happy weekend

fifty nifty

After a lovely evening at the Grandma house, where we ate fresh fruit and Nettie's peanut butter bars (the new definition of divinity as far as I'm concerned), I'm up late in the big bed on the second floor, a summer breeze blowing through open windows. The architect who designed my parent's house was brilliant in many respects. With regard to the Utah summers, he was particularly inspired: there are two double-hung windows directly across from each other allowing for perfect cross-ventilation. The cool summer breeze crosses back and forth back and forth, like two old friends having a late night conversation.

R and I have stayed up much much too late this week, but after a summer garden party last night complete with paper lanterns, a balloon arch (compliments of Raani and Whitney) and more chocolate cake than twenty-something high schoolers can eat, we're a bit wound up.

Turned to a high-numbered cable channel, the TV drones on and on in the background. I was going about my going to bed business and trying to motivate myself to do Pilates when I heard the words, "The States of America Coin Bear Collection." I looked up and was completely...completely...captivated isn't quite the right word. Do people really order these things?! Yes, 50 bears, one for each state, all unique in color, each with a state decal across the chest. I think New Hampshire is my favorite. Darla (the infomercial babe who has decided this is the way she's going to get her big break) informs curious (or, in my case, dumbfounded) on-lookers of their intrinsic value. Perhaps the best and most touching part (and an important educational tool, which won't go unnoticed thanks to dear Darla): Permanently sealed in the foot of each bear, for time and all eternity, is an uncirculated state coin.

Also, in case there is another lunatic who was up too late one night thinking of such harebrained ways for Americans to show their patriotism in this economic decline, there is a hologram on the back of each bear to insure counterfeiting isn't a possibility. "The best thing about this collection," Darla says, her pink-nailed hands gesturing a la Barker's Beauties, left and right, "is the way they look when they're all lined up together, state to state." (She should have added, "From sea to shining sea.") Act fast, folks. Call the operator and you'll receive the first states in the union for only $19.95. Another fun fact: I just learned seconds ago, "The quarters themselves are worth much more than $19.95." What a bargain.

I've been shopping for a beach cruiser this week. I've wanted one for a long time; for rides to the park with Mern, and Satruday Farmer's Market runs with Steph. I'm pretty sure this trumps my desire for a beach cruiser. Scratch the pretty. I am sure, dang it! Gotta go. If I call now Darla will throw in the limited edition George Washington Commemorative Bear for free. Oh, how beary exciting. God bless America!

don't you just love her?

{can't wait for this movie}

happy weekend

I've been on a bit of a blogging break this week. Feels good, actually, except that truthfully, I've started about seven different posts in my head. It's been quite the week, and I'm grateful it's the weekend. There is much to write, but I think I'll save it for in-person delivery. Those sweet people who I don't know who check this, thank you. I adore you for reading about my seemingly important life. This weekend is going to be fun -- the mountains, an evening here in the valley on the porch with twinkle lights, lunch with grandma and R&R, bike riding. It should be, as Em says, "Delightful." Love her.
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creative bowling

I bowled an 18 once. I'm not that proud of it, except that I am because it takes talent to be that bad at something, right? It can only get better from there. My third year in college, the girls across the hall (well, they were really through the wall. We came up with all sorts of secret knocks, our own morse code of sorts, but those are stories for another time) and I joined a Wednesday night bowling league. Not to worry, I didn't preface our first team meeting with my score of 18. That story surfaced only after the first league game when I broke 100. I remained consistently inconsistent, but managed to make it all the way through the semester, proud to be a member of the team with the highest female bowler in the league. Way to go, Cappy!

It was at Wednesday night bowling league that I met David. (Well, we'll call him David for this story, anyway). I knew I had seen him before, that tall figure with a brown head of curly hair. However, he was out of context in a ball cap, jeans and bowling shoes. David and his team would often bowl in the lane next to ours, their ceremonial apple beer cap-popping for the first strike of the night a favorite ritual to anticipate. Once, he even let me do the honors. Oh, how I loved him. And not just for the way he could throw a curve ball.

This very same semester, my design boards and drafting pens took up residence a top a drafting desk on the third floor of the Brimhall building, south of campus. Being one of the younger bunch, I got the desk closest to the door, and not a window, where pigeons played on the roof below, making Provo seem "urban," believe it or not. I created my own little city, a design world around my desk, tacking up any and every source of inspiration. Leaves found on fall walks up to campus. Postcards of art deco Paris. Tear sheets from magazines. Articles saved from summers working with Paul. Just before my posterior was about to merge for eternity with the metal on the drafting stool, I'd stand up and take a walk to the north side of the studio to stretch my legs and peer at the pigeons. I'd wander past the illustration majors' desks and gaze into their cubicles, oohing and ahhing over their masterfully drawn characters, bold color combinations and fantasy worlds. I came upon one desk in particular full of artwork that completely captured me. It took me to another time and place, character's eyes drawing me into their fantasy world where giants feasted with fairies and mice sat upon elephant's tusks and whispered jokes into their enormous ears.

