chilly in Chicago

The SIL (sister-in-law Ashton) has been teaching Abby where "Sarah lives" on a map. I'm not sure of all the details, because I've yet to see this party trick, but apparently I live in "chilly Chicago." Which isn't too far from the truth. In honor of Abby's new found talent, I give you two chilly Chicago stories--so chilly it's taken almost two weeks for me to write them down.

Story the first.

I bought some pants during my Thanksgiving shopping spree. (This isn't the chilly part.) They were perfectly lovely pants, I just never wanted to wear them. So I decided that I needed food more than I needed pants I was never going to wear. The problem is--or was--that the closest store isn't all that close. But I figured out that if I left from work, I could take a bus to the mall and then walk about a mile.

Which I did. In a snowstorm.

And not just any snowstorm. The kind that isn't so much snow as slush. With a good old Chicago wind to back it up (never mind that by this point I was in Skokie--it's the same evil wind).

I made it to the store, completely soaked, walked in, promised not to touch anything, and returned the pants. I then re-bundled and walked back out to face the storm. Sometime during this process, I realized that my hat was a nasty, sodden mess that I didn't want to put back on my head and that my scarf was too thin to be any help in this weather. There was an Old Navy across the street, so I braved the wind and the slush and the cars (don't worry, I used a crosswalk), and headed in to buy a cute, but affordable scarf and hat.

As I was walking in, a nice man held the door for me, but gave me an odd look. So did the woman who greeted me inside the store with sale details. And then the woman stacking t-shirts. I knew I was wet, but I had just come in from the slushstorm. I grabbed a scarf and was debating over hats when I turned to look in a mirror. And then looked again.

At some point during my journey, my eye makeup had decided to take a trip down my face. Both cheeks were streaked with mascara--and not a single line. A huge, maybe-she-means-it, stylized streak.

Too bad I didn't take a picture.

I cleaned up my face, purchased my scarf and hat, and returned to the storm to wait for the bus home.

Story the second.

Last year, my apartment was freezing. Sleep-in-multiple-layers, maybe-it's-warmer-outside freezing. The only warm room in the apartment was the bedroom my roommate never used. So I would go and stand there sometimes before going to bed.

This year, my apartment was freezing. I had asked my landlord about the heating situation, and he told me it was in good shape. The heat in the hallway confirmed this. So why was my apartment an icebox?

Two days after my shopping adventure, I woke up and could feel a draft. I sleep next to my not-in-use fireplace, so I thought maybe it was coming from there. Wrong answer. Then I checked the heat in the kitchen--it was on; the bathroom--not on; the front room/bedroom--on. And there, huddled over the heater, I felt the draft, coming from over my head.

My window was open. Not wide open, but open. Open enough to freeze my apartment.

So, being the genius that I am, I closed the window. Now there are nights when my apartment is almost too hot.

But just almost.

Christmas music (not sung by Muppets)

I'm starting to get into Christmas mode. Kind of. Not really. But I like to pretend. Call me the Grinch who loved Christmas.

Okay then.

What I do love is crazy awesome Christmas music. The problem is, I've been bored with my usuals this Christmas. Even with my beloved Muppets (and Sufjan and Ingrid Michaelson and. . . just to prove that I do have taste beyond an eight year old).

So when 21st and Ivy started posting their Yuletide Downloads yesterday, I was more than happy to accept their suggestions of brilliant local musicians (local if you're in Utah, not local for me--stupid Chicago). Coming up are my talented-at-too-many-things friends Laura and Jim and their band Electron Deception, but the current offerings are pretty happy too.

Maybe happy is the wrong word.

Maryn, sister dear, these are for you. Happy belated birthday.

Christmas shopping: check

Stephen is getting a nice yellow pebble. Maryn gave it to me last year, and Seth gave it to Maryn the year before that.

l love all the pregnant women in my life

but I love this just a little bit more.

why do you let me stay here?

I could probably dig around this blog and find a post identical to this one at the end of every semester (BYU)/quarter (Northwestern). In the grand old tradition of being me, I have postponed the inevitable writing of the final paper to the day before the paper is due.

This quarter I thought I'd get creative. I thought I'd be clever. I thought, "What the hell. I have sick days. Nothing makes me as sick as writing a 20-page paper. One whole day to revel in poetic license."

Or one whole day to actually be sick.

That's right. This morning, my preferred "sick day," my body took me seriously. I spent the majority of the day actually sick. Actually sick, and not writing.

Which leaves us at 7:49 p.m. with no paper. It's due at 9:00 p.m. tomorrow. The good news is. . . well, the good news is that I've never not finished a paper before.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think there's some Diet Coke and a reference book with my name on them.



This time tomorrow night, I predict the following:

pretty much the coolest thing ever

I frequently stop myself from letting my love for wedding details run rampant on this blog, but I just saw this at A Cup of Jo. If I ever get weddinged to someone who can read, this is definitely a possibility.

it was the most wonderful time of the year

I feel as though I've spent the past week blogging, even though it's been almost a week. A whole week. Bad Sarah. But I just had the best Thanksgiving of my life, so I should blog it.

Blogging.

.

Sometime in September I realized that I would have two days off for Thanksgiving, right up against a weekend, which meant four days of no work and no school. Peasants rejoice. And then, genius that I am, I hatched a plan to visit that paradise of paradises, South Carolina. Which is the land of poodles, gamecocks, and Anna Bennion and Brooke Grant. The three of us haven't been together since PCA/ACA in San Francisco in April 2008. That's over a year, for those of you who are trying to do the math. Sad days.

So Brooke and Anna decided that I could crash their happy world in South Carolina, where Anna is a PhD candidate because she's awesome and Brooke teaches her brains out because she is also awesome. I bought my ticket in September, which was a mistake, because then I had two months of wishing I were in South Carolina.

Last Wednesday, I left my apartment at 4:00 o'clock in the morning (also the title of one of my favorite poems, Szymborska), checked my ridiculous suitcase ($20, stupid airlines), and did my best zombie impersonation (can one impersonate a zombie? are they technically people?) at O'Hare until my flight boarded and I could sleep. Which I did, for about an hour and a half. The plane landed in North Carolina, I found my suitcase, and Anna and Brooke found me. What followed can only be told in epic poetry and 1,000-word photographs (cue Joshua Radin, "These Photographs").


Our Thanksgiving feast: homemade tortillas, salsa, guacamole (which I can never spell), Calypso rice, and Diet Coke. Oh, and Diet Pepsi for Brooke, who has gone to the dark side.


On Friday, we avoided the Black Friday madness and went to Charleston. Here are Brooke and Anna, looking out upon the myriad harbor. . . love that song. Love these girls more.


Anna and I attempt to absorb some history. . .


