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.

your regularly scheduled programming

SuperCoolMarynFact 2: Maryn has great taste in men. While the rest of the world was swooning over him

Maryn was more impressed by this man

That's right, Gilbert Blythe. And while she found him via the movies, my brilliant sister soon moved on to the books. He's just as attractive there.

(I can't wait to introduce her to

. . . in a couple of years.)

(an interruption, or "There is no end to existential crises.")

(I just declared it a week of Maryn, which it is, and then I scrolled through my blog, as I am wont to do. And I'm usually pleased with myself, with my writing, even when it is Too Much. But today I was sad, I am sad. An entire string of David Cook videos? Seriously? And only a video of the Weepies as Puppets? And then I blog-hopped about, reading about people who I know and people who I love and people who I wish I could be like. There is one person who is living the life I think I should be living. There is another who is living the life I want to be living. And I'm wondering if even though I moved to a new city, and wrote new poems, and even got into an MFA, if I'm actually living. This weekend was lovely, but it was a borrowed kind of lovely. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know when I get to find out. I wonder if I should start with who I was, or if that would be counterproductive. I want to be excited to be me, but I have to figure out who that is first.)

a week of Maryn

On Saturday, December 6, my baby sister will turn 14. Finally. After a year of me telling everyone that she is 14. And I won't be there. So, in honor of this auspicious occasion, the world's first unmanned flying deskset will be hosting a week of Maryn (not to be confused with the month o'Edgy or the Anna holiday). There will be food, drinks, laughter, dancing, and a whole lot of Maryn. And possibly a countdown as in. . .

"The Top Ten Reasons Maryn is Maryn"

or

"M.A.R.Y.N. is A.W.E.S.O.M.E."

Both are working titles.

Anyway, the point of today's post:

Maryn loves to share. Like sharing her favorite Bountiful cool spot, The Yogurt Stop. A serve yourself frozen yogurt mecca on the corner of 5th and Main. Maryn suggests the raspberry frozen yogurt with Oreos, or the Oreo frozen yogurt with Oreos. Or pretty much anything with Oreos. Just remember: frozen Swedish fish taste kind of funny.

Stayed tune for tomorrow, Twilight, and Gilbert Blythe.

(written on a Saturday)

I am a family person. I never thought of myself as such, but apparently I am. And I’m missing my family, actually counting the days when I get to return to Utah and family (and Anna and Danny and Christian and at least one afternoon of Will). Since I just celebrated a fairly embarrassing moment of self-discovery (see post on David Cook), I think I should celebrate this one, with a picture and some of the back-story that will never make it into analyses of my poetry (yes, I in fact do think about some poor fool writing papers on my poetry, and yes, I realize I need to publish for that to happen):

Abby has learned to say my name, or a version of my name. She learned this after I moved and I feel a little cheated. Or very cheated, take your pick. That, and missing Lauren, led to “Dear Sister,” a poem of letters and what can’t be in letters. I’m thinking there are a few more of these to follow, in one form or another.

Seth is at BYU, a fully-grown freshman. When I think of him, it’s most often the shake of his head he picked up when he had long hair and still does with short hair. I know he’s just months away from being one of the most amazing missionaries, but he’s still my baby brother. All this found its way to a still-untitled poem that wasn’t about him, but all of those boys (men?) like him. And him.

During the spring and summer at home, I had Maryn stories to tell. I miss telling those stories. They were funny and sweet and just a little doting (on my part). At the end of the summer, I asked Maryn to tell me stories. She still sends me emails with her stories, which thrill me. She’s living a life that is amazing and I love hearing about her life. Those stories belong in any number of poems and books and etc, but I wonder if Maryn will be the one to write them.

Confession

I am listening to David Cook by David Cook, the most recent American Idol. This is the first Idol CD I’ve purchased. Not sure how I feel about it—actually, I know just how I feel about it. I’m celebrating the fact that I called the entire competition when Cook sang “Hello” in the semifinal rounds. I admit to falling for little David Archuleta over the course of the competition (why the hell isn’t his name setting off my spell check?), but that one took time, and I still thought it was Cook’s competition. In celebration of that, and me (finally done licking my wounds when Ruben beat Clay—yes, I voted for Clay Aiken—in my defense, I was young and the boy can sing), here are my top three Cook performances, courtesy of sneaky YouTube peoples.

