Talking amongst ourselves

We're still pondering and considering the race aspect of our adoption decisions. So this morning it was nice to recognize that if we do adopt interracially, and we may well do, it would be in no way as confrontation-ful as I was imagining.

J drew an analogy to getting a neck tattoo: most people will have a strong opinion about that one way or another, but few will say anything to your face about it. With adoption, people who do have an opinion are probably even more loathe than the anti-tatty to push past all the civil boundaries: extremely personal topic, children involved, incomplete knowledge of the facts (although that's probably not as big a barrier as it should be for alotta folks), and unlikelihood of convincing anyone of anything.

I think of myself as a strong person, and most people seem to agree- I am no wallflower. At 34 I'm finally peachy with all that. So why is it hard to read those zany zealots without letting it sway my own compass? Why let those whose season tickets are so clearly stamped *Peanut Gallery* weigh in on such an important decision?

Anyway, it's been a great day at the Ward ward. I was jazzed this morning when J casually mentioned asking a co-worker about his two adopted Chinese children and the research his family did before bringing them home.
[unadulterated fawning] First, J is one of those complex people (commonly known as "men") who tend to be listening and processing things long before I even realize they're on his radar. I love when he brings home new info like this- and he had this conversation weeks ago. [/unadulterated fawning]
His friend hasn't had much comment from anywhere, and Owlhaven the blogger also says the folks in her (~5% African American) area are generally polite and friendly.

We are looking at Ukraine or Russia in this week's study: Neat!
People are better and worse than I imagine. It's just that when it comes to children, those extremes carry so much more import.

File under: Racially Skittish

For most men life is a search for the proper manila envelope in which to get themselves filed. ~Clifton Fadiman


One of the best things about the internet (besides the unlimited potential for feeling productive while wasting time) is that you can get a lot of first-hand, primary source information and opinions. The information is often surrounded by Miss Information- she's everywhere, man- but if you are willing to do some dusting off and ferreting out it can be great.

For about a year now I've been researching adoption. This is a touchy thing to look into on the web, because Miss Information's good buddy Screaming Zealot likes to hold forth about the whole complicated issue. I've been pretty fortunate, though, and have floated into some informative, honest sites.

I know I can gather and analyse all the facts and statistics in the world (and I will, Oh yes, I will) but what I need the most is to read and talk to the people who have been through the process. People who blog.

Yesterday one of my favorite blogging women, Mary of Owlhaven and the Ethiopia Blog put up this post, sparking a couple realizations on my part.

First, when I imagine my family including some Ethiopian kiddos, I get nervous. I'm not proud admitting this, but I realized over the past few months that I see the Miriam with an interracial family becoming defensive & shrill, maybe even bitter. I see myself worrying that I would have to justify my kids, my presumption. If the world was made up of me, Jonathan and Ethiopia, I would adopt from there because I see a great need there. How lame is it to care that much about what others might say, and how I might feel, and how I might be changed?

It's a dark kind of wierd to learn something disappointing about yourself. It's also liberating. To admit it, to hear Mary's thoughts (she has been wonderfully generous about responding to comments and email in addition to her well-written blogs), to talk to my friends and especially to spark conversations with J; all these things have brought my thoughts back around to the issue at hand. I didn't feel led toward the interracial thing, but the more I talk & learn, the less I think of it as a problem. The more I can loose my fears and feel like myself.

The loving service which God sends His people into the world to render includes both evangelism and social action, for each is in itself an authentic expression of love, and neither needs the other to justify it.
... John R. W. Stott (b.1921)

Oops, I to-ook a plant.

Here's my newest obsession. Sedum plants! Like hens and chicks. And stuff. I may or may not have committed a felony a couple weeks back in that national park we visited. It's fat and happy now in my front yard.



They're stubby, easy to care for and cheap: like ME like ME... my name Iiiisobel, married to mysellllf, myyyyy name... uh.. sorry, these little episodes of song-breaking-outage are easier to understand in person.

Speaking of just how easy it is for crap to get stuck in my grey and spongy matter, I have now heard Oops I did it Again in its entirety. It's a real red-letter day, thanks to whoever programs the aural environment at Washington Square Mall. Doesn't the video involve Ms. Spears in a child-porny school uniform with pigtails or something?

As only Toby's stunning vocabulary shockingly robust lexicon can put it: Ew.

Happy Wedding, B-man.

This is our friend Brent about six months ago up in the North Woods of Wisconsin. He is none other than J's best man from our very own wedding lo these many years ago. He and lovely Laura are having a ceremony this weekend on the coast near Olympia, so we'll be outta here for a few days.

Eww

I've been sick. Being sick is gross and depressing.

But hey- Toby's learned a new word, "Ewwwwwwwwww," which he enjoys saying rather a lot.

Market me with love.

We have fallen prey to the carseat conspiracy. In a big way.

See, a few months back I was researching what to put the little bugger in next. Up to now he's been in one of those sort of half-shell with a handle type dealies, which faces the back of the car and can be carried into stores provided your upper body looks something like the Governator's. Those suckers are heavy with a side of awkward. They always seem to situate the kid's weight just far enough from your body that all the load is on the weak flabby middle of your back where the love handles start. Toby's almost 17 months old and weighs about 24 pounds, so we pretty much never carry him around in that thing anymore.

He is ready to face forward in the car. And by that I mean, I am ready to have some respite from the "crackerrrr, crackerrrrr, uh-ohhhhhh, uh-ohhhhhh, crackerrrr, nononononononono" carsong. He is an easygoing guy, but the car seems to bring out the demanding in him this week. I am hopeful that facing me and being able to see more of the scenery will help him chilllllll.

So, I went for the only seat with Side Impact Protection (SIP) available and tested in the US of A. Am I the only person un-PC enough to say it's crazy that Europe has better child protection gear? Wouldn't you think the land of the personal injury attorney would want the best & safest stuff available? What exactly has Graco been developing for the last 10 years?

We spent two hundred and fifty dollars. I know. I know! But do you know how much guilt reduction we got with that? We are putting his butt in a seat made by a race car company! You can't beat that kind of smug snugness.

Unless of course you fall on your head and decide to buy a $52,000 pirate ship for the backyard. Prove to me that it will keep kids safer, maybe throw in a couple endorsements from actual pirates and hey- maybe we can split the shipping.