I like to think of this as my "inspired by Abby smile." Not as cute on a 26 year old.


We made our first trip to a Columbia hot spot on Friday too--Cupcake. So I took a picture. Cupcakes deserve pictures.


They were so good, Anna and I bought seven more the next night. One didn't survive before the pictures happened. (Black bottom cupcake with cream cheese frosting. RIP.)


On Wednesday, Brooke and Anna made a stop at Disneyland--I mean, IKEA. They found the right style of table, but not in the right color (black). In my charming, sarcastic manner, I suggested that they modge podge the table top. Which is what they did. With pages from Mrs. Dalloway and Persuasion and Northanger Abbey. Maryn would be so proud.


That's the end of my story. We saw a few (dozen) movies, ate a few (dozen) more meals, and on Sunday I had to return to Chicago. Sigh. (Please note: I am not trying to seduce the camera. I was trying to keep from blinking drunkenly every time Brooke took a picture.)

spent and overspent

Last night, after class, I stopped at Jewel for a few last minute necessities (mascara, if you must know, and cash for the cab). On the walk home I lectured myself on two things: 1) I was going to pack, shower, and go to bed by midnight at the latest. And 2) While on my fabulous vacation, I was going to keep spending to a minimum.

In terms of my first lecture, I showered, packed, and made it to bed by 12:30 a.m. Which didn't really make any sense when my alarm went off at 3:00 a.m. I managed to stay in bed until 3:27 a.m., and still meet my 4:00 a.m. cab.

As for lecture the second, I arrived in Charlotte, North Carolina at 9:30 a.m. (their time). It is now 11:43 p.m. (also their time). Since I met up with Brooke and Anna, we have been shoe shopping, gone to brunch, spent a significant amount of time at a very nice mall, hit IKEA and Trader Joe's, had sushi (so good, so worth it), and spent an hour grocery shopping.

So much for lecture number two.

But (and this is for the mother and father reading this and shaking their heads), BUT: we are staying in tomorrow, touring Charleston on Friday, hanging out in Columbia on Saturday, and I fly home Sunday. How much more damage can I do?

Don't answer that.

I know I should post about my life, but really, this is so much better

this will make your day a little better

found here

necessary things to know about South Carolina

The capitol and largest city is Columbia.

It was named after King Charles I.

It was one of the thirteen original colonies.

It comes between Rhode Island and South Dakota alphabetically.

The state bird is the Carolina wren. The state wild game bird is the wild turkey.

The state dog is the poodle.

Major highways include the I-20, I-26, I-77, and I-385.

The state slogan is "Smiling Faces Beautiful Places."

The most important thing to know about South Carolina: Anna and Brooke live there. And I'm going to visit them in less than two weeks.

I love South Carolina.

confession

so. here's the thing. i am really. . . happy. happy enough that i am ignoring all capitalization tonight. throwing caution to the wind, that one.

okay. i'm happy. i know this is going to sound terrible, but it feels really weird. i haven't been happy for a long time. not like this. maybe not ever (at least since puberty).

should i be worried?

i'm trying to figure out what's changed. it's not that this week has been perfect. it's been irritating and long at times. but each day seems to end well.

monday: my professor finally let someone else read a poem. "lady lazarus" by sylvia plath. i read it; it was amazing. it just. . . "Dying / is an art, like everything else. / I do it exceptionally well. // I do it so it feels like hell. / I do it so it feels real." sorry. can't disrespect the poem. sigh.

tuesday: no class, one-on-one conferences with professor kinzie. and i hate to sound like sally fields, but she likes me, she really likes me. and my poetry, which is more important.

wednesday: dinner with barbara after institute. always fun. dinner with B, not institute. but then--here's the scary bit--i stayed up late cleaning my apartment. it's not like i never clean, but, i never clean. it's lovely. oh, and wednesday is when i found a couch on craigslist for $75. and it's a nice couch. i know, because it's now in my apt, looking all comfy and 90s.

so thursday. and i can't keep up the lowercase any longer. I finally saw Mass tonight. It's been at least five, maybe six, years since Justin introduced me to the music. And it was glorious and overwhelming and inspiring. I'm hoping it's jumpstarted something in my brain, something new. It was beautiful, but not in a pretty kind of way. I'm going to attempt a full post on it tomorrow, after I've processed.

And the company wasn't too bad either.

under pressure

Peer pressure is a nasty little thing. It's even nastier when it comes in the guise of a bridal shower.

We could pause here to explain to all the menfolk that a bridal shower is not a bachelorette party. A bridal shower is the bachelorette's cardigan-wearing tea-party-hosting sister. Which is all we really can hope for--hours of opening Pyrex and pillows and the occasional un-risque lingerie.

Okay. It wasn't that bad. The bridal shower I went to on Saturday was actually everything a bridal shower should be: informal and friendly, featuring Diet Coke and cupcakes. And it was short. I was also excited/happy for the bride, which makes for a less-excruciating afternoon.

What was bad was the ride to and from the shower. Not so much the company, but the conversation. And not so much the conversation, but what the conversation made me do.

The company was our new second counselor's wife, who was driving, and another "single sister." (Anybody else want to throw a punch?)

The conversation almost naturally fell to dating. (Why couldn't we just talk about the cupcakes and Diet Coke?) The 2nd counselor's wife is out to marry us all off. After circling the same topics of boys-need-to-ask, girls-need-to-flirt a few times, I told a story, hoping to end the conversation. The punchline of the story was that I had told a guy I was interested in that "I don't date." (Which I don't. I am honest to a fault.) It didn't end the conversation; it accelerated it, with the full force on how I was going to correct the situation. I mentioned a possible solution: a production I was already planning on going to this weekend at NU. "What a marvelous idea!"

I put that plan in my pocket, bought my lonelygirl ticket, and went to church on Sunday fancy-free. And I was accosted. Had I talked to the boy? Had I asked him out? Could I point him out again?

So I talked to the boy. I (kind of) asked him out. I even pointed him out again. And now I have a (kind of) date on Thursday.

Next time, kids, learn from my mistake: Just say no. (Or don't say "I don't date" and then tell the 2nd counselor's wife about it.)

?

I taught Relief Society a few weeks ago. It was about marriage. Marriage and family. Our two favorite topics. Well, maybe your two favorite topics. Not so much in a singles ward. But I am teacher, hear me teach.

Charity and I were joking about how I could just start the lesson by saying, "My name is Editorgirl and I want to get married." So that's what I did. Only without the 'nym. And then I recruited Charity and four other girls to join me. I decided the best approach wasn't the usual "well, someday it will happen" or "I know lots of cool married people," but this crazy straightforward approach of "we want to get married and here's why." Honest, optimistic, open. Genuine.