Hello


Always Be My Baby


Billie Jean


And his new single, “Light On,” which I actually like (or maybe I'm just glad that they’ve stopped making him sing “The Time of My Life”):

Light On


And, just because this is my blog and I can do what I like, David Archuleta singing “Apologize” with One Republic, which was brilliant. Charming little devil.

Apologize

I'm on my way

I know it's lame to just post a movie after over a month of not blogging, but I need to ease myself back into it. So, a real post will come soon. In the meantime, happiness is your favorite band (or one of them) as puppets:

and thus we see

I'm not sure why being out of Provo makes me think I don't have to blog as frequently. And then being out of Utah? Might as well just stick a fork in me. But seeing as how Provo and Utah are both very far away, and I won't be back until December, I'm going to attempt a new mindset and I'm going to attempt to blog.

I have been away from Utah for six days now, and in Chicago for even longer. Well, not longer, but it feels that way. I feel as though I've been here forever and ever and ever, but not in a good way. That being said, here is a reckoning of my days:

Wednesday (September 17): I (meaning my mother) finished packing that morning. I (meaning me) flew away on an airplane with absolutely no leg room but a very nice man who helped me lift my over-regulation (shh! it's a secret) weight carryon into the overhead compartment. Another nice man helped me retrieve the stupid thing when the flight landed and the fasten seatbelt light finally turned off. And then the real fun began. After waiting for twenty minutes at the baggage carousel where the flight attendents and all signs directed me, I concluded that my baggage wasn't coming and then began a run around trying to locate my baggage. (No, I didn't think to check this blog.) Eventually I was directed to the lost and found, where a very small woman attempted to help me with my very large bags. I was tired and frantic and smelly and frizzy when Emily and Joe found me, led me to their car, and drove me to my new apartment.

Thursday (September 18): I woke up remarkably early, considering. Managed to get dressed and find my way to the El, which I love. I caught the Red Line to the Purple Line, and arrived in Evanston. I'm told Evanston is beautiful. It was hot, humid, and there were a lot of freshmen as lost and confused as I was. But I managed to find the Student Center, get my ID, and make an appearance at the Institute picnic, where, I confess, I was mostly there for the food. I did find out about the young single adult branch, and returned to Chicago, where my roommate (flatmate, really) Monica was kind enough to drive me to Target (blessed place) for a few essentials (like something to put my clothes in). That night I was a brave little trooper and walked the two blocks to marvel at the neighborhood market, featuring food in at least seven languages (and Kinder Bueno!).

Friday (September 19): The day I actually discovered that the Market sells Kinder Bueno, but still. . . Caught the El again, this time to downtown Chicago, where my classes are this term. Found the building, the classroom, the bookstore, the books. I love the books. And then I dragged my insanely heavy bag down the street to the Museum of Contemporary Art, where Ferris Bueller was not filmed, but where there are a few beautiful and interesting things to be seen. It woke me up a little, which I need in current condition of permanent dazedness. I actually drafted a new poem (!) and spent the night working on some other ideas that I've been playing around with.

Saturday (September 20): Saturday was a special day because (1) I used both the El and the Metra to make my way out to Rolling Meadows and Emily and Joe, and (2) with Emily's guidance and assistance, I finally figured out how I could make it to church on Sunday. I also realized that Northwestern's intercampus shuttle bus thing has a stop right behind the El station--and it's free! Finally something is free!

Sunday (September 21): I left my apartment at 9:15 a.m. to walk a mile to the Metra stop for what I thought was a 10:32 train (I was giving myself time to get lost and to not get too sweaty). It was actually a 10:52 train, so I waited for at least an hour. Made it to Wilmette, and was given a ride from the train station to church by a girl who is going back to school for her MBA. Church was nice and normal and the people were friendly. That, and I realized that I'll probably be able to take the El into Evanston and then get a ride from there--no more walking a mile to Church! (Although it would make a great pseudo-missionary story.)