We've been busy!

The faaaaaahhhhhg.

Did you ever see that movie The Fog? If not, you are a) clearly not married to my husband and b) more likely to have accomplished things in your life other than watching b-movies. I myself have seen both versions (1980, 2005).

Here's a picture of what whispy horror we narrowly escaped in Hells Canyon. We got a flat tire in the rain and also managed to dig the Jeep out of snow with basically a crow bar and my bare widdle hands. J had the forethought to wear only Tevas and shorts, so it was up to me to get us out alive. I loved every single second.

Wallowa Lake, Oregon

Drop what you're doing, get in the car and drive RIGHT NOW to the Hells Canyon National Recreation Area.

Look at what you can do there! You should sooo click on that first one of the two of us because don't I look an awful lot like the bus driver from South Park? Sit dowwn and shuuut up, or Ahh will keeelll this bunnyyy!

There be stories to tell, aye... uh, sorry- we watched Pirates of the Johnny Depp last night. We'll post more about camping Jwards later. I have to go see if I remember which hand is for the bow and which is for the viola...

We're going CAMPING!

The location is J's surprise because this is an anniversary trip delayed a few weeks because I was working. I haven't really been camping in 4 years, and that makes me weep bitter tears of deprivation and longing.

When I was a kid we went for several weeks every summer, and it was so incredibly great. I have pictures of me practicing out in the woods along some Alaskan highway. The sheer 80's-ness of my permed hair and enormous tee roped in with a black patent leather belt buckle the size of a Buick is a sight to behold.

I used to think camping wasn't camping if there were parking lots and picnick tables involved. We did it old school: backwoods Montana & podunk arctic river access were our forte. Now we live where there are too many people and you need a reservation for a spot. A reservation!

While I really do look forward to taking him along, we are leaving the kidlet with his preferred caregivers for the weekend. Otherwise I know I'd be waking up in a sweat, convinced I'd rolled on top of him or that he'd been stolen by a pack of meth-heads from my sleeping hands. I know it makes no sense, but I can see the whole thing play out like a badly concieved episode of CSI.

Did I ever tell you about the time a bear stepped on my sister's head while she slept in a tent with my parents? (AHHHH! Do NOT google bear & tent: there are a LOT of bear attacks happening to folks with access to the internet. EWWWW!) She didn't even wake up, but I would bet Mom and Dad sustained grave injuries to their Holy Crap reflex nodules.

Merry Memorial Day! Happy Summer! See you on the flipside good buddy, 10-4.

Just in case.

We went to Salem yesterday, to play in a rad frog-shaped plastic sand box. Aren't you jealous?

We also went to Minto Brown park, which is, besides Central Park, probably my favorite urban place to walk/run in the United states. There's a river with nesting eagles, several ponds, and almost 900 acres with miles of sweet trails, both paved and left natural.

I wish my camera battery hadn't died. It would have been supercool to post a picture of Toby trying to manhandle a girl twice his age on the play structure steps. They played together nicely for nippers, actually. When we left I looked back and she was sitting forlornly on the hard-won stairs, watching us make our stumbly exhuberant way to the parking lot.

My grapes, they are not (too) sour.

The other screw-over-ee from that audition is talking about union action, an exercise in futility likely to make the complainer fairly unpopular in a short span of time in a town this small. I hope s/he reconsiders.

Either the committee didn't hear much difference between the candidates or they heard it but didn't have the moral fiber to do anything about it. Neither scenario makes me want to work there, so I'm mostly over it now.

It probably helps that I don't need that job right this second. There are some possible changes in the JWards future, up to and including moving aGAIN. (Just when I was thinking about changing the ol'blog name...)

I am supposed to know myself well enough to be clear about my abilities and shortcomings without need of approval. But I like to win, and I like having a job. It stings to work hard, improve, and still fall short.

One unfair audition is bad luck- but twice in one year? Blech, no point in thinking too hard about it unless it makes me want to work harder. If only I could get J to run a hot little orchestra for me and my lackeys friends.

I am 34,0000000000 years old.

Minus the zeros.

So you know what God did to make me feel better? He made it so our good friends from back in Madison who've also moved to PDX could come over at the last minute for bbq brats, beer, wine and an embarrassingly large and sugar-sludgy cake from Cosco.

And then he put American Gladiator on TV. It was just like high school in Fairbanks, where we had only three stations. Two shut down at midnight and the third played back to back episodes of Matlock, Dr. Who and American Gladiator. It's like the free beer they give out on airlines- you'll take anything when it's all you can get.

If you watch an episode of this now, be sure to watch carefully when they scan the crowd- the fashion and hair alone are wellll worth your time and concentration.

Totally kissing up to you.

I really am sorry about that blog blackout, and to prove it, I'm going to post more for a while and include a lot of pictures.
When Toby's sleepy he sucks his middle fingers and pulls on an ear. We've taught him a few baby signs because it's our duty as whatever yuppies of our generation are called. He signs milk, more, bird, no, plane and some mystery one that resembles the chopping motion fans of whatever baseball team that was with the un-PC Native American name used to do. Or else it looks obscene, a stunningly inappropriate (ergo pretty funny) possibility pointed out by everyone who has witnessed it. It even freaks me out when he delightedly grabs for the jewels during diaper changes, so I am hopefull we'll discover he's trying to imitate a conductor or perhaps a physicist writing formulae on some imaginary Nobel-winning chalk board.

Anyway, since we don't yet have a good pic of him demonstrating that mystery motion (just the SIGN, people) here he is requesting a nap.

CHeeese!

For my birthday I got a really great carpet, a bunch of beautiful plants & plantars and (drumroll..................................) an off-camera flash set from Midwest Photo so I can do some of the things taught at www.Strobist.com!

Here's the first fruit- I promise it will get better, but doesn't he look like thaaat kind of lawyer here? Have you been injured due to negligence or carelessness? Heh.

WhoooOOOPS!

And... we're back.

Sorry about that. I played a bunch of concerts here, then went to Montana for almost two weeks to visit relations. I thought I'd be posting on the road but just never got myself to a computer while one was available.

I will think of something to say soon.

Meanwhile, I played the strangest audition.