The next Sunday the second counselor who had been sitting in on my lesson told me he had enjoyed my lesson. And that he hoped my writing was as witty and sarcastic as my lesson had been.

Honest. Open. Genuine. Sarcastic. One of these things is not like the other.

There should be a conclusion here, but I'm not sure what it is. Suggestions?

happy the first

I'm not sure I can keep looking at my face every time I pull up my blog. It's not a bad face, it's just my face and I spend too much time with it. (Was that vain or just sad and lonely? and please note that in the first unedited version of this post, I did in fact spell that v-e-i-n. Happy Halloween.)

My mom sent me a newspaper article about writing down one happy thing a day, or something like that (I was distracted by the envelope full of pictures). I obviously haven't been doing that, but I thought maybe I'd try (maybe I was inspired to change the name of this blog a few years ago from "bitter diatribe is redundant" to it's current flying state). Maybe I should lay off the parentheses. They're addictive.

So. Happy thing from yesterday is unfortunately kind of easy, and by "unfortunately," I should mean I have to stretch to find something I wouldn't normally see. But I'm just warming up here, so I'm going to count it. Last night was a Charity night, meaning a $5 pizza and several hours of good and random conversation. We've already discussed our deepest darkest; last night we finally got around to comparing our TV watch list. Which reminds me: if I had started this happy-a-day thing on Tuesday, I so would have listed the first few minutes of this week's Castle. Nathan Fillion, I love you*. (Or I love the writers of the shows that make me love you.)

*In a non-creepy, non-obsessed kind of way. I'm saving that kind of love for someone special.

cut it out.

This is what my hair looked like last Saturday.


This is what it looks like now.


But wait, Larry. I can't tell if she likes it. Look at her face.


Pretty serious for a new haircut.


I think she likes it.

(unrequited) love and salsa

Limited edition salsa. For Sarah (I'm not talking in the third person.)

There is a blog post here, but I'm not sure what it is.

I'll sleep on it.

I should be sleeping right now.

this is just to say

last night my prof described my most recent offering as "precarious," "weird," and "marvelous."

I know the success of a poem doesn't depend on a prof's feedback, but dammit, that felt good.

wired

This time last week, I kind of wanted to die. Or at least stay in bed for an extended period of time. Which may not have been a bad idea. But tonight--well, like the title says, I'm wired. (This will be a problem when I should actually be in bed. Which is now.)

This weekend was a little crazy, but good crazy, not crazy crazy. Friday night I hit Nevins with Sarah & co. long enough to drink one watered down Diet Coke (sad day) before running out the door, down the street, and to the El. Correction: I sauntered. The train took me to the Book Cellar, where John Koethe was reading. Yes, the poet who caused so much pain and suffering last week. It was penance (and kissing up to my prof). I ended the night with a Little Caesar's pizza and Charity, my favorite criminal defense lawyer.

Saturday I slept in-ish. I'm not sure what counts for sleeping in anymore, but it felt like sleeping in. I cleaned for a little while before hopping on the El again, this time to meet up with Tamry (who said I don't have any friends). We drove to Ikea, which is my kind of Disneyland. We were there at least four hours, which was just plain awesome. We bought lamps and picture frames and tables and chairs and some brilliant bookends in the shape of the letter B (which makes me think of a Muppet Family Christmas when Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street corner Doc from Fraggle Rock and name the letter that every word Doc says starts with. He ends the conversation by saying he's going to make some bunkbeds--"Bunkbeds! B words!" It's got to be on YouTube. . .It is! See bottom of post. Oh, just go there now.). We ended the outing at California Pizza Kitchen. Yum yum yum.

Sunday was another busy/crazy day. I actually woke up early, which was a problem because (1) it was Fast Sunday, and (2) my branch now meets at 3:00, which means eating doesn't happen until 6:00 at the earliest. But I distracted myself with reading and some light cleaning and emailing Seth before my visiting teachers stopped by. And then it was off to the races. The weird thing was, I like this building better and the time isn't as bad as I thought it would be. Church was pretty good, and we had a break the fast. The food was okay, but when you've been fasting all day, it was amazing. (Actually, there was a cheesecake that deserved that adjective.)

This has been a long post, brought to you by the letter B and the number 12, as in what time it is. So I guess we'll just have to wait until tomorrow for the poetry smackdown that was class this evening. Good night.

i'm in love

I've decided to use letters in my apartment. I know it's a random decorating choice, but it's one that makes me happy. That being said, I think I need one of these letter pillows (custom made out of retired suit jackets!).

the way you felt yesterday afternoon

I realized, just after I hit "publish," that while I had thought and felt every single thing I wrote yesterday, I didn't necessarily believe what I had written. It would be easier, or at least a different kind of hard, to live a different life. I have a full-time job. I could stop going to school, stop writing, etc. I've made this choice to live this life and I'm going to live it.

I wanted to tell you that I survived yesterday, survived last night. That my line breaks are shoddy and I drift off into adjectival fragments and my writing requires thought and revision. That in the last line of the penultimate stanza, she wrote "ah!" That my writing is worth thought and revision.

Thank you for letting my cry on your shoulder last night. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some writing to do.

unepiphany

Yesterday I wrote a poem. Considering my level of production over the past few months, this was a momentous occasion.

Or should have been.

It was an assignment. After reading John Koethe, I was supposed to "imitate the features that most interest you." He struck me as a next-generation New York school poet--Frank O'Hara meets the philosophical (which is an obvious reading: Koethe's PhD is in philosophy and the poem I linked you to is about hanging out with Ashbery and O'Hara--but I didn't know that when I read the first set of poems I was given). There's also some lines he's pulled from Eliot, but I'm not sure I was supposed to notice that--it suggests an unhealthy love of Prufrock, which in turn suggest the anti-social status of my existence.

Tangent.

The poem was an assignment, and Koethe had one long, sectioned poem. The stanzas were tercets and each section had a different rhyme scheme. I was intrigued by an "axb bxa" scheme, and set out to imitate that, along with his ten-syllable lines.

This is a complete antithesis of everything I've been writing over the past year. My form has collapsed into what Kim Johnson generously terms "unlineated verse," and what Jeff Tucker dubbed "parastanzas." I love my loose, wandering poems--maybe too much. It was revealing to construct a poem with a strict form, to attempt rhymes and meter again.

I'm not sure what I found. I'm not sure what it is. What scares me is that, without knowing I was headed in that direction, the poem was in a garden. It was concerned with telling a story over and over again, revising and redirecting the reader's attention. It's the same poem I've been writing, only with an obvious, definable form.

I said it scares me, and it does. What if I can only write this poem: the couple in the garden. I know it's a classic subject. It's been done before, it will be done again. But is my mind so preoccupied with relationships and religion that I can't write anything else? If this is all I can write, should I be writing?

