Determined to make it work this time.
How quickly my hopes & dreams were dashed when it took me an entire afternoon to put one seam in one pillowcase. Most of the time was spent kicking myself for cutting the fabric incorrectly, unjamming my machine, learning to thread the lower portion of my machine, unjamming my machine again, and then berating myself for my lack of visualization skills that would be SO USEFUL if I had them so I could figure out if the frickin' flap needs to be sewn on the "wrong side" of the fabric or on the "right."
With the lingo of "right" and "wrong" to describe a process that i'm certain has it's very own and very specific lingo I doubt that anytime soon my impression of Tim Gunn will be get air time. In other words, maybe I should stick to drinking (which I did copious amounts of after the disaster extravaganza) rather than sewing and just pay the $20 for 2 pillowcases instead of loosing my mind over the one i'm trying to construct.
It's been 3 days since I tossed my pillowcase aside in a fit of frustration. It's been 3 days since I blamed my bad day on a piece of fabric with bright yellow Canaries on it. And in those 3 days I have contemplated packing up my sewing machine and selling it in the next garage sale. I've also thought about I've never been very good at trying things that I don't naturally excel at (some may argue this is why I don't have very many hobbies). And even after all that thinking my sewing machine still sits on it's table, my fabric remains carefully draped over the back of my chair awaiting my return to it. And even though I haven't worked up the courage to face the project again or the patience for that matter, I find that I eventually want to return to it again. Probably not today. I doubt tomorrow. Or this weekend at all, but sometime soon.
I may not be able to sew a straight stitch yet. I may have an uneven number of pillowcases because I hadn't quite mastered the importance of paying attention when cutting fabric, but I will get there. Eventually. Someday i'll have those custom designed curtains and that dress to wear to a wedding. And I would like to believe that because I want to go back and try again that i'm growing up. Learning through various lessons that a set backs don't neccessarily denote failure. That was never more evident than the other night when after 3 glasses of wine and a hissy fit in front of my husband I calmly went back upstairs and dutifully started pinning the fabric. Determined to make it work this time.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
On Writing
I have been itching to get back to writing. I take vacations from writing sometimes and without much consideration and then when I finally return to it wonder why everything in my life feels topsy turvy and carelessly thought through. I have the need to write; it feeds my brain like oxygen and when I supress it for too long the words fall anywhere they may - a napkin, a letter to a friend, a grocery list, a magazine cover turned journal. But all of those things are half-hearted, a temporary fix for the urge. It is when I sit down in front of a computer screen, lay my fingers across the keys and start writing a bit of my life story through the stroke of the space bar and backspace that I really find my groove.
I like having the option to delete whether it be words or memories. Maybe it's the control freak in me, the same person who alphabetizes her bookshelves or can count on her hands the number of times she's listened to her heart without consulting her head first. I used to think that a pen-to-paper journal was the way to go. I thought it was more raw and real and I would look back when I was 80 and care that I had a hot dog for dinner the same day I lost my first tooth. Or that when I was 15 I bought a new shirt the same day my heart was broken for the first time. Don't get me wrong those are the same details that bring any story alive I just want to tell those stories in a way I remember them. I want to make them as pretty or as ugly or as real or as fictionalized as I believe them to be and I can never seem to do that the way I like when it involves frantic scribbles, bored doodles or eraser marks and crossed out words that show an ache to find that perfect word admist the clutter of colorful and half filled journals.
Granted, there is part of me that wishes I could love dirt, grime and disorder. I love paging through the (ironically enough - published) journals of Kirk Cobain or Andy Warhol, or the book of poetry by Ani Difranco scrawled in her own handwriting. That is the same reason I love liner notes to albums. So often, they are scrawled by the artists own hand and I like imagining the words pouring out through a lipstick liner in lieu of a pen on a dirty mirror on a tour bus at 2am. I love the seagull drawing on the edge of the page not because it pertains to the actual lyrics or journal entry or to anything at all but just because they happened to to be at the beach when they wrote it. There is so much lyricism and poetry and beauty that coincides with impulse. And I know no one who wishes less lyricism, poetry and beauty on their lives.
Which brings me back here. It has taken me 3 hours and 42 minutes to write this entry. It has taken 3 episodes of Nip/Tuck, one walk around the neighborhood, 21 tosses of the ball for the dog, and 1 very strong White Russian to get here. I wonder if my desire for control has made my life any less beautiful, but I quickly realize that life today is all about editing. We edit the way we speak to appeal to a certain audience, we edit our phone book to add and delete as we see fit, we edit our lives when the in-laws stay over: pretending we cook, get plenty of exercise, don't subsist on a diet of caffeine and take-out, and that we just adore that ugly vase they bought us that sits in a place of prominence during their stay.
We all edit. But it seems that my editing, my careful consideration of verb or noun, brings me to a more truthful place. This is obviously not the case for everyone, but when I get to take a moment or 3 hours to thoughtfully think through the present, I find that my world stops toppling over itself. I feel more at peace. I have momentarily controlled the uncontrollable.
I may not have sketchings of seagulls or butterflies scribbled on the edges of my journal but I do believe that I have something equally as beautiful: this.
I like having the option to delete whether it be words or memories. Maybe it's the control freak in me, the same person who alphabetizes her bookshelves or can count on her hands the number of times she's listened to her heart without consulting her head first. I used to think that a pen-to-paper journal was the way to go. I thought it was more raw and real and I would look back when I was 80 and care that I had a hot dog for dinner the same day I lost my first tooth. Or that when I was 15 I bought a new shirt the same day my heart was broken for the first time. Don't get me wrong those are the same details that bring any story alive I just want to tell those stories in a way I remember them. I want to make them as pretty or as ugly or as real or as fictionalized as I believe them to be and I can never seem to do that the way I like when it involves frantic scribbles, bored doodles or eraser marks and crossed out words that show an ache to find that perfect word admist the clutter of colorful and half filled journals.
Granted, there is part of me that wishes I could love dirt, grime and disorder. I love paging through the (ironically enough - published) journals of Kirk Cobain or Andy Warhol, or the book of poetry by Ani Difranco scrawled in her own handwriting. That is the same reason I love liner notes to albums. So often, they are scrawled by the artists own hand and I like imagining the words pouring out through a lipstick liner in lieu of a pen on a dirty mirror on a tour bus at 2am. I love the seagull drawing on the edge of the page not because it pertains to the actual lyrics or journal entry or to anything at all but just because they happened to to be at the beach when they wrote it. There is so much lyricism and poetry and beauty that coincides with impulse. And I know no one who wishes less lyricism, poetry and beauty on their lives.
Which brings me back here. It has taken me 3 hours and 42 minutes to write this entry. It has taken 3 episodes of Nip/Tuck, one walk around the neighborhood, 21 tosses of the ball for the dog, and 1 very strong White Russian to get here. I wonder if my desire for control has made my life any less beautiful, but I quickly realize that life today is all about editing. We edit the way we speak to appeal to a certain audience, we edit our phone book to add and delete as we see fit, we edit our lives when the in-laws stay over: pretending we cook, get plenty of exercise, don't subsist on a diet of caffeine and take-out, and that we just adore that ugly vase they bought us that sits in a place of prominence during their stay.
We all edit. But it seems that my editing, my careful consideration of verb or noun, brings me to a more truthful place. This is obviously not the case for everyone, but when I get to take a moment or 3 hours to thoughtfully think through the present, I find that my world stops toppling over itself. I feel more at peace. I have momentarily controlled the uncontrollable.
I may not have sketchings of seagulls or butterflies scribbled on the edges of my journal but I do believe that I have something equally as beautiful: this.
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