First, in the cramped loud communal warm-up room, a former member of a famous string quartet was recognized as one of the auditioners. That was kinda wild, especially because he sort of freaked and left before even hearing results for his group. Then, when they finally gave us our own little rooms just before playing, they came around and asked to take our solo piece so they could copy it for the committee.

Let me tell those of you not privy to the joys of auditioning that this is really freaking wierd. First of all, did they seriously not know the 2.5 pieces they would hear? Second, it was like five minutes to T-time, and what were they futzing with our minds for? Thirdimous, have you ever looked at the music people play from? I've played from the same three pages of the Bartok for about 5 years, spanning 3 teachers and one new instrument: there are all kinds of markings on it I would rather not show while being judged. Do I want them ogling my mess of bowings, fingerings, phrase reminders, pitch corrections, phone numbers from pianists in three states? I don't even need the sheets, but with the committee behind a screen there is NO point in even risking playing without them. Apparently when the committee's gopher finally made it back to the big room to collect everybody's solo parts (I was alone in a little one by then) the mighty violists gave them a big veetoe, and refused to provide parts to be copied.

Soooo, we played the first round. It went well for me, so I was really going to be pissed if I didn't advance- I can deal with screwing up and getting cut, but the constant re-evaluation of my entire life and perceptive capability gets a little old. This time I made it to the next round, so, yippee!

And the next round. With the same two other violists.

And the next round. With the same two other violists.

And the next round. With the same two other violists.

Funny thing about that. We played the same stuff repeatedly (there were only 5 excerpts) and we always played in the exact same order. And they never asked me to do anything differently. Usually in later rounds they have already determined you have the chops they require. So they see how flexible you are- what you'd really be capable of in a rehearsal when the maestro makes a request.

Apparently they had candidate 3 do lots of things. They told candidate 2 about a wrong pitch she had learned. They said nothing to me. Four times.

And then they picked the guy whose wife is on the committee.

Haha. Funny. Thing is, I didn't know that bit about the nepotism until hours after, and in the interim I had a key-throwing, sniveling fit involving seriously questioning what the point is in my continuing to play. I wasn't being dramatic- just practical. I would rather pack it in than be relegated to lame per-service ensembles. I whined about how I won stuff all through school, graduated and BAM. Haven't won crap (and I have really been auditioning for some serious crap) since.

Sorry for not blogging. And that this post is such an enjoyable romp through my insecurities, but I'm sure I'll get back into the swing of things soon.

Benched

When we own the amazing house with a stream running along the generous property line, I would like to buy these benches and arrange for a canopy overhead and play string quartets while sipping mint juleps and/or margaritas.

Amish parents have balls of steel.

We are watching this jawdropping documentary called Devil's Playground, about the tradition called Rumspringa within the Amish church. Literally translated as "running around", this is one frightening concept.

The Amish let their children go out and do whatever they want at 16 until they either decide to join the church or are found passed out, knocked up under a buggie somewhere with a bag of meth and a can of bud. Yet another reason I could not be Amish; Toby won't get out of our house until he's 28 and a half, and even then the microchip will help us monitor his activity. In case you were wondering what Jack Bauer's got on tap after saving Audrey Raines, he'll be serving at our pleasure keeping Tobias in line.

Frankly I feel bad for these kids, even though I can respect the spirit of the excercise. Committing to such a stringent life would have to be a choice, or most kids would rebel at some point anyway. But it's a little cruel to put all that temptation and opportunity in the hands of the ball of hormones that is a sixteen year-old boy.

One kid they focus on goes through the world's horrible things like the devil himself is holding his hand. Meth, narcing on murderous dealers, rehab, falling back into alcoholism and finally running off to Florida to follow a girl. Every parents' nightmare.

"It's like a vaccination. You get a little taste of the world... and you'll be a happier Amish person if you have a choice."

Except vaccines are safe. Balls of steel.

Somebody give me a cookie.

The concerts were so much fun! That first rehearsal kicked my butt, but from there on it was so... pithy? There were so many tricky-great phrases and spots for the violas to rock out. I love playing with this section. How many people get paid for something they love that much?

This is hands down one of the biggest, trickiest and most rewarding programs I've played in years. When people ask me what composers I like to play, I always tell them Stravinsky. Seriously, don't all professional classical musicians get, like, totally sick of people accosting them in line at the grocery store and on the treadmill at the gym to ask these sorts of things? I know. It's such a burden, this red-hot fame we violists especially bear. I recommend therapy. This glass of Willamette Valley Vineyards Riesling is also helpful.

Anyway, if I really thought people were that deeply interested, I'd recommend Lutoslawski, too. In general his stuff requires a bit more of an investment from the LutosWHOski?! kind of ear.

I myself try never to dismiss new things quickly. (J is convulsing with suppressed inappropriate laughter. Ignore him.) With a lot of complex music a minimum of three relaxed listens are required to come to any conclusions or opinions. There are people who don't like program notes- the Pro Arte quartet never includes them. That's sad because the average listener needs some scraps of context to cling to in the onslaught of aural reference. The more possible connections a listener can find, the better.

Humans are context machines.

This won't resonate with everyone out there, but I have to say the same holds true for bible study. The more you know about the context of a book the better. N.T. Wright talks about the futility of a theology that fails to acknowledge history. You can't escape the influence of your own time on your worldview. You hear that, post-modernism?

Anyway, tomorrow morning we're whirling on to Shostakovich 8, so I better head off perchance to sleep. Woo!

Everyone's a Critic: Student Edition

Toby demonstrating how much you really know about other people on the internet.




I am a member of the viola internet group and thereby recieve regular email digests of the most recent posts & discussions burning through the international viola community. Sometimes you learn stuff. Just last week I asked them to suggest some works I could play with a local choral arts group and they totally came through with things it would have taken days to look up on my own. Plus, I got the insider lowdown on what's worth playing: priceless.


But, like anywhere on the internet where two or more gather in the name of some esoteric interest, the viola list is periodically subject to being extremely lame. There's always one monkey, who throws some crap and starts a regular crapdisco. This weekend somebody found a random YouTube posting of a violist's recital and assumed because she was dressed formally and has her own website that she's a pro. It took some digging to see this girl was actually a student, and there's no way to weigh the intention or impact of the flurry of (mostly negative) comments. This got me thinking about netiquette, and specifically that a person's motivation is what is most noticably absent when they hit that send button.