Should I be writing? This blog used to be a place where I offered up my worst fears, often the worst version of myself. I'm not asking if I should stop writing. But this career and life that I'm pursuing, am I worthy of it? Is my writing worthy of it? I love teaching, and you don't have to be a writer to teach. I love literature, and you don't have to be a writer to read. Is this MFA, this time I'm taking to "write," is it worth it? Not just for me, but for the people I could be with, the students I could be teaching.

I leave for you my exercise in form and humiliation. I'm terrified of class tonight, terrified to hear my professor--a poet I respect--tell me I shouldn't be a writer. What if she said that? Would I listen?

If I were to tell this story again—
We start our walk slow across the garden,
Our steps lingering on uneven stone,

On the uneven edge of garden grown
To mimic a field, the world uncluttered.
But the grass was trimmed and clean around when

We walked gate to garden, garden to door.
We walked apart, peregrines unaware
Of path, our hands grasped in prayer uncommon

Father, forgive us, Father, know us. Amen.
And in the garden, our grasped hands blossom,
Bloom red, bloom white, bloom and bloom and put your

Hand against my hand. This was the story—
We walked into a garden ungated,
My hand at your elbow, holding where flesh

Meets flesh, tentative embrace—our mouths left
Free to pray. We walked into a garden,
Sat under blooms and trees and somehow we

Watched the world, our garden, fade. Again our
Story. You, me, the garden. An easy
Comparison to everything that came

Before. We walk in the garden, come
To believe in grass uneven, in blooms
And trees and then the winter, in the hour

When our world turns and you are gone. I walk
Into the garden, outline the path
With careful steps, with the white bloom of snow.

My hands chap red, leave markings you would know—
This was our story. We walked into a
Garden. We walked in a garden. We walked.

epiphany

I had a sudden moment of clarity this morning as I was balancing on the lid of my toilet, trying to angle the mirror over the sink in order to re-consider the outfit I was wearing.

I really need to buy a bigger mirror.

believe it

So, oh ye of little faith, I'm blogging. Blogging blogging blogging.

Fact: It helps to have something to blog about. For the past I don't know how long, I've been composing posts in my head. Last night I was reciting something brilliant about how the entire world is pregnant (not in a Keatsian "season of mist and mellow fruitfulness" kind of way, but in a pregnant pregnant kind of way). It's all gone now--although the entire world is still pregnant.

What, then, should I blog about? The usual late night angst and anxiety isn't present, which makes little to no sense. I live for, thrive on, my late night angst and anxiety.

Yesterday, at Institute, we discussed talents and gifts, how we develop them, how we maintain them.

Thesis: I have a talent for being alone.

I'm sitting in my studio-ish apartment (we'll take the tour in the near future and you'll see why it isn't a true studio), quite satisfied with the little world I'm slowly creating for myself here. It might have something to do with the vintage Royal typewriter sitting on the desk I managed to reassemble (courtesy of my friend Sarah) or the Belle and Sebastian posters that arrived yesterday. But really, I'm just happy in my space. Happy. Not a word you often see on this blog.

Returning to the world-is-pregnant, I mentioned this to a friend last night. I hope she doesn't mind my repeating this, but her response was "I know. And I keep hoping you'll meet someone and get married and be pregnant too." My first thought was, Please no. Not right now. Future, yes, sure, bring on the offspring. But I'm good alone. I'm trying to understand this life that I somehow find myself living. It's not what I expected--it's nothing that I expected. But it's my life.

Cue Bon Jovi.

And guess what. I'll see you tomorrow.

we apologize for the delay

After all the excitement and buildup, I still don't have an internet connection. Which completely ruined my planned weekend of watching everything on Hulu and Netflix and YouTube that I've missed in the past two months. It also means that I didn't get to blog this weekend. Which is sad.

We expect to be moving shortly.

public service announcement

after a year of sacrifice (read: no consistent internet connection), I'll be back online tomorrow night around 8:30 p.n. (post-Nevins)

which means this blog is back.

see you tomorrow.

wants and needs

I signed the lease for my apt last night. I should be moving in the next week or so. And even though I have a bed (!), there's a list of things I kind of need: a shower curtain, a garbage can. I've been spending free time (read: lunch) on design blogs, and while I may need a shower curtain and a garbage can, I keep putting these on my list of "Things to Buy ASAP for Apt." It's a mental list.

Ellen Print by Tuesday Mourning

She & Him poster by The Small Stakes

update

I found an apt. (It's a studio, so it doesn't get to be an "apartment.")

I have a bed.

Seth went into the MTC. In 2.5 weeks, he'll be in New Zealand.

Abby had her second birthday.

I celebrated the second anniversary of my Failure.

The apt. will have internet (once I get it set up), so I should return to blogging in a week or two.

I dream in spreadsheets.

a saturday post comes on monday

I’ve never understood how to not love someone anymore. There are movies and novels and songs about learning to let go of one love and accept a new one. They are some of my favorite movies and novels and songs—and maybe they are the reason I don’t understand love. Granted, this is just another theory I’ve been handed from movies and novels and songs (most noticeably, (500) Days of Summer and High Fidelity). But right now (cue self-pity moment), it seems as though the only way I’ll ever be able to experience love, or even Love, is via my need for movies and novels and songs. Even poetry, which I approach with a much more critically discerning eye, feeds that need I have to connect with this—what is this? An emotion? A defining moment? A chance to live a different life? What is love? How do you define it, how do you get it? I feel like I’ve spent my life studying this idea, but without any practical application.

This meditation comes on the heels of my Michael discovery (see this rambling post), finding out a close friend is engaged (via Facebook, which is an another post), and then finding out, less than two months after I heard him talk about being single and disappointed with himself and me being that encouraging pep talk (yes I got the verb right), that Michael is now engaged. Also via Facebook (I really should write that post). All this begs the question: What the hell?

Tonight, however, is my trump card. I gave myself the day to indulge in (500) Days of Summer, which was brilliant and gave me a new appreciation for both The Smiths and Joseph Gordon-Leavitt, who was just plain perfect (every man should dress like he does in this movie). I resigned myself to the feelings and arguments I initiated this post with. I curled up on my couch, watched a few episodes of Freaks and Geeks, courtesy of Netflix, and then decided it was time for bed. I was going to sing myself to sleep with sad stories of my forever-single existence, accompanied by the recitation of men I have liked or loved or just plain wanted watch from a distance.

I checked my phone. Which was a mistake. I checked my phone, and Michael had texted me. Twice. Every time we meet up, he brings up writing (or in this text, “writting”) a novel or screen play together. No amount of telling him that I write poetry stops this. And tonight he texted me about it again.

