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*)

sad sad bunny, part two

So I tried to find a clip of the Arthur minstrel singing "Sad Sad Bunny," but no luck. A friend did have a YouTube link to the Sendak classic "A, Alligators All Around," but it's not really applicable here.

I have spent a day trying to ignore, well, everything. It's incredibly easy when you work in data entry. All I need are pages of numbers and a computer screen and a second computer screen to play videos on so that my thoughts don't wander too far from the first computer screen and, of course, the numbers. But now I'm back in my yellow apartment (have I ever mentioned that the living room of my apartment is various shades of yellow? it is. and while nothing else is actually yellow, this room colors everything else), now that I'm back, it's a little harder to pretend that I don't exist.

Tomorrow I have a final interview for a job I would really really love. I'm not worried so much about the interview as I am about what happens after the interview--the part I can't control. I'm not sure I could handle another disappointment, another failure. Because--and I know no one else sees this--my life for the past year-and-then-some seems to me to be a series of failures. Somehow the plan that was my life, the plan that was going forward, fell out from under me. And I know this happens in life. And there are days when I can philosophize it away. I can say things happen for a reason, and look at the person I am because of what has happened, but it's really all still very fresh. It will be years before I can say that in earnest.

So here's where all this leads. And I say this with all sincerity. I'm really very scared for tomorrow, and for the days that follow, waiting to find out what happens. Please pray for me. Going forward has never been this terrifying, or required this much faith.

sad sad bunny

So I've been working on this series of poems. 12 poems. In my head they're titled as "Ecclesiastes." So far there are eight poems written out, with pieces of the last four in my notebook and in my head.

I was supposed to workshop the eight tonight. Didn't happen. I know sometimes profs run out of time, etc., but tonight I was just tired and frustrated. I still am. (Hence this post.)

The poems are not happy poems. They are sad poems. No way around that. It's a 12-poem elegy of sorts, but I want it to break from that tradition. And it's not. At all.

I got my prof's notes. Most of them are gentle pushes, but at the end, he compares the series to Miss Havisham sitting in her wedding dress, going no where. So much for the gentle. The worst part is that he's right, and that I'm stuck in these poems. I'm numb in them.

Danny has just told me to stop thinking for tonight (or my translation of his advice is to stop thinking). I think he's right. He usually is.

Oh: Sad sad bunny is from Arthur. Just in case you were wondering.

resistance is futile

I try to restrain myself--this is my blog, not the Abby Blog (we should start one)--but this picture kills me.

Also killing me: Abby reciting her animals to me over speakerphone--moose, buffalo. . .

Lauren left me a message that Abby had discovered coloring on walls. When she asked her why, (I think I have this right) Abby showed her where I had written a Bernard Cooper quote on the bedroom wall (in pencil--it was late and I didn't have paper handy).

oh happy day

I just found out

1. I can petition to waive the teaching practicum requirement. And it will (most likely) be approved.
2. Big Name Poet will be teaching workshop in Fall.
3. Give me enough time, and I will be able to petition for an independent study to replace the fifth workshop (which would keep me in Chicago longer than I want to be). If I'm accepted into a PhD program, it will be that much easier.
4. And last, but definitely not least, I have a final round job interview next Wednesday. I really want this job. (I really want a job, but this particular job would be totally brill.)

space*

Tonight we consider the setting of my quarterlifecrisis. (I actually composed an introduction to a series of posts on this subject, while on the walk from my apartment to the El. I was wearing heels that day.)

Actually, I'm not so much concerned with the setting. I'm sure one day I'll look back at this apartment with a certain amount of nostalgia and amusement, but right now I am attached to very little. I exist in a space between my laptop, the TV, the couch, the short kitchen counter, and, at night and in the mornings, my bedroom. I lock the door as soon as I enter the apartment, and spend most of my time on the aforementioned couch, although I occassionally enter the kitchen to cook on the stovetop (no mircrowave and the oven reeks), to wash dishes, or to inspect my lack-of-options in the refrigerator.

What I'm interested in is space. I know how I fit in this apartment, where I belong. Despite the intrigue and mystery (and open invitation) of the long hallway (the apartment's only hallway) leading to my roommate's (I use this in the loosest sense of the word) bedroom, I rarely enter that space. I begin at the doorway, turn into the living room, and then pace between living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom before declaring it bedtime. I know it sounds lonely, and it is, but it's also routine. I'm not happy, but I'm comfortable and accepting. Someday, sooner than later, I'll find a place that I will look back on with nostalgia and wish I could live that time again. Right now I'm surviving.