Of course this blindness isn't limited to the internet. This is exactly what makes me nervous about recording anything for public consumption. How sad is that? I already know there is no perfection, but I have hopes of making something I can be proud of, and it's hard to accept that not everyone will like it. Some of them will likely be pretty outspoken about it. I don't want to let fear of that prevent me from creating what I can.

It's funny that I will happily pay a friend $50 an hour to criticize me because it helps make me better, but I cringe to think of accepting it for free from hundreds of violists all at once.

Bravo, 3rd Angle!

Okay, I'm really tired but I think everyone on the internet should run out right now and buy Sherman Alexie's new book Flight. I went to an excellent Third Angle Music concert tonight because my stand partner was playing and Alexie was narrating & reading, which was a pleasant surprise.

His reading almost made me cry, and I'm not a cryer. I was caught that way by another story of his on NPR in my car about a year ago, and sat listening for a long while in the driveway until it ended.

I love when you're not sure you feel up to going to something, but then do, and love it and your faith in the state of the arts is renewed. It is very unusual that poetry set to music does it for me, but tonight it really really did. The settings were effective, the words sublime and the performances did everything justice.

Gotta go to sleep now to do my private-public battle with Stravinsky & Lutoslawski in the morning.

Humility

It would be nice if I had been practicing the Stravinsky Concerto for Strings for months.

That way my intenstines wouldn't have to get all upset as we near the second movement. They tense and send signals to my right shoulder, which would apparently like to hide in my ear. The next in this mutiny of the body is my brain, which decides there are just too...many...notes.... and refuses to translate any more accidentals or remember any fingerings. A-flat or A-natural? Huh?! HUH?! Hey, is my bow still moving?

Error. Errrrrrrrror.

It's better today, but of course today we rehearsed the Brahms instead. Sigh.

Play Misty for me...

In the continuing spirit of being late in commenting on everything ever, I would now like to talk about Josh Bell's performance at a Metro station in Washington DC. The Washington Post asked him to play on the street to see if the average person would "recognize genius out of context."

You know, there is a part of me thinking if a few things had been different that morning, more people would have stopped. If it had been later than crack-of-dawn 7:30am, if it had been a weekend, if the station was in a less workers-only area, if he had found some less hectic commuters more walkers spot, if he had chatted up a bit or played some tunes from that Appalachian folky CD he and YoYo Ma did that one time, if if if.

But you know what?

Classical musicians have got to be kidding if they think the average person is familiar AT ALL with what it is they do for a living. I would have been really interested to hear what each of the commuters' experience has been with music. Did they get any classical in childhood? Did they ever get to play any intrument, let alone a stringed instrument? Have they ever listened to classical music while not in the produce section? Even if they were thick in it and loved every CD Bell has ever made, would their commute leave time for them to stop? Do they think busking is no different than panhandling and refuse to stop on principle?

Just showing up in a busy commuter space and expecting fawning is ridiculous. The article implies that a mom pulling her 3 year-old past Bell is unintentionally choking the art out of his little life. Um, even if Viktoria Mullova, David Perry, Edgar Meyer, Tabea Zimmerman and Bjork were all jamming in my driveway, if I had to go to work and provide for Toby, I'd have to go to work. I might need some medication and a large box of tissues once I got there, but I'd go.

This, however, bears no reflection on either the performers or my ability to appreciate them. I don't think it's clear that people in a hurried grimy commuter space failing to deviate from their routine in the presence of greatness are necessarily shunning said greatness. I'm not convinced this experiment provides commentary on missing out on the beauty in life. It wasn't just the context of the location: it was the context of the purpose of that space. I guess as far as the article goes I'm a Kant-er.

So while I don't think this experiment really proves it, it is true that the average person on the street doesn't know great classical music, and they miss out on some of the most incredible, complex expression of human creativity because of it. These commuters are the people in the prime working years of their lives. I wonder what the classical scene will be like over the next decades as music and art is continually diminished in public schools. I hope the transformation to an obscure cult-following art is slowed or reversed, and that Josh Bell figures out how to show people what is so amazing about what he does for a living.

Thinking Blogger Awards

Jippy the Jabster, I thank you for this Blog Award (okay it's really just a tag, but whatever, I do what I waaant). Who doesn't LOVE an award?!
You have flattered me this week in so many ways, my friend. Zach's my hero.

So.
In order to properly claim my prize and glory, I have to write up five bloggers who make me think and "tag" them. This is hard for several reasons:
A. The internet is most often my guilty brain-candy pleasure, a realm in which deep thoughts are but a byproduct.
2. Tagging people makes me nervous. It's like asking to sit at the cool girls table at lunch. I don't expect or need responses per se, but I hate to be a bother. (What am I, everyone's ninety year old granny?)
III. By writing this, I am revealing yet another incredibly personal layer of myself out here on the internet for anyone to... oh wait, don't care about that. Let's go!


Number One.

I love to read Strobist. Written by Baltimore Sun photographer David Hobby, this is a really beautiful blog. He teaches photographers how to use cheap off-camera lighting (a flash set to the side of the camera) by writing tutorials, pointing out great photos and, my FAVorite, he posts pictures and asks his readers to figure out how he lit them. There's also a very active Flickr photo group, which he calls the Grad Students of Strobism and recommends to anyone wanting to post a question. This blog has definitely helped me better follow some of Jonathan's technical conversations.


Number Two.
Becoming a mom made me wonder how much style I would be able to have in my life. New parents can tell you: anything unique and well-designed for life with kids is a bazillion and half dollars. I hate the plastic pastel world of mainstream kidstuff (we can pick apart my BoBoism later, 'kay?) and Gabrielle Blair's Design Mom site is anything but. Plus, while she doesn't accept advertising, she often does Random Giveaways for her readers- I've yet to win, but I have discovered some cool ideas anyway. She does have expensive taste, but as always I like to figure out how to make my own knock-offs. And if you're feeling like an extended dose of design blogs, check the folks in her impeccable sidebar.
Her sister Jordan's Oh Happy Day is another fave.




Number Three.
The group of writers over at Adoption Blogs have given me a lot of food for thought this year. In case you actually click over there I will warn you that while there are some gems, not all of them are happy reads. I've learned that I am not cut out for foster-to-adopt, nor does open adoption appeal to me. My favorite authors are Owlhaven of the Ethiopia Blog, and Faith Allen from the Hoping to Adopt section. As we get closer to an adoption and I figure out my own thoughts a bit, I will most likely blog about it here.