He’s engaged. He’s never been interested in me. I’m sounding like a stalker. I know all this. So why can’t I convince my pulse not to accelerate when I see his name? When will it be my turn to move on? (And does anyone know a cute guy in Chicago to facilitate all this?)

still in love

with Zooey Deschanel, She & Him, and now this music video. (I really want to see (500) Days of Summer.)

i really should mention

I got a job. A real-live job.

Which means I get to stay in Chicago, and in Northwestern's MFA program.

Go team.

Next adventure: editorgirl finds an apartment. More chills, more thrills, but it better not take 11 months.

samuel baby

I used to roll my eyes at friends who showed off their nieces and nephews, and now I'm one of them. As of 10:30 yesterday morning, Stephen and Ashton are now the proud and totally stylish parents of Samuel Martin Jenkins.
And Abby is one very excited cousin. I'm sad I missed the special day, but I'm excited to hit H&M for baby Samuel.

Oh My Abby

I just found this picture on Lauren's blog. I miss this little girl, but how cute is she?

And Maryn took and photoshopped this pic. She (Maryn) is on her way to being a genius photog. Having such a perfect model can't hurt.

showing off

I posted a few months ago about the chapbook project I was working on for my poetry workshop. This is a small collection of poems, most of them written in Chicago. I asked a friend to paint a watercolor of an orange tree--she brilliantly sent me three different options, and this one was exactly what I was hoping for. I printed the first cover page on vellum (classic copy guy question: "You know that you'll be able to see your title page through the vellum, right?" My cranky answer: That's the point), with the second cover page on a linen-textured paper. I spent way too much time cutting the paper down to the write size (yay, Xacto knife!), then folding and sewing the books together (look, Mom, I'm sewing!).

The moral of this story is that I have a few extra chapbooks. So, if you're interested, I'll mail them this week to the first four people who ask for them.

I might be getting ahead of myself

but I have a job interview in 30 minutes. When I left the apartment this morning, I didn't have a job interview today. So I left the house in an old Tshirt (not gross old, but clearly not new) and a skirt. And flip-flops.

Here's hoping the interviewer has a good sense of humor.*




*It ruins the shock value, but for the record, I told her I wasn't dressed for an interview and she said that was fine, as it was so last minute. But I'm still wearing flip-flops. At least I shaved my legs last night.

all is not lost (yet)

Two of my poems are going to be published.*



*"and now they came like rain and were real" and "There are no wings in Ecclesiastes." I guess they like long titles. And I'll post the link (it's an online journal) as soon as they're up.

dis-couraged

I don't know what to do.

I just spent an hour tailoring my resume and writing a new cover letter for a position that was pretty much my dream job. I felt good about my application, I was excited that maybe something good was going to come from all these weeks of waiting. I sent the email and got started on the homework I was supposed to be working on.

On a whim, I checked the website again, just minutes after sending my application. The job is no longer posted.

I know that the employment situation is awful for everyone right now. I know talented, awesome people who can't find a job. I happen to be one of them. But I am so frustrated. How many times am I going to go through the nervousness, the anticipation, the interviews, the waiting, only to find out that I'm still unemployed?

I had this moment last night where I felt like life was looking up. I'm trying so hard to hang on to that feeling and the belief that something will work out. I just don't know how long I can stay this course.

crash course

I need to write a long question-answering post. The problem is I don't have any answers just yet. So here's a pic from my Utah visit--my very fun Utah visit. We danced in the rain, went shopping (a few times), hit Yogurt Stop (a few times), made Chuck Bartowskis (sandwiches), went to the Oquirrh Mountain Temple open house. . . played with sparklers. . . it was a long, awesome weekend.

so you're on, but you're not on

It feels really good to be blogging again. I know I'm studying writing, but I forget how satisfying it is to write something just for fun, just for friends, just to write. What follows is a collection of random bits and pieces from my so-called life, not starring claire danes.

I wrote a birthday card this week that made me realize I have developed "my Chicago" in my head. My Chicago is spring/fall when it's green or turning to autumn and suddenly you can't help but be acutely aware that you're alive. My Chicago involves lazy walks down Michigan Ave, stopping at Borders and the Disney Store (for Abby and Jesse), window shopping, finding new stones at the Tribune building to be impressed by, staring into the curved reflective surface of the Cloud Gate (aka the Bean), watching kids wait to be hit by the Crown Fountains, and finally arriving at the Art Institute, where I could die happy. It also includes rides on the Red Line, when you time your connections perfectly; shopping at the Devon Market; Friday nights at Nevins; etc. I'm not having such an awful time here after all.

Now that I've said how much I love Chicago, I'll add that I love the city, I love my program, I love the friends that I've made here. I do not love not having a job. After six months working in a temp position with the possibility of full time employment, I maxed out my hours and am now unemployed. I enjoyed the first few days of unwinding--I didn't realize how burnt out I was after running the Winter-Spring quarters gauntlet. But now I am bored. I have been applying to every job that seems like even a remote possibility. And there was one job that seemed very possible, but it turns out it was another dead end. I have the money to survive a little while longer in Chicago, but I can't justify another year of debt and no certain income. I'm giving myself to the end of the summer, and then I'm seriously considering leaving the program, Chicago, etc, to couch surf in Utah.

Well, that wasn't happy. This is. It's currently the wallpaper on my desktop, and even though there isn't really a "you" right now, it's the possibility of feeling this way that makes me smile. Actually, what it does is make me want to write a novel, the silly cheesy summer reading kind that I so desperately need right now. Maybe a rom-com that would later be made into a movie no man will watch. Claire Danes could star in that.

a story of two sweaters

Hell isn't a sauna. Chicago is. My lovely Chicago spring has turned into sweltering sweaty heat. I never feel dry. I do, however, feel damp, sticky, frizzy, etc. Who in their right mind lives here?

No, I am not in my right mind. Never have been, never will be. And now: the story.

Last Friday I woke up to rain. Rain and cold-ish-ness. I got myself showered and dressed (an admirable accomplishment, I thought) and out the door to have lunch with an MFA friend. We were meeting about a 10 minute walk from my apartment, so I braved the rain wearing a long-sleeved sweater, pashmina, light jacket, and shoes with enough heel to help me avoid completely soaking my pant legs.

Lunch was a success--damp, but a success. The dampness was acceptable, since it was pouring all sorts of beasts (really what it was pouring was tree limbs, etc.). I then missed my bus, waited 40 minutes for the next one (delays due to flooding and tree limbs), and eventually arrived in Evanston for a stop-over at the library. All this time wearing a now-very-damp long-sleeved sweater.