Perhaps this--the survival, the comfort, the fit--is why I don't have visitors. I mean, part of it is that I don't know very many people in this particular area of Chicago, but if I asked, I could probably get people here. But I find this rather distasteful. All of this came to a head on Saturday, when a guy in my ward showed up at my apartment to help me cook for a branch activity that night. I didn't have much for him to do--I hadn't been planning on his help (although he had given me enough of a heads up that I had "cleaned" the part of the apartment he would see)--so he sat on the couch, assembling "recipe books" for the activity. He wasn't wandering around the apartment, he wasn't asking questions, he wasn't doing much of anything except cutting out paper squares and making informal small talk. But I felt exposed and uncomfortable and completely incapable of handling myself in this space with another person. Things had shifted, and I couldn't adapt fast enough.

I will now make my way from the couch and my laptop to the kitchen, and then to the bedroom by way of the bathroom. Good night.

*To my Fobbing friends: I promise I wasn't ignoring you just to blog. I've found if I can get the window open, I can compose a blog, and then publish when I have a signal. I'll be back to Fobbing as soon as the internet lets me (or I finally get a full-time job and can afford an internet connection of my very own).

I should be writing about AWP and reconnecting with old friends and finally realizing that I just might not be the failure I thought I was*, but all I really want to say is

Abby is the cutest kid ever.

*Check back for Existential Crisis: The Series later this week--or tonight if we reach that point.

a trip to the lake

Lake Michigan is a short 15-minute walk from my apartment--a short, hellish 15-minute walk in the winter. I haven't gone since September or October, but today it was 51 degrees--51 degrees!--so I took a walk.

I've been wanting to photograph this bench since I first saw it. Each summer the community paints it up, and every time I go to the lake, I spend a long time walking along, smiling over the bench.

best. idea. ever.

Happy Groundhog Day everyone.

I have no idea if the glorified rodent has seen his shadow or not. I don't really care. I'm still going to be frozen for another month either way. What should be celebrated on this day is the Bill Murray movie of the same name. When I expressed this yesterday, someone said he was going to download "I Got You Babe" and wake up to it this morning.

I don't know if he did, but I sure did. Best. Morning. Ever.

This is January

If I were as smart as I think I am, I would have posted this, oh, in January. But that's the fun of it all.

.

Last year, sister Lauren put together a family photo calendar. It was stunning, memorable, thrilling. And Mom decided the calendar was a new Jenkins tradition. This year, with Lauren sunning it in Alabama, I was default calendar girl. It took way too much time, but when Dad decided all children away from home got their own calendar, it was all worth it.

.

So tonight, I salute January. It was a long, cold month, but looking at this every morning made it survivable. I was a little sad to turn the page to a (very) pink February this morning, but it had to be done.

.

See you next month.

.

(Paragraphs are off, hence the Th.-style periods.)

tonight

today I was doing my best not to crash. crashing at work just makes work even more soul-sucking than it already is. I survived courtesy of Bones and Belle & Sebastian.

tonight was not as successful. sure, I took out the trash in below freezing temp, but they don't really give out gold stars for that. instead, I put myself on an express train to emotional instability. I'm not sure having the internet is as lucky as I thought it was.

tomorrow is another day. pray for me.

soundtrack for a friday

when free TV-via-internet just isn't cutting it.

1. Sky Joshua Radin feat. Ingrid Michaelson
2. Hanging Around the Day, pt. 2 The Polyphonic Spree
3. Sun [Acoustic] Mae
4. The Well and the Lighthouse Arcade Fire
5. Debate Exposes Doubt Death Cab for Cutie
6. World Spins Madly On The Weepies
7. Three or Four The New Pornographers
8. Reason to Stay [Acoustic of A Lack of Color] Ben Gibbard
9. Polite Dance Song The Bird and the Bee
10. For the Price of a Cup of Tea Belle & Sebastian
11. If You Want Me Market Irglova & Glen Hansard (Swell Season)
12. Transatlanticism Death Cab for Cutie

listen + respond

So I was going to write one of those cheeky blog posts where I list and answer questions asked in recent comments, but other than ginsberg asking if I'd left john cusack for john krasinski and some random cyber question about the glory that is my wonky shoulder, I got nothing. It posed a problem for all intents and purposes, until I realized that I can either blog about (1) the fact that my affections for impossible men are fickle (would have left both cusack and krasinski for some cute, appropriately outdoor, guy on the bus tonight--had he shown proper ID and reading list); (2) my shoulder (which really doesn't deserve the cyberspace); or (3) the glories of [fill in the blank]. I kind of get a kick out of option 1, but I think the glories have it tonight.