Number Four.

I bet I am more conservative than you. I know I'm more conservative than almost all the good blogs I've found, and watching the national news makes me insane with frustration. A post about that is percolating, but for now let's just say I'm a politically conservative, socially moderate, artistic sarcastic Christian who hates that parties have allied with religions. Let's also clarify that the previous sentence, while chock full of labels & codes, doesn't really help you know me any better. Buying me a Starbucks or a nice Syrah might- it's definitely worth a try. Anyway, the topics broached at Reason Magazine's blog and the way they write about them make me think. They are considered Libertarians. Whatev. I like the toned down spin which is nicely balanced with impassioned writing: a rare construction.

Number Five. ish.
Speaking of people I love to read despite the frequent attacks on my worldview/prudism/demographic, I would like to introduce you to two writers I just discovered this week. Color me behind the times.

Sweet Juniper's a peppy little blog written by a cheap ex-lawyer stay at home Dutch dude and his hip indie wife. Both enjoy cussing. They dress their girl like a rock star but buy it all at thrift stores, and is the name Juniper not completely stellar? (Shuddup- it's a tree not a shrub, J.) Check out their Sweet Juniper Tunes in the bottom left sidebar for some excellent iTunes adventuring. I am waiting for their Alphabet Book to arrive and will let you know how I like it.
Like everyone born between 1960 and 1985, I like Dooce. I like Fussy even more- sometimes I worry that my addiction to commenting there further reveals the too-eager mouth-breathing cool girl wanna-be in me.
Then there are the violists- always excellent thinking bloggers.

And that is all. For now.

Whew! I think I'll pour myself a tall glass of DAILY VOTING after that post. Mmmmnnn.

Laaaaughing huh huh huh haw huhh

I love that Guess Who song from the deep recesses of my childhood.

Tonight's gig was funny. Funny in a bad bad way, in a way only my inner 12 year-old can truly appreciate. It was a tiny "orchestra" cobbled together from about 10 musicians accompanying a church choir. We were approximating Faure & a some shrivelled piece of music by a guy (bite me, Rutter) all the choir directors have mistakenly put their faith in, so to speak. I hate when Christian music operates with the same tasteless training wheels reserved for children's music, romance novels and knock-off perfume.

Anyway, that wasn't even what was funny. (And by "funny" I mean amusing only to me and maybe my husband but he's probably just humoring me. Humoring. Ha.) The funny started when we tuned to an electric organ that played very very flat whenever it changed sounds (stops) in the piece. Like our very own anti-miracle organ. (I was going to say the Devil's Organ but that just doesn't sound right...) Remember that scene in The Goonies where they found a big organ thingie in that cave with the pirate ship and had to play horrible notes on it that made their friends teeter above a pit full of spikes? This was worse.

Also funny: the conductor held his entire upper lip thinly quivering taught so he looked oddly nauseated whenever he sang along with the choir. Conductors like to mouth the words without singing pitches, but they usually can't help themselves and end up stage-whispering a lot of it. It's just like when you try to talk to somebody in another car and end up somehow half whispering "DID YOU WANT THAT SPOT?!" all breathy with flailing gestures and if you're not careful some errant spittle. That is exactly like conducting, in case you ever wondered what conductors really do.

So the tuning and the mouthing were funny, but some of the other players struck me funny in a much more perverse way. They were a type of professional (and I am assuming alot here) musician I have run into before; they evidence almost no enjoyment of playing, lament at length how busy they are with so many important gigs, often appear to lack a bit in their technique and (this is the most important element) are so above any other players that they will do their utmost to condescend should the opportunity present itself. I think this personality disease goes most unchecked in the semi-professional scene. The per-service orchestra generally boasts a percentage of this kind of person. Madison Symphony was seriously infected; it took months (LITERAL MONTHS) for anyone to say more than two words to new people. Geniality was a sign of weakness, and I almost gave up on orchestras entirely.

Now I know I can be... a bit over-exuberant and chatty for some tastes. I hate when people say I'm always happy, though now that I'm old I would rather that impression than the alternatives. But this isn't just adult seriousness, this is a conscious effort to be a dour prig in order to appear better than others.

Somehow recognizing the disease tonight made me smile instead of roll my eyes and seethe. Maybe it's because I don't have a job-job yet, and it helps keep me humble. Maybe it's because I know that groups of wonderful accomplished friendly people do exist and sometimes I get to join them (Oregon Symphony). I love playing. I don't necessarily love playing in poor performances, but right now I'm okay with just trying to contribute something that might make the overall experience better. Missionary musicianing. It's not lost on me that aspects of this attitude may be more deeply condescending than just trying to out-snob the other players, but I like to think my motives are better than that. And at least this way I can still have hope for them.

Plus, I keep reminding myself that there are only two more services.

Rants are what God made blogs for.

So, do you ever have a half hour of crap happen that almost convinces you you're being punked? That any SECOND some dried-up ex-child-star will leap from behind a bush with a cameraman and say, "Wow, Miriam, you really handle stress well and that shirt looks great with dried drool on it on national TV. By the way, your fly is open and you're hyperventilating."

Driving to buy a stroller off Craigslist (because I'm CHEAP) I decided to call J and find out where our bank had an ATM so I could avoid paying the fee (because I'm CHEAP). Husbands with busy jobs make excellent concierges.

While in the ATM drive-through, some dip (expetive deleted) from the OHSU pediatrics office calls to tell me they are having trouble with our insurance provider. Except they have never had an actual problem with ours, and they aren't even saying its exact name- apparently ours just uses the same list of preferred providers or blah blah sweet jiminy blah. Bottom line: we can sign some waiver making OHSU come after us for all payments or we don't come to OHSU. She sweetly offers to leave our next appointment on the books for now. I sweetly fail to say anything smartassed and hang up so I can call NATO or somebody to get this straightened out.

Now I'm heading toward late for my clandestine internet meeting, so I schlep over where we were headed, buy the super cute stroller while Toby languishes in the carseat (FEVAH! recovery) and it starts to hail. While the sun shines down. Hard. Lots of hail. No locusts yet or seas of blood, though.