When I left the library two hours later, the sun had come out, full force. The rain had stolen my spring and left the beginning of summer-hell in its place. And I was wearing a long-sleeved sweater. If I had just planned on going home, I would have braved the heat and the sweater, but I wasn't going home. I was meeting Sarah & co. at Nevins for drinks (just Diet Coke for me, I promise) and dinner. It's one of my favorite parts of the week, if not my favorite and I wasn't going to miss it, even though I was a sodden sweaty frizzy mess.

So on my way to the bar, I stopped at the Gap. Grabbed everything my size on the sale rack, tried everything on, and found a short sleeved sweater that I thought could work (I actually quite like it). Did I mention I was wearing a cami? I was wearing a cami. I paid for the short-sleeved sweater, ran across the street to CVS to buy a comb and some cheap headbands, and then ran across the street again to Barnes & Noble to change (you can always count on B&N and Borders to have a bathroom). I smoothed myself out, put on the sweater, put up my hair, and headed back out into the heat for my weekly round of Diet Coke.

The end.

this living

I've been processing this thought for a few days now. And it could start a onslaught of comments, so I'm beginning with this caveat: I know that I am single, that I don't know what a real relationship is, etc. But I also know that I'm in a different place in my life, and this realization is important enough that I am returning to my blogging.

A month ago I got a letter from a friend in my home ward. She's a lawyer with a sweet husband and three cute/crazy boys. But she met her husband and got married later in life. Not crazy late, we're going to spend our retirement together, but later--post degrees, etc. Which means she understands, to some degree, where I'm at in my life. It's nice to have that. It's brought up some new ways of thinking about my life and my current situation.

On Sunday, another friend was in Chicago. We had a few hours to hang out, walk up and down Michigan Ave, and did I mention that it was that guy I've had the world's longest crush on? I realized as we were talking that I've had a lot of frustration and anger, etc, directed not just at this guy, but at all single men, really. And I thought it was just the stereotypical bitter/cynical single girl in me. But I've felt that way for a long time--threatened by men, angry with them.

I read the letter again on my way home from meeting Michael. She wrote about all the things she was able to do before getting married and starting a family, so now she doesn't mind spending her time watching kids movies, etc. And I realized that I'm not frustrated or angry with men, but with me. Because I knew that when I found the right man, I would have felt the need to give everything up for that relationship.

I know I don't have to do that. But part of it is because I have this time to live my life. To get my education, to live in Chicago, to travel, etc. And, realizing all this, I feel like I can let go of that resentment and anger and everything.

you deserve a molotov cocktail.

Happy Birthday, Miss K.

I heart you.

I've been

internetless as of late. I'm working to remedy the situation (I'm in a nice little restaurant right now), but I'll be back as soon as I can.

Ever

I love CN for posting this. And I love that I aced it. (Please note that I'm stealing her entire post. Because it was that awesome.)

1. The hit 1999 tween romantic comedy, Drive Me Crazy, was based on what fabulous tween book?

A. How I Created My Perfect Prom Date
B. The Boy Next Door
C. Makeover Madness

2. The prom scene from the hit 1999 tween romantic comedy, Drive Me Crazy, was filmed in what state capitol's rotunda?

A. California
B. Utah
C. Florida

3. What famous hobbit was supposed to co-star with Sabrina/Clarissa in the hit 1999 tween romantic comedy, Drive Me Crazy, but was cut because of his baby face?

A. Pip
B. Rudy
C. Frodo



Answers: 1. A 2. B 3. C


Editorgirl's trivia questions (I'm sending out prizes to people who answer)

Easy. Which classic tween sitcom did Melissa Joan Hart star in from 1996-2003?

Medium. Who played Chase Hammond's ex? (Hint: She later showed up in Heroes.)

Kind of Hard. Which band appeared as The Electrocutes?

Hard. In what novel was Dee Vine the main character?

Bonus. Which actor later showed up in (gasp) God's Army?

list

Lately my life has been feeling like the biggest To Do List I've ever faced.

To Do: Find a full-time job (with benefits, etc.). Find a ride to church (failed that this week). Reading for poetry workshop. Writing for poetry workshop. Reading for Prose for Poets. Writing for Prose for Poets. Laundry. Grocery shopping. Emails. Waking up. Cleaning the bathroom. Taking out the trash. Designing a chapbook. Editing poetry for chapbook.

There's no decent organization there, but that's how my life feels. I start on one To Do, and then get distracted by another. And more than once in a while, I give up and watch Leno (actually, it's usually Jimmy Fallon) and dig myself deeper into the List.

The List is stressing me out.

I can start explaining where I'm at for each item on the list, but what's the point. My writing is good, the revisions are hell (and that's what they're supposed to be), and my genius friend just painted the cover of my chapbook for me. I'm excited for the chapbook. I just need the poetry to come together. . . I'm not as confident as I was fall/winter. Now I'm just burned out.

Blame the List.

and she's whining again

Prose for Poets. I'm actually taking a class titled Prose for Poets. It's required, for the poets. We read prose (shocking), our prof tells us why it's good prose (not helping), and now we're supposed to write a 10-ish page prose "montage."

Yeah.

Here's my problem: Out of the four students in the class, two are prose writers taking the class for elective credit and one is doing cross-genre work. Which leaves little old me as the only non-prose-writing writer. I've tried to communicate this to the prof, but I'm not sure he even knows we're in the classroom with him. (Geniuses can get away with that, can't they?)

Tomorrow I'm supposed to turn in a draft. I have maybe 700 words. It's this weird essay-poetry hybrid on (shocker) Barnett Newman's Adam and Eve paintings and the creation myth and my relationship issues. Now I need, oh, a few thousand more words. But I've written out on Newman and creation. At least for this piece. Since it's "montage," I can piece disparate things together, but I want there to be something holding them together.

Here's my idea. And right now, it's not working.

Part of the A/E essay is a poem I wrote that begins "We met in an orange tree. In an oak tree where you held an orange. You held an orange. . . "

Anyway. I'm thinking of using the end of Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter" poem, meaning a collection of essays that aren't about oranges, but use orange at some point in time. Is this too weird?

Maybe I should sleep on it.

Note: I just had the thought that I could use the first line "I am not a painter, I am a poet" as the title for the Newman piece, and then use other lines for the other pieces. I'm overthinking this assignment. . .

thinking about this

dirty little secret

My name is [editorgirl] and I like weddings.

I love weddings.

Not going to weddings, but thinking about weddings. Reading about weddings. Planning (fictional) weddings.

You can read more about this problem here.

imitate

Simone (Muench, workshop prof) has given us the option of writing imitations instead of annotations for the poets we're reading this quarter. Wright, Komunyakaa (told you I could spell in my sleep), Kristy Bowen (I have no idea if that's spelled correctly), Robyn Schiff. . . I'm missing one, I think. Anyway.