Stepping over to the dark side became somewhat of a ritual. It was a new sort of creative world for me, where crooked lines weren't frowned upon and scale was relative. Patterns could clash and hues could disagree. Not only were the reigns loosed, but imagination seemed to be set completely free, no grids on graph paper dictating wall's edges or how big or small a piece of furniture could be. I would leave that side of the studio and return to my desk, renewed and refreshed, ready to tackle a space planning assignment with a pocket full of fairy creativity dust and the gusto of a giant.

It was upon one such field trip expedition to my favorite illustrator's desk that I discovered familiar baseball cap. The blue bill was worn and faded, and it looked like it had logged an awful lot of Wednesday nights in a bowling alley. It sat upon the desk for a few days, un touched, but I knew it was his. Come Wednesday, there it was, atop his head. As if his curve ball curly hair combo wasn't enough, David was the one behind all the dream works, all the fantasy. He was the one who could take me to a new place and bring me back into my world of rulers and straight edges. Unfortunately, he didn't provide much help with my bowling game, but he was rather pleasant to watch, and a free apple beer now and again (providing I got a strike) was a nice perk. He never knew I took creativity breaks to his desk on a semi-regular basis. I think once I told him I was a visual arts major, too, but it didn't seem to register. I guess bowling was his creativity break. And I'm all in favor of those.

K's "A's"

In third grade, Katie started writing her "A's" differently than we'd been taught. My initial thought was, "Sinful." However, as with all things Katie, I wanted so badly to follow suit, and upon learning she was getting off scot-free, I was so in. After school, it was back to the chalkboard for the two of us. We hustled home to the basement where the green chalkboard sat on the floor outside her bedroom door. We'd park ourselves in front of it and write row after row of "A's," each taking turns. I would watch her hands slowly form each curve of an "A," and try my best to imitate. Soon thereafter, Katie started drawing flowers on her papers. Five-petaled flowers. I figured if I was truly going to be like her when I grew up, I had better learn. Then came the stars. Miss Katie could draw a star without any criss-crossed lines through the middle. My spelling tests would come back from her direction with a big red star, and a "Great Job!" in perfect penmanship.

I'm proud to say I can now draw stars and flowers and "A's" in a way that drives third grade teachers batty (later we both got in trouble for being so rebellious). But, it didn't stop there. The handwriting practice continued as Kates seemed to re-invent hers every so often. Classmates started calling her "Typewriter," and for good reason. Everything was perfect, the height of the letters, the space between them, the way the "Y" comfortably dangled down onto the next line.

To this day, Katie's handwriting is far better than mine. Her "O's" are more round, her "T's" more straightly crossed. Every time I receive a note from her in the mail or see a grocery list on her kitchen counter I am reminded that mine falls a little short. I guess I didn't practice enough. My parent's didn't have a green chalkboard. Or maybe that's just life and your best friend is supposed to be one step ahead of you, always encouraging you to try harder, to write one more row of "A's" and to give the five petaled flowers a go. I should thank my lucky stars she set the prototype for me, in handwriting and in life, cheering me on with "Great Job's!" and red stars to boot.

happy weekend

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stormy weather

The other night Dad and I opened the back doors to watch the rain fall. I quoted Emily Dickinson until I couldn't remember any more. Big heavy drops splashed up from the deck nearly reaching our knees. I love the sound of a summer storm. A pipe broke at the house, so the water is off inside today. Strange that there's no water inside and so much of it outside. Once, during a summer storm like this, Dad went outside with the big red umbrella. Between our house and the R's, he splashed and danced in the puddles just like Gene Kelly in "Singing in the Rain." I bet I've seen that movie a hundred times, but I'd never seen my Dad dance like that. I'm sure he was singing the words, too. "I'm dancin' and singin' in...the rain."

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ode to edward william elgar

Congrats to these two buds.

{do you think they're excited?}

love burgers

We were only halfway down the street before I started professing my love for red meat. "All things in moderation," I heard myself stating matter-of-factly in my head, and yet, I didn't stop. He's the one who asked, but I bet he wished he hadn't. I bet he wished he had picked up a vegetarian.

At the restaurant, a customize-your-own burger joint, I resisted checking the 1/3 lb. patty and put a dark lead pencil check mark next to the box that said 1/2. "Wheat," I thought. "And sprouts," to balance out my carnivorous burst from the blind date starting gate. After quite the sweet potato fry sales pitch from our waitress, we ordered a side of those and some onion rings. My date ordered his burger on an English muffin which should have been my first clue that we weren't a match. Not that I don't enjoy an English muffin, but to me, it goes better with, say, a glass of prune juice and low-cal imitation butter spread. We handed our order sheets to the waitress and I settled in for what I knew would be the awkward first date (blind, no less) what's-your-favorite-color and tell-me-about-your-family question and answer period. Lucky for him, he could cross off what's your favorite food from the get go, what with my whole self-proclaimed red meat love fest.