The Glories of Fob: After my last and, let's be honest, somewhat manic post re: the torture of workshop, I sent my latest project to the hands of Fob. The very next day I received feedback from Theric, and today Edgy and Mr. Fob himself graced my inbox with their comments. All of them said what they were thinking, and everything they said made me think about what I've written in a new way, which is the purpose of workshopping. Yet again, I'm missing these insanely brilliant men (and Arwen) and feel incredibly grateful and humbled that they are willing to read and consider what I've written. (I'm also wishing I had followed them to California or Washington--Chicago doesn't have anything like them.)

Other glories to consider: The Abby Baby, who is following in her mother's footsteps with a love of the outdoors and the Monte Bean Museum. Chicago, which is oddly beautiful in the winter, even if you almost die from the cold (note: I'm going to start carrying my camera everywhere I go--I want you to see this). Yeats, whose poetry is stunning, but is unfortunately stuck in my head, which means I can't write like me right now. And James Galvin and Jay Hopler, for the reading, and the New Pornographers, Swell Season, Joshua Radin, Sara Bareilles, and Ingrid Michaelson, for the listening, to get my rhythms back. Go team.

Oh, and the guy on the bus. He really was that cute.

missing you

I am writing this at the risk that someone out there will find this. "Out there" being those who I don't think read this blog.

Last night was dreadful. Dreadful. Dreadful and . . . encouraging. The one person in workshop I have any respect for gave me the best one-word response my writing has ever received. Being the kind of editorgirl I am, I'm not going to repeat said word, but still. And the prof's comments were promising. But the woman who suggested I more faithfully follow Ecclesiastes. . . whatever. Go team. I already knew it was good. I wanted to know how to make it better. I wanted some damn reader response. I wanted

I wanted Fob. Maybe a little bit of april. But mostly Fob--there's something satisfying about a group of prose writers (and one undercover poet) reading and responding to poetry. And even though I already knew this workshop wasn't half as wonderful as Fob, I hoped. I was stupid to hope, but I hoped. I'm a good writer. I'm a writer. But I need my Fob. (Hands and knees here, fellas.)

listening to. on repeat. again.

intensely intense

There are things I've wanted to blog about since September that I just haven't been able to. Mostly because, despite the public forumness of blogging, I don't like blogging in public places, e.g. work, NU libraries, etc. Actually, that pretty much sums up the internet access I've had the past four months, until yesterday, when, miracle of miracles, I let myself hope and check for a wireless connection, and there was one. I'm hoping this lasts. I've got big plans for editorgirl and the outside world (via the internet). It sure beats watching crime dramas (not always advisable when you're living in a big city and the laundry room of your apartment building would be an excellent place to stash a body).

"I'd just spew out how I felt and they'd think I was a madwoman."

Anyway. . .

I've been writing this week. I've been writing because on Monday my prof asked who could be ready to workshop the next class period (aka, tomorrow) and I said I could be. Silly editorgirl. But I think it was a good thing because there were poems to be written and I always need the extra kick in the pysche to sit down and write things out. The result is a rather intensely personal beginning. . . I nearly jinxed myself there.

So tomorrow is workshop and I've sent out these poems and they are intense and personal and intensely personal and I'm wondering if I've done the right thing. Not in writing them, but in submitting them for workshop. I did send them to a few people, but I wish I trusted anyone in this workshop the way I trusted april and fob and poetasters. I've been incredibly lucky with finding people who I trust with my poetry, which is why I've been able to write in such a personal (and I don't mean personal personal, but intimate personal, you know?) way.