I hate to use the cell in the car, but this insurance thing was freaking me out because in my head our next seven kids must all be popped out at OHSU with the midwife group or at least given post-adoptive care there. So all the way home I'm talking to our company (who basically said, HUH?) and then J, and then when I got home I called OHSU back and they won't even give me a number to call. The NURSES are the ones to talk to about this? Really, where's the candid camera? I am trying very hard not to swear. The nurse doesn't understand what she's talking about either, especially the part where I tell her I need a number of a businessperson, not a babycareperson. What I need is somebody who understands, "ridiculous business practice" and "lawyer", so I'll end up with the priviledge of having HER take care of our BABIES.

There is NO PROBLEM with our insurance and I am not signing that waiver because they CAN'T MAKE ME just because they're annoyed with some OTHER company. They have horrible wierd complex billing anyway and isn't this exactly what we pay the insurers to deal with? Our company is actually trying to take care of this, but the only number I could give them was the daft nurse with the dafter supervisor.

AND, my ATM card was apparently left behind in the fray. The bank can't tell me if it's out having fun on the Nigerian stock market until 3pm, when they open the machine for all the idiots who leave their precious's behind.

Gaaa. If this is candid camera punking me, can I at least request somebody from the Breakfast Club? Or Six Feet Under? Or maybe Annie Lennox?

Feevah! In the mornin'

... Feevah all throuugh the night.

We went to the doctor yesterday, because it had been twenty-four hours of sad, hot Toby.

Is it wierd that I feel most like a mom when he's sick? He prefers me then (yes, as opposed to most of the time, when he prefers whosoever is closest to the bird/car/window/dangerous objects).

He's only really been sick twice including this time so we are winning the lottery so far.

The doctor resident we saw was certainly not a day older than me, so I naturally assume he must have been all Doogie Howser back in Elementary School in some sort of insanely accelerated program for the genetically engineered.

Residents will look up any dang thing you ask them- try it next time you see one about town. In this spirit, once we had confirmed Toby just has a stupid bastard virus and was not fighting one of the many new worries House has planted in my cerebrum, I pointed out a dark spot on the edge of Toby's big toe and inquired as to whether he might have an ingrown sommat' or other. Mr. Resident, who looked alot like Ron Howard, trotted off to find out what should be done about such afflictions. Of course, we all forgot to actually get that info at the end of our visit, but the point is they are Jack Bauers of discomfort, terriers of information. As am I, unless I get distracted. See how nicely that works out? What were we talking about?

Ready for some treacle? It really is particularly lovely when your baby will lay on your chest and watch your face while you sing badly to him. Mine happens to only sit that still when he's radiating heat and his eyes look like somebody slipped him a doobie, but it counts anyway.

Lucky for Toby and especially for me, my own Mama came up to help out. She herself didn't have people around when her first (aka test run, experimental prototype baby- Hi, C!) was new. She was stuck on the outskirts of Walla Walla. There isn't much to Metro Walla Walla, so imagine being outside it with no car and no neighbors and no mall to wander in when the weather gets bad- that would have put me right over the edge. You saw in the video how tough my Mom is, though. When I left for my gig last night she was rocking Toby and singing to him just like I like to. Because I don't have to work a day job, I have the luxury of appreciating other pairs of hands caring for the kid without (much) jealousy or guilt. I hope we don't ever take that for granted.

This morning he's no longer eminating dry heat and he woke up babbling instead of with that deep lowing cry he had tried to rip my heart out with yesterday. If all goes according to plan, by tomorrow I should be back to praying for his afternoon nap to go long.













PS: DID YOU VOTE TODAY? THANK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!
VOTE HERE DAILY!

A vote for us is a vote for humanity.

Click here, or copy the following to your browser:
http://h30044.www3.hp.com/hptv/home/View.aspx?entryId=140

We would love your votes. Here's a message from the film maker himself:
OH – and please send an email around to anyone you know who won’t be annoyed, and encourage them to vote (for those who don’t know, I’m trying to win a 50” TV).

..and be sure to give it a five. ; )

Also – you can vote once per day – so vote early and often!

Thanks.

~J.

I just can't wait any longer.

We made a video for the HP TV contest. Please, though, just one thing: Once we put it on the HP site and put up the link, PLEASE go vote for it. Sadly, we have to take out my favorite part, which is Toby giggling at the beginning. They don't want anyone under 18 in the videos, even with consent. Lame.

So, here it is, temporarily until we can get it posted to HP: Yay, J!

Freddy

I am planning at least one "things are really looking up all the sudden after an unexpected slump I hadn't mentioned until now" post per month. In case you were wondering.

It is a windy gloomy day here. My response? Run away. We're going to check out the new frog-shaped sandbox at a certain residence in Aumsville. The proud owners had to fight to get that puppy- let's just say the words "floor model" mean nothing when a grandToby is involved, and the Fred Meyer store manager didn't stand a chance. Somehow it pleases me that a Frog thing came from Freddy's. Freddy the Frog-box. Fredster the sandman. Hmmm, neads tweaking.



A few things to note about this picture.
1. Being held by Grandma, looking at mom "WHO???"
2. Crocodile tears turned on the instant he realized people he knew were there to pick him up at the church nursery. Irrational? Maybe. Also cried when being left, for exactly two breaths.
3. Stole a red shaker toy. From babies. At church. On Easter.

So, with a quick stop for a baby hazmat sandproof suit and a shop-vac, we're off!

Pivot step step Turn

This has been an up and down (down, down) month at casa del J-ward. It was frankly making me wonder if I was losing it just a wee little bit. I felt bad that every time I talked to friends far away I was kind of dark and grunty.

This weekend, lo, it came through for me. Mom and dad took away my baby boy for two nights and spoiled him mercilessly. Seriously, it wasn't until this afternoon that he finally looked at who was spooning over the yogurt with a glint and a giggle of recognition. A grandparent junky at 15 months, help us Mr. Roboto.

The generous chunk of Alone Time gave J and I the space to rehearse for some rad Churchy God stuff (more later) and to have the baddest, loudest and longest fight since way back in our early Madison days. We (um ok, I) no longer slam doors, but why can I not refrain from the piercing shrillness? I hate that and snivel-crying. It occurs to me often that I wouldn't want to live with me 76.3% of the time, time I spend in sad imitation of some demented terrier in heat with a leaky nasal system. Attractive. I mean, while being right all the time is nice, I would still like to be in better control of my voice and snot, see.