Our burgers arrived in record time, a blessing from the burger gods, who either a) knew they had a serious meat-lover on their hands or b) knew the conversation had run as dry as an English muffin sans I Can't Believe it's Not Butter. I took one long inhale, and sunk my teeth into the patty. Perfection. I continued this inhale-bite-inhale-bite routine for the next few minutes, stopping to wipe the mustard from my mouth and to ask all the obligatory first date questions. It was when he told me he doesn't "like to do much" for fun that I decided to drown myself in the sweet potato fries. I dug in deeper and even added the horse-radish dip, well aware there wouldn't be any post-date shenannigans after such bon tete-a-tete convo avec du boeuf.

I looked across the table with four bites of my Martha-made burger left, feeling like a lady for not snarffing the whole thing in a minute flat. I glanced down at Mr. Muffin's plate and lo and behold, he'd taken four bites total. Clearly, he was disgusted by my manners. Or he regretted the whole muffin-bun switcheroo. Maybe he was so ready to leave it was worth the waste of meat. (Gasp! Waste red meat?! NEVER.) Or, perhaps he was being kind, and after I told him how much I love cow, he decided to join in the feasting, when really, he prefers white meat to red. I'm not sure which.

I saved face and decided to not pat my very satisfied belly. Rather, in the most ladylike of tones I said, "Thank you. That was delicious." Which, in burger speak means, "Dude! Best. Red. Meat. Ever. I could totally pound another like right now, bro!" He left a generous tip, as well as the trough of onion rings (which, for some reason, I've always felt were too greasy -- explain that one) and we were off to our post-dinner activity.

In college, my roommate's older and wiser sister counseled that to every good blind date, there are 20 bad ones. I don't know what number this one was, nor would I say this necessarily qualifies as bad. On the contrary. The night continued pleasantly. It wasn't the first time I told a boy I heart red meat. But perhaps I've never been in such refined company when I've made such an utterance. His khakis and tucked-in button-up shirt should have been the ultimate give away. Next time that will be my first clue: no meat talk unless he's in jeans and a t-shirt, something he could drip barbecue sauce on and not have to make a trip to the cleaners. As for the whole blind date thing, this much I know: one more down.

happy weekend

oh, to have a weekend house.
happy weekend, wherever you are.

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love this big wide creative world!

This is pretty much fantastic. And I always love me some Vampire Weekend.
via a cup of jo

Then and Now

At the last minute, I took a right and headed passed the gates into the park. For all intents and purposes, I looked like a mom picking up her child from soccer practice, my black work pants absorbing the heat of the day as I stepped out of the car. Nevertheless, I made my way across the street to the grass. I passed a woman with "True Blue" splashed across her shirt, which was more a shade of lavender, and a girl spread out on a yoga mat, head bopping side to side. I pod ear buds in her ears, I was puzzled as to how she planned to channel her soul's center while listening to "Boom Boom Pow."

I chose a spot between two trees, one much older than the other. The younger greener one was very much alive, the other not so, but for the life going on beneath it, birds pecking at the ground, picking up pine needles, strewn about like fallen soldiers, the remains of a battle fought against Time. I sat at the peak of the hill, just enough on the slope to see down onto the soccer field, carved out of the surrounding hills like the center of a summer melon. I slipped off my red shoes and put them next to my red sweater. Red and red. Noticing my more-pink-than-red toenails, I sidled them up to my sweater, quite pleased with the discord; I liked the unpredictability of it all. Red. Red. Pink. I opened my book and began to read.

I was distracted from time to time by the sun bouncing off the lining of my red shoes, the gold insides faded from use. And, if it wasn't the shoes, it was the soccer practice going on below. With my fingers, I added up how many years I spent down on that very field. How many times I jogged its perimeter. The corner kick drills we ran near the white goal post. The very goal post where I did my first (and most likely last) diving header. Sometimes, when the field was covered with snow, we'd play in the parking lot where the snow plow had been, digging our cleats into the asphalt to stop us from slipping on the cold, wet pavement. Oh how I would have given anything back then to trade in my cleats for a pair of red shoes.

I watched three men jog around the field, their shadows cast long behind them. Stripping themselves of their bright yellow pennants as they went, they gathered up the orange cones. In mere moments, the field was vacant, except for a couple playing frisbee on the sideline. My eyes moved from one word to the next on the page, until the sun stopped gleaming off the insides of my ruby shoes. I folded down the corner of my book, made my way past the two trees, across the grass and into my car, merging into the six o'clock traffic towards home.