And on that note of confusion, good night. "I still have to sell my little Japanese cars in the morning." Name that movie.

a trip to the laundry

pity party for one, but you can join me

Every January I follow the Sundance Film Festival. Mostly because I find it unfathomable that the film world would deign to set foot in Utah, but also because every once in a while (a) a really wonderful movie or (b) a really wonderful actor shows up on my radar, and I can get a little giddy and starstruck. Every few years, I considered shedding my scorn for the people who trek up to Park City just to walk the streets in hope of spotting ___________ (fill-in-the-blank).

Now that I'm not in Utah, the one movie and the one actor (okay, one of a handful of actors) I'm really excited about are both at Sundance this year: Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, adapted and directed by John Krasinski. It also features an appearance by Ben Gibbard. I'm dying in my cold little apartment in Chicago, when I could be dying on the cold streets of Park City, hoping to see either the movie or Krasinski or both. If the movie gods are reading, please let this be the Sundance sleeper hit of the year. Pretty please?

http://link.brightcove.com/services/link/bcpid1803302511/bctid8701571001

Deal Breakers, Rules of

[Note: I stole from Lauren and Grover. Thank you.]

.

Deal breakers must provide specific, concrete details. I will not date men with hair longer than mine. The best looking man is never the best looking man when he’s wearing a ponytail featuring ringlets that would rival Shirley Temple and the Good Ship Lollypop.

or

Deal breakers must be anecdotal. I will not date men who listen to religious/inspirational music and select Broadway soundtracks. At the end of a religious singer/songwriter’s concert, the audience was asked to join hands for the final inspiring number. The song ended, but my date refused to let go of my hand.

or

Deal breakers must enforce stereotypes. Love me, love my friends. And if my friends hate you, you’re toast.

or

Deal breakers must be self-explanatory. Mass murderer.

or

Deal breakers must be irrational. If you can’t love Journey, don’t bother loving me. Men who use Bic pens. Men who talk through movie trailers.

or
Deal breakers must be breakable.

my assignment,

of course I haven't done it.

. . .

still thinking

Here's the honest truth: I'm not sure I have a deal breaker.

Yes, I'm still thinking about that. In less than one week, I need to have an essay or a story or a poem about deal breakers. And yes, I want it to be funny.

This is not as easy as it looks. I spend my hours on the El and the bus identifying physical deal breakers--too short, too pretty, too. . . and then I consider that personality would trump all of those. I hope. I think. I don't know. After religious and educated, I don't even have a list for the opposite argument anymore.

Oh well. Luckily Modernist poetry and poetics calls. Walt Whitman, here I come.

Deal Breakers, Take 2

So I've been thinking, and here's what I've come up with:

• Talks incessantly during the previews before a movie
• Talks at all during a movie (unless it's an MST3K kind of thing)
• Talks down about poetry, English, etc.
• Listens only to Michael McLean, country, or select Broadway soundtracks
• Lapses on cue into his mission language
• Won't laugh with me when I slip on the ice
• Won't help me up when I slip on the ice

This is a limited sampling. And I'm guessing now that I've confessed that much, I can add

• his hair is longer than mine
• he apparently showers in cologne

Are any of these essay worthy? I'll tell you--I don't know.

the ebb and flood clearing all the channels of your heart

Feel free to sing along.

I had Laura Veirs' "Saltbreakers" playing over and over again in my head last night. Why? First of all, because it's a good song, completely worthy of being stuck in my head (unlike the rousing chorus from the Buffy musical that somehow found its way in this morning). More importantly, however, "Saltbreakers" was playing courtesy of an odd introduction round in my writing seminar last night: Give your name, your genre, and your "deal breaker."

I know, I know--such a connection is tenuous enough to be worthy of a poet, but I like the song and "Deal Breaker part one" was a lame title. And the song was going through my head.

Anyway, we shared our deal breakers--Enya, bad breath, pinkeye, bad jokes, giving beer to a toddler, Enya--and then went on with the lecture. Until the end of the lecture wrapped back around to deal breakers. It's our first writing assignment--choose a genre, write about your deal breaker.

Despite my answer last night, I don't know what my deal breakers are. I want something entertaining, not a serious discussion--and most of my "true" deal breakers are serious (religion, education).

So here's your assignment: Deal breakers. Discuss.

money, money, money

$20 at Amazon.com. What do you spend it on?

Myriad Harbour, The New Pornographers

1.Put your iPod/iTunes on shuffle to get the first answer.
2. For each subsequent question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS!
4. Tag 10 friends who might enjoy doing the game as well as the person you got the note from.