Big stupid fight notwithstanding, this weekend was a turning point. Something let go and I'm okay with my playing and parenting Toby and my duties as a shrew-wife (licensed and bonded in the state of Oregon only).

I think becoming an adult is repeatedly accepting the impossibility of perfection and recognizing the vast superiority of the extraordinary. Awesomeness, incredibility, superlity, neat-o-rama. We have it in spades, and we get to enjoy it every day UNLESS!! the distractions win out.

Thank you, Easter weekend*. I'm so much more prepared for (the 8.75 months left of) the new year.

*Sponsored by generous grandparents set B, Black Butte Porter, Huckleberry Pie and Office Space.

He is Risen Indeed!

Wack Easter Wierdness

Happy Good Friday.
Wierd, wierd dark little filmlet. It involves a rabbit, but is not suitable for children, and it's a little long but I feel I accomplished something by sticking with it & watching to the end. If it displeases you, please don't come at me with a butter knife or a cricket bat mmkay?

Also, here are some stuffed animals right up my husband's perverse alley. I think we may just have to get Toby a babysafe one. It would be a good test of which moms are the most fun at playgroup.

Meat Shower

We had a shower for Toby's newest girlfriend's Mom last weekend, and I think everybody had a nice time. I liked the way the room looked even though all I did was vacuum and put up a few balloons and these ridiculous tissue pompoms from MARTHA.

There is something so satisfying about enormous shiny balloons, though I am overly sensitive about their popping potential and I wouldn't let the kids play with any of them. Paranoia is just one of my charms.

It's fun having parties for other people, especially when they're in the afternoon and the rest of the day can be spent lounging around an abnormally clean house full of beer, brie, sherbet and meatballs. (I love to cook meatstuff even though I haven't eaten any since 1986. Because it's gross, but I could totally slaughter and stuff.)

The meatball recipe was very popular:
One large container Grape Jelly (seriously)
Two jars of Heinz Spicy Sauce (looks like cocktail sauce and is in the ketchup aisle)
One package of frozen Italian Meat Balls (from Costco- I didn't actually use all of them but you can)

1. Heat the Grape Jelly and the Sauce until it's melted and combined. Try not to let it boil over on your stove because it's a dirty ho to clean up.
2. Put it all in a slow cooker for about 6 hours. The balls are actually pre-cooked so you don't have to worry too much if you don't have that much time, but you do want the sauces to really get all absorby and coaty and stuff.
3. Provide napkins and a cardiologist's phone number.
4. Don't tell the pregnant women about the Grape Jelly ingredient until you're sure they don't have anything against grape jelly. 8 out of 10 women at my party were pregnant. I am not.

Making Strange the Familiar

Mrs. Kennedy has written a thought-provoking post over at Fussy. She found this sentence in Emily Nussbaum's NYT review of a book of poetry written by a mom (I should say MommyPoetry, but those MommyWhatever words annoy me):
"Plath makes strange what should be familiar — which is, after all, a central task of poetry."

Making strange what should be familiar is not only an excellent definition of the role of the arts but isn't it really a comment on the human condition in general? We are animal and conscience and soul jammed together in an imperfect balance, then stuck in terrestrial bodies which are confusing at best. Watch a one-year old for a day and tell me our functions aren't at least a bit perverse. I know nature is beautiful and awe-inspiring, but you have to admit it is also surprising and wierd. Observing a new human provides innumerable reminders of and comments on our physical lives.

We are capable of such sublime acts; evil and good, strange and familiar. In fact I think we are incapable of failing to be all these things in the course of our lives, maybe in the course of our week.

Mrs. Kennedy quoted another part of the article where Nussbaum is introducing Mommypoetry as her subject, "The best such poems burn off the pink sentimentality of motherhood in favor of something wilder and more surprising."

It is infinitely more difficult to find a way to express "pink" emotions without falling into sentimentality than to just go straight to dark=deep, and I hope some true and honest expression is what that "something wilder and more surprising" is. I would bet, though, that the surprise is dark and sad and therefore deep.

Why is it we give so much more academic credence to the dark and brooding? Don't you think this is especially true of women's art? I am uncomfortable placing myself in a box with feminists, but I can't help it here. Walt Whitman can go on and on about his body and his lovers and...and President Lincoln! for pete's sake, but the woman poet had better tread carefully. Temper the bits about butterflies in the firmament with other bits about funerals in your brain. (I really think Em and I could have been friends.)

I don't know if there's a correlation in music because I can count on one hand the female composers anybody has ever heard of. And that anybody will need to have studied classical music to recognize any of the women period. (Fanny Hensel doesn't count for anything until you add the Mendelssohn.)

What a dark and brooding rant.
I must be hormonal, we women are so wild and surprising. Maybe the smiling coos of my angelic cherub will cheer me up. If only I were a poet...

(OH, and Jippy- thanks for the tag! and I'm working on it)

We are still here.

Normal blog rhythm will resume shortly. Meanwhile, enjoy a glimpse of what Oregon is doing lately. Secondly, we offer an example of our own recent occupation.

My next recital will be played sans pants.

I am totally ripping off this posting from Yarn Tootin because these people are very very awesome and I thought you'd want to see.

I'm fine, and you?

I have been busy taking inventory.

Sadly, I lack a boop-ing scanner-gun device like they use in commercial inventories and to make registries at Target.

I'm making another recording, this time a demo with my pianist friend Anne. We have to decide what exact path to world domination we'll take. We have thus far narrowed it down to not wanting to be a wedding gig duo. Our name is Nocturna.

Toby is obsessively walk/run/careening about. He did a face plant twice today in the same corner of the kitchen because he missed attempts at handholds on my skirt. The world is made of monkeybars for his feet. My day's work now resembles nothing so much as one of those people waving flashlights over their head in an attempt to help a plane land on an aircraft carrier. He's started saying Hi and Cracker. He doesn't mean it racially, as far as we can determine.

J bought us tickets to Lyle Lovett and his Large Band. Do I need to repeat that? I'd like to, but will do so on my own time. I want to see his show more than any other, edging out even U2 just very slightly.

As you can see I don't have much to say, but J told me I should post. There it is.

There is no title cute enough.

Excerpt 1, Take 2

False start.