An annotation is a two-page paper that focuses on one element of a poem: line breaks, punctuation, repetition/phrases, etc. They're required by the program.

An imitation is a poem that imitates the language and structure of another poem. You keep the form and use the same parts of speech, but the idea is to get away from the original language to create a new poem.

Almost everyone has been writing imitations. I tried my hand at it. I felt awkward and I couldn't seem to get far enough away from the original subject of the poems. Sigh. So I have been writing annotations.

This has brought up a whole new concern for me. There's a few poets I like to read to inspire me, but while I want to write as well as those poets, I don't want to write like those poets--where is the line? Is there a line? Should I go looking for new inspiration? Or should I just go one step further and try using Simone's imitation idea?

What do you think?

mormon fun fact no. 34

(Almost) Every Friday after work, I find myself at Nevin's Bar with a few friends from work. And (almost) every Friday, Jesse asks me how many hours of church I'm going to attend on Sunday. Most of the time the answer's 3. Explaining General Conference was fun, because it was 8 hours of church, but I got to wear jeans/my pajamas. (I also got to eat yummy Charity-popped popcorn, but I didn't tell anyone that).

What follows are random "Do Mormons __________?" questions, scattered throughout the few hours we're there. Occasionally they alternate with "Do you have _______ in Utah?"

Last night Jesse asks, with a completely straight face,

"Do Mormons eat nachos?"

farewell

I just read this on RG's blog. I don't think I've ever loved an Elizabeth Bishop poem as much as I love this poem right now. It's a nice way to end April and National Poetry Month.

Casabianca

Love's the boy stood on the burning deck
trying to recite 'The boy stood on
the burning deck.' Love's the son
stood stammering elocution
while the poor ship in flames went down.

Love's the obstinate boy, the ship,
even the swimming sailors, who
would like a schoolroom platform, too,
or an excuse to stay
on deck. And love's the burning boy.

--Elizabeth Bishop

my town

I kind of really want this.


And I'm going to get Sven this when he gets into med school.

why yes, i am a rockstar

I just busted out a two-page paper in 20 minutes. And I can now spell Komunyakaa in my sleep.

26 and counting.

I have failed both National Poetry Month and Utah. Which is a shame, because I love National Poetry Month (or at least the idea of National Poetry Month) and I had a wonderful time in Utah last week. I should be blogging in favor and praise of both.

That isn't going to happen, at least not tonight.

I went to Utah because I needed a break. Also because I wanted to see my family, but mostly the break thing. Six months in Chicago and I'm still uneasy, trying to figure out why I'm here. Or rather, I spend my sleepless nights trying to remind myself why I'm here: education + MFA + poetry. I'm not here for a job, although I'd appreciate one, or anything else, although that list is long and varied.

While in Utah, well, I summed in up in Relief Society today as "Babies! Babies! Babies!" Lauren has beautiful crazy Abby and Sven will soon have what we can only hope will be a beautiful crazy son. Add to that Meghan's little girl Kaitlin, and the entire week seemed to be steeped in Babies! Babies! Babies! And I thought I was behind on the marriage thing.

There's a very sane part of me that is saying not to worry. I'm in a good place right now. Not a comfortable place, but a good place. But I never thought I'd be 26 and single, never thought I could do the math and think my baby sister could be married and raising a family before me. I want my education, I want a PhD, I want a career. I think what's getting to me tonight is knowing that all of this is out of my hands. I didn't get to choose between relationship/marriage/family and MA/MFA/PhD.

Somewhere in my apartment, a faucet is dripping. I have no idea which one and I really don't want to find out.

I want to label this crisis as something, name it so I can deal with it. I considered being cliche and using the Quarterlife Crisis, but the experts tell me this is a bad idea. Well, that and I don't trust anything in a John Mayer song anymore. Maybe I can call it the Good Mormon Girl Crisis. Would I be feeling this way if I weren't part of a culture where we're supposed to aspire to be wives and mothers? I have no problem aspiring, but I do have a problem when a guy gives me that look when I tell him I'm in grad school. Never mind the second time through grad school, with a third on the way.

It's late. I should sleep. (How many times have I said this on my blog?) I considered taking off the comments box for this one, and maybe I should. I know I have wonderful brilliant friends who are Mormon and single. I have wonderful brilliant friends who are Mormon and married. I know some of you are with me, wishing we were married (not to each other) and raising families along with writing dissertations, and others are wishing that they had had the time to get a grad degree or two.

There are no easy answers. Just once, I wish there were. Then maybe I'd get to sleep at night.

shake it like a polaroid picture

a post on utah, poetry, etc. is coming soon. in the meantime, enjoy.



you can thank T.O.S. for the video.

have yourself a merry little easter

poemed

Lance Larsen, Backyard Alchemy.

Once in a San Jose park, on vacation, I asked
my daughter, Where are we?
She looked up at me: My dolly sits
on mine lap, I sit on yours, you sit
on the chair's lap, the chair sits
on the world's lap. There are a million
ways to say "California." Only a few promise rest.
(from "The World's Lap")

Think small. Think redundant and gossipy
in a cramped hand, with cross-outs
indicating an Ur-text that wavers between Byron's
"We're a sad jar of atoms" and a grocery list.
On lucky days, it spills itself as haiku drama.
(from "Reading Old Journal Entries")

33 minutes to midnight

and I almost didn't post today. Would have been tragic. Tragic and completely anticipated.

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
(from "The Burial of the Dead," The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot)



In a Station of the Metro
Ezra Pound

The apparation of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

how to celebrate

I always begin poetry month with the best of intentions: posting a poem each day, reading a poem each day, writing a poem each day. And then I find myself six days in and--well, I've been reading poetry each day, but since it's for class, I'm not sure if it should count.

There are a lot of great blogs and websites posting a poem each day. And there are blogs with daily writing prompts, etc, for "NaPoWriMo" or National Poetry Writing Month. If you're interested, I'll start posting some links.

All that being said, I'm burned out. Shocker. And I can't get the poems to format the way they should on this blog, which angers me. So. . . instead of a poem a day or a writing prompt a day, you're going to get lines of poetry each day. Some from me, some from "real" poets. I know you wouldn't usually excise lines from a poem, but there are lines that fascinate me and I'm going to use them in celebration of everything poetry is for me.

All explorers must die of heartbreak.
(from "Lives of the Saints," Charles Wright)

Later, I like to sit and look up
At the mythic history of Western civilization,
Pinpricked and clued through the zodiac.
I'd like to be able to name them, say what's what and how who got where,
Curry the physics of metamorphosis and its endgame,
But I've spent my life knowing nothing.
(from "Looking West from Laguna Beach at Night," Charles Wright)

In the thin leaves incendiary--
(from "An Ordinary Afternoon in Charlottesville," Charles Wright)

brace yourself

Someone (Dad) mentioned that I haven't blogged in, oh, two weeks. I was simply going to say nothing happened in two weeks, but here are the highlights.