IF SOMEONE ASKS YOU FOR SPARE CHANGE, WHAT DO YOU SAY?
Star Mile, Joshua Radin

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERFECT DATE?
Have You Seen My Love?, Barenaked Ladies

WHAT DO YOU LOOK FOR IN A JOB?
Easy Way Out, Elliott Smith

WHAT IS YOUR LATEST DILEMMA?
Waterloo, ABBA

WHY DON'T YOU HAVE MORE MONEY?
Belle & Sebastian, Belle & Sebastian

WHAT IS YOUR SECRET NICKNAME?
Strange & Beautiful (I'll Put a Spell on You), Aqualung

WHERE DO YOU GO AT NIGHT?
Fighting in a Sack, The Shins

WHAT IS YOUR EMERGENCY PLAN?
Teenage Love Song, Rilo Kiley

WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR YOUR FRIENDS?
Tournament of Hearts, The Weakerthans

WHAT DO YOU DO FIRST THING IN THE MORNING?
Curbside Prophet, Jason Mraz

WHAT IS YOUR RINGTONE?
Against All Odds, The Postal Service

WHERE DO YOU WANT TO BE IN FIVE YEARS?
Flint (For the Unemployed and Underpaid), Sufjan Stevens

WHAT IS YOUR POLITICAL AFFILIATION?
Kissing the Lipless, The Shins

WHAT CAN YOU DO FOR YOUR COUNTRY?
You and the Night and the Music, Frank Sinatra

WHAT CAN YOUR COUNTRY DO FOR YOU?
Put the Lights on the Tree, Sufjan Stevens

WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?
Shakin', Rooney

WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM, PAL?
Einstein on the Beach (For an Eggman), Counting Crows

WHAT IS ON YOUR CHRISTMAS WISH LIST?
I've Had the Time of My Life, Dirty Dancing Soundtrack

WHAT'S THE BEST SONG TO MAKE LOVE TO?
Cemeteries of London, Coldplay

WHAT WOULD YOU DO FOR A KLONDIKE BAR?
The Last Unicorn, Kenny Loggins

WHY DO FOOLS FALL IN LOVE ?
If You're Gone, Matchbox Twenty

WHAT MAKES YOUR BLOOD BOIL?
Kingdom Come, Coldplay

WHAT MAKES YOUR LOINS ACHE?
Wild Pack of Family Dogs, Modest Mouse

WHAT'S THE SECRET OF YOUR SUCCESS?
Baby Blue Sedan, Modest Mouse

WHOM DO YOU ADMIRE MOST?
Giving It Away, Mae

WHO IS YOUR MORTAL ENEMY?
Painting by Chagall, The Weepies

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH YOUR LIFE?
Any Man of Mine, Shania Twain

WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED?
Follow You Down, Gin Blossoms

WHAT WILL YOU POST THIS AS?
Myriad Harbour, The New Pornographers

Not tagging anyone, but everyone. (And if K and RG jumped off a cliff, I'm totally jumping too.)

happy christmas

The Night Before Christmas
by Clement Moore

Actually, it was originally called “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” but apparently that ruins the ending.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

Santa Claus is Bishop Nicholas, who lived in the 4th century A.D. He was very rich, generous, and loving toward children. Often he gave to poor children by throwing gifts in through their windows. This was a problem when the windows were closed.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

The average person gains 7 to 10 pounds during the holidays. Eat up.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

Quick survey: How many of your parents actually slept on the night before Christmas? I mean, toy assembly alone keeps them up until what? 1, 2 in the morning? And then the kids are up at 4? This is just perpetuating another vicious myth.

Where were we? Clatter. . . matter. . . flash. . . snow. . . You know all this. Mostly filler.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

Fact: Our idea of St. Nick was actually created by the Coca-Cola company. Seriously. So you can thank them for Coke, Diet Coke, Diet Coke with Lime, and Santa Claus.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On Donner and Blitzen!

Two thoughts on the reindeer: One, some people argue that they replaced Pagan gods. Two, this poem is the first time they were ever named. You’d think a poet could have done better.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

Okay, assuming Santa is strictly visiting Christian children, he still has 300 million children to visit in one night. And if each child gets a 2-pound toy, then the sleigh has to carry over 321,000 tons plus Santa and his holiday weight gain. In order to get everywhere, Santa has to travel at 650 miles per second. 321,000 tons at 650 miles per second would create such enormous friction, Santa and his reindeer would burst into flames.