Sunday gets two paragraphs, because after the adventure that was church, I braced myself for the adventure that was "Going to Prof's House for Creative Writing Opening Social." Although, I didn't realize what kind of adventure it would be. The Addison stop, where her house is, is right next to Wrigley Stadium, where every Cub fan in the world was celebrating. (I have been informed that to survive this experience, I too must be a Cub fan.) Long story short, I asked the wrong person for directions and found myself a mile away from where I was supposed to be, in bad shoes, and thick thick fog. I called in the calvary (go Dad!), got turned around, and made it to the Prof's house for an evening of talking with mostly fiction and creative nonfiction writers. Not that I'm biased, but. . . I am. I really wanted a poet or two to talk back and forth with.

Which leads me to today, even though today is Tuesday and not yesterday (Monday). I have spent the past two days on the Chicago campus, online, trying to find a job. Because I must have one. The whole money thing, coupled with the whole Sarah-must-have-a-schedule thing. Class starts in a little over an hour and where I would usually be nervous (and mostly likely will reach that point), I just want it to start. I want to talk influences and ideas and language and poetry. Because that's why I'm here--or, at least, it's a starting point to why I'm here.

Note: This reckoning does not include the many phone calls home or the few phone calls to people in the area who are supposed to be in the know. I went easy on the anxiety, the doubt, the frustration, because. . . well. . . I'm hoping I reach a point where this move is a good memory and not a "I'm so glad that's over" memory. Right now, it's sixes which way it will go.

week week week week

Actually just "week." One week before I leave Utah. Or go to Chicago. Whichever way you want to look at it.
.
I have a place to live. And a roommate. And apparently a fondess for conjunctions.
.
Symposium on Poetics on Friday. Featuring Kim Johnson, Jay Hopler, Susan Howe, Lance Larsen, and Paisley Rekdal. In seating order, of course. And my favorite quotes. Ever.

Larsen: "All we can do is filch or fabricate [our poetics]. All lyric poems are one."

Howe: "my poetry operates cynically"

Hopler: "my poems tend to be smarter than I am"

Hopler quoting James Tate: "If you're not surprised by the poem, the reader's not surprised by the poem."

Johnson: The function of poetry is to "redeem the unrepresentable in the world".

Hopler: "the inevitable fall [down the page]"

Larsen/Johnson: The poem itself ought to be its own experience/world and follow its own rules. It casts a shadow on this world.

Hopler: Language has to be beautiful in a way the world cannot be.

Hopler: What a poem is about is the least interesting thing about a poem.

Johnson: When I start with those four words, I assume the poem is already there.

everything I know about Chicago I learned from Ferris Bueller*

So it's official: I'm moving to Chicago. All I have right now is a date--September 17--that I'll be there. No apartment, no housing--yet.

Classes start Sept 23. I'm taking a poetry workshop (yay!) and a seminar on teaching creative writing (double yay!). Just two this term, so that I can direct some energy towards figuring out this whole Utah-girl-in-the-city thing. (Please let it be like London with American accents!)

What I do know about Chicago: the El(evated Trains). I love love love mass transit. The Museum of Contemporary Art, right down the street from Northwestern's Chicago campus (I'll be at both campuses over the next few years, but both of my classes will be in Chicago this term). Oh, and AWP will be there in February. After all the sadness of not making it to NYC this year, they're bringing it to me.

I'm really excited. Really nervous--I'm hoping I have a place to stay by the time I get out there. But mostly the excited bit. And now I have to work on a (gasp!) new poem. Workshop, here I come!

*I feel this need to, at some point during my Chicago life, re-create FB's Day Off. Including this scene. Which means I need two of you to visit me. I will be accepting applications.

showing off

Since Alexis thought the back of the duck cake was cute, I thought I'd show the front. My genius sister Lauren not only made a duck, she made a shrugging duck. And we all know that shrugging is one of Abby's favorite show-offs.


This was my contribution: the duck quilt. There are rumors the child likes it, but I have yet to witness said affection. And no, I won't be making any more quilts.

Abby Turns One: Polaroided

The Abby Cake.

The Abby Duck.

The Abby Babies (cousins Kaitlin and Luke).

The Ung Family (Sam, Meghan, and Kaitlin).