The day after my last post, I wrote a ten-page paper on Ezra Pound's poem Hugh Selwyn Mauberley, turned it in, bid farewell to the quarter and said hello to spring break, which I kicked off by hanging out with my co-worker friends at an Evanston bar (yes, I suppose "editorgirl goes to the bar" would have been a rather entertaining piece), nursing a Diet Coke and sharing a blissful piece of chocolate cake with The Other Sarah, and then confusing the party-happy friends by ending my night at the bookstore, where I picked up The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova (a rec from Anna, The Only Anna). The Historian turned out to be 908 pages and most of my spring break, accompanied by a bad cold and hours of uninspiring television. I'm pretty sure I also went to church and a branch "talent" show, where the highlights were a Flight of the Conchords parody (the mind reels), a man singing "I'm Big in Japan" while solving two Rubick cubes, and a boy (if such distinctions can be made) singing "Starlight Express" accompanied by his girlfriend on rollerblades waving sparklers.

Of course, I could have made all of that up.

I promise more postings in April, especially since I'll be celebrating National Poetry Month and my not-25th birthday. Oh. . . and did I mention I'm Coming Home?

a St. Patrick's Day apron

So by 10:30 at night, my face is less than picture worthy, but I did promise the apron.

This one shows how cute the apron is.

And I just liked the lighting on this one.

And yes, I did put on a skirt and heels for these pics. I plan on putting them on every time I cook wearing this apron.

this is commitment

I'm usually inclined to be annoyed and dismissive when a teacher or speaker at church "challenges" the class/congregation to do something over the week. Imagine my surprise, then, to hear myself challenging the class to "speak kind words to and about each other" during my lesson. Inspiration, it was not, but I've decided it is something I need to work on. I was planning on keeping it in mind during work and class today; I failed, rather miserably. So I've come up with an alternative I kind of like: blogging nice things about people (specific people, not in general). I decided to start with the people who commented on my last post, and then move on from there tomorrow. One post for each day this week. Here we go.

Theric: I have this secret sadness that I wasn't fobbing (in Provo) when Theric was fobbing (in Provo). The workshopping comments and critiques I've received from him are some of the most perceptive, intelligent, encouraging--I could keep going, but my adjectives tend to get away from me. Plus he's Thmazing--you don't get better than that.

Anna B: Anna and I have this plan. And in our plan, we are not in separate states, or even in a single state--we're in London. Anna is the type of person you want to travel to London with. She's hilarious and kind and brilliant and can keep up on the Diet Coke count. Someday we'll execute the plan: London, then living in close proximity, because I hate living in different time zones. Hate hate hate it. (Oh wait. This is supposed to be a happy post.) She's also the coolest fan of American Idol--and those are hard to come by.

Lekili: I'm not sure if she wants me to out her, but this is my blog, and Lekili is my mom. My super awesome, beautiful mom who manages to be all things to all her children. We spend hours on the phone, and would probably spend more if our cell phone batteries didn't overheat. Did I mention that she's been sewing aprons recently? Stay tuned tomorrow for my cute green St. Patrick's Day apron!

Ginsberg: Sometimes I wonder if Ginsberg is the best nym for him, but that's what you get when you're a genius poet (seriously genius) who decided to play with "Howl." I love Ginsberg's writing voice, whether in his poetry or in blog comments or IMing. It's charming and consistent and genius (that word again)--even if he doesn't appreciate The Bird and The Bee the way he should. (Listen to it again, man.)

So, Day One is Done. Stay tuned for more happy thoughts and one very cool St. Patrick's Day apron. (I don't know if I'll be wearing it, but I promise pictures!)

love love love

Note: I didn't think this would cause any confusion. I was wrong. I just like the ring (from Blue Poppy, if you were wondering). I don't own the ring and I am currently "violently single." Any changes, and you'll be the first to know.

Also: The original text with this post was "Now I just need a man." But I don't know if I believe a man should be the one to buy the ring, even a diamond ring. Maybe I'll buy it for my right hand for my birthday (one month from tomorrow, in case you need to get shopping).

And the unborn is

a dude. This courtesy of the text my brother sent me today (exact quote: "It's a dude.") In case I haven't mentioned this, Sven's wife (and my sister-in-law) Ashton is pregnant and due in July.

I guess this means the blue tutu Grandma (Mom) bought will have to wait for the next grandbaby.

sometimes

it's a good night.



There's a great music vid, but I really prefer it live.

I wish you weren't charming.

This is post 621. (I'm almost typed "This is poet 621," which would have been a completely different kind of entry.) I keep thinking I should "celebrate" the big numbers, but I never think of it when it is a big number. Maybe at 1000 I'll find something worthy of post 1000. (Please feel free to suggest what would be worthy of post 1000.)

This post (and poet) has nothing to do with the number 621. This post, before I realized it was too late to be writing such an argument, was about men. Men and their gift for sudden moments of charming-ness. And these are real men too--no fictional characters on the stage tonight.

tagged

Thank/blame Lauren.

8FavoriteTVShows

1. Bones
2. NCIS
3. The West Wing/Studio 60
4. House
5. Lie to Me
6. Psych
7. Numb3rs
8. Project Runway/Top Chef/ANTM

8ThingsIDidYesterday

1. woke up
2. transferred to the Purple Line at Howard
3. processed 31 DPRs
4. two-and-a-half hour job interview including
5. a 45-minute writing "task"
6. stayed awake for Modernist poetry/poetics class
7. found out A.Poet.Classman likes American Idol
8. stayed up too late watching Jimmy Fallon/Cameron Diaz dance off

8ThingsILookForwardTo

1. The weekend
2. The weekend being over
3. Next quarter's poetry workshop
4. Niece/nephew #2
5. Going to sleep
6. Summer vacation in Utah
7. Christmas vacation in Utah
8. Sleep. Lots of sleep.

8FavoriteRestaurants

1. Mandarin
2. Cafe Rio
3. Settebello
4. Sushi in Joy
5. Happy Sumo
6. Macaroni Grill (only in Provo)
7. Chipotle
8. Chili's

8ThingsIWishFor

1. Utah to not be so far away from Chicago
2. A reason to enjoy this weekend
3. A full-time job
4. Another chance to meet John Cusack
5. Abby to know who she's talking to on the phone
6. Cute guys in Chicago
7. The El to run on schedule tomorrow
8. London, visiting or living

I refuse to tag anyone. (*cough*Anna*cough*)