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.

why I wore pants to church

Maryn has now turned 14, and it is time to turn our attention to other issues. Or one other issue.

It is freezing.

Let me say that again.

Freezing.

When I suddenly decided (realized) I was moving to Chicago, everyone warned me about the cold. I listened, but I'm a tough Utah girl. I can take the cold. But here's the difference between Utah cold and Chicago cold (and yes, I'm aware that I should be more precise and compare city to city and state to state, but this is how I think. And I'm still not resigned to living in a state known as Illinois):

Utah Cold

Chicago Cold

See the difference? Look closely.

Utah cold has a car. Let me say that again. Utah cold has a Car.

I suddenly find myself in desparate need of coat, gloves, scarf, a second scarf to wrap around my head, and I'm still Cold. Which leads to why I wore pants to church yesterday.

If it's cold in jeans/trousers, it's even colder in a skirt. I've invested in tights (which I hate for various and obvious reasons), but with the snow, tights and heels seemed like a really bad idea yesterday. (Case in point: the week before I nearly did the splits on my 10-minute walk to the El. Luckily it was a narrow skirt, which provided some control.) So I decided I would put on my tights, but wear pants and boots until I got to church.

I'm so clever.

Until I got to the church bathroom, claimed the large stall, reached in my bag, pulled out my heels, reached in again, and

no skirt.

Right before I left for church, I had decided I wanted to wear a different skirt than I orignally planned. So I took the first skirt from my bag

and never put the second skirt in.

Maryn, I luff you

even though I have no idea what "luff" means. But you do, and I trust you and your vocabulary.

I hope you have an awesome party tonight and a wonderful birthday tomorrow. And tell Mom to give you your birthday present from me. Now.



Seriously. Go get your present. There's nothing else here.



Luff. LoL.

Except that.

the stylish stylings of Miss Maryn

True Story: When I need to know if an outfit is working, I ask Maryn. The girl's got style. Need proof?

This is M at girls camp. Who looks this good at girls camp? Answer: no one.

M at. . . I'm not sure. But she looks awesome, as always.

An impromptu modeling session with Seth and Sophie.

It takes skills to pull off head-to-toe glowstick accessories.

A local photog asked M to model for her. This is one of my favorites.
Stay tuned for more Maryn tomorrow!

previewing tomorrow

the stylish stylings of Miss Maryn

iMaryn

I come from a rather talented family. Seth sings (and plays the guitar and woos the women), Lauren plays the piano (and is SuperMom), Sven is pretty much a genius (a guitar-playing genius), Mom quilts (and sings and plays the piano), and Dad is the genius from whence Sven came. But I would argue (and I believe most of my family would agree), that Maryn might just be the most talented of all--a kind of uberTalent, if you will.

Exhibit A: Maryn sings. Most recently, she was in iHappy, a musical revue at her junior high school. I didn't get to go, which is iSad, but I've been told she rocked the house with her rendition of "My Favorite Things" from Sound of Music.

Exhibit B: Maryn plays the piano. And the guitar. And the clarinet. In fact, she was so good playing the clarinet (with minimal practice time, mind you), that her band teacher begged her to stay with band this year. (I believe she declined in favor of. . .

Exhibit C: Maryn speaks Mandarin Chinese. Please join me in excessive eyebrow lifting and exclamations that only a Mormon would make.

Exhibit D: Maryn designs clothes. Not that unusual for an almost-14-year-old girl. But how many 14-year-old girls have already had designs put into production? Seriously, folks. (She designed a dress and a sweater for this clothing line. Unfortunately, she wasn't given artistic control over production, and doesn't love the results, but still--.)

Exhibit E: Last, but not least, and certainly not all, Maryn is a particularly gifted aunt. I hate to admit it, but she is the Abby Baby's favorite aunt, as indicated by her Abby-name, "Quack-Quack," meaning "the funniest, nicest, most attentive, patient aunt in the world."

Happy Birthday, Quack-Quack.

courtesy of Th.

Just in case you don't scour the comments pages, here we find Anne Shirley explaining Twilight.