The recordings are for audition cds. I had assumed I wouldn't have to make audition cds anymore, since I'm done with summer camps. Screw you, unnamed symphony. Unless you hire me, in which case praise your high paying yet slightly union-troubled ass.

Used to be, back in the day*, somewhere in this great country a violist would retire or perhaps be taken out by union sanctioned hitmen on the job for a recent graduate with a quillion dollars of student loan debt and expensive taste in name brand diapers and soft drinks.

A JOB OPENING would come to exist. Hundreds of violists would dust off their various rollercoasters of technical whizardry from Don Juan, their first-three-pages of the Bartok concerto, their sassiest (while remaining entirely rhythmic and soft but focused and consistent while sounding easy but confident) Mozart 35's. Hundred dollar checks would be sent to the symphony with the JOB OPENING, and if you showed up for the audition or gave proper notice that you had decided to live without anything LOOOOOOOOOOming over you for the next month or so and were NOT coming to their town to play for 4.3451 minutes for 5 bored and combative people behind a screen, thank you very much--- then you got that check back. If you flaked, they cashed the check and bought doughnuts for the brass section to chuck at the sound shields protecting the last stand of violas during the next rehearsal.

If you did show up, you would be in a room packed with more promiscuous folks than even a NASA astronaut convention could bring together. (I hope the people in charge of protecting our future have this in mind- we should all be aware of our surroundings, right, NSA?) Anyway, they would somehow narrow it down from hundreds to like, 7 or so, and then to 3-ish and then one or none of those would get to have health insurance and a "cushy gig" for as long as the orchestra remained in existance or the hitmen struck back. Or, there would still be a JOB OPENING and every single person who applied, prepared and traveled had wasted their money & lifeforce points.

Now, because as you can imagine auditions were such a hoot, a wrinkle has been added. No one told me, but it's probably been there a while. A Seartain Symphony has begun to require anyone who has yet to win a major job to send a cd of 7 excerpts and one movement of Bach
(Geeze, you guys, I totally just spelled that Back and had to go bach. See how you can end up almost getting something perfect and having to go bachk and do it over and over and over?) (Also, see how dulled a sense of humor becomes after recording oneself for several days?) (Really, really dull.)
in order to be given the honor of playing for them in person. It doesn't matter what's on your resume, unless it says "Section member, So-N-So Symphony"** somewhere on it.

So this isn't some cool "recording" like as in "studio" or "for money" or "glamour shots on the cover". Plus, remember, I play the viola- and I'm not that into self-tanner, so it's boring old home recordings for me for now.


*Phrases like "back in the day" drive me nuts. Also "and whatnot" (what not?), "know whut i'm sayin" and "and a bag of chips".
**Quote marks are also*** a terrible habit and annoy me greatly. I'm so agitated now, I'm leaving.
***I use "also", "so", and the comma way too much. Do NOT go back and look, I'm sure you've noticed before.

This one? No. Maybe this one?

It's awesome to recognize that my playing is the best it has ever been.

But making recordings still sucks out precious kilovolts of life energy.

Anyway, that's where I've been. My best teacher said perfection isn't as high a goal as greatness. But it would be nice.

My newest acquaintance

Isn't she a beaut?

Buying a lie.

What rights would you give up for your family's safety? What would you give up for the illusion of safety?

Seems to me most rational people can find sacrifices they would make for the first category. The problem comes when they believe they're getting tangible results, but are in fact getting 100% illusion in the end. And in reality, a false sense of safety makes life more dangerous, not less.

We watched part of the evening news on one of the alphabet channels (abc, nbc, cbs) the other day and they ran a story about neighborhoods banning sex offenders from buying a home and living there. Sound reasonable? They recheck all family's records every 6 months.

These families are paying a premium and are voluntarily sacrificing privacy for what? It is so very exceedingly rare that a predator will strike outside of children who have some remote aquaintance with him. If he is that one-in-a-jillion kind of evil, isn't your neighborhood just as susceptable anyway? Do those parents relax a little? Are they tempted to just let their cloistered kids play in the culdesac unsupervised? Do they wait just a little longer before telling their innocents that not everyone who wants to be your friend really can be? That not all adults are in charge?

It surpised me how mad and frustrated this story made me. I just couldn't believe what they were buying into. It didn't help that every homebuyer they interviewed was a WASPy guy in a cardigan. The people selling this are nothing but predators themselves.

Hairspray

Thursday
I'm holding on to my upswing so far. Yesterday I didn't get as much done (really no good reason there, except that I took a huge nap) but when bedtime came I didn't mind myself.

***

Friday
After writing the incredibly well-crafted fascinating post above, I drove to Salem to practice and schmooze with 50% of Toby's genetic donors. First I had a locked-in keys false alarm involving my gnat-sized short term memory and the hood of my car, but it all worked out I suppose. I kept saying, "I just HAD them in my hand," to J who was about to drive home from work and to my parents who were going to drive an hour and a half round trip just to make sure I hadn't forgotten the Toby, too.

So today I've left him and his snot (geeze, the little guys sure can produce in quantity) in their doting hands and am back in Portland for a lesson with another more high-profile local violist. I realized as I prepared to practice that this is the first time I have been alone in our house. Since moving here. Ever.

It's pretty quiet.

***
Look how much his hair has grown. How am I supposed to cut it? It's so cute when it curls up. Maybe I should just buy some baby gell and give him a gericurl.

Ascent

I've been downhearted, baby.

Last night I was trying to describe it to J in a wee hour of the morning, a time when I often bring up weighty tearful sleepover-in-pjs topics. In my defense, he asked and encouraged me- nay, propelled me- by listening like he does to my rambling quivery-voiced confessional.

It's not that I'm unhappy, generally. I have the rare privilege of enjoying some semblance of perspective on my life just now. I can savor most of it on most days and appreciate the grace I've been given and so on.

It's just that I'm not very happy with myself.

I know I could be satisfied with a few small changes, could put small routines in motion now that will keep me on the level for the next few years. When I get to the end of a day I generally feel a little disappointed in me, and where that used to be enough to get me going the next morning instead it seems to pile on like green cookie dough, encasing me in a thick goo of inertia.

Today helped. It's 63 degrees here, and the sky is a very fashionable Scandinavian blue with high cirrus clouds wisping around whimsical jet trails. It looks like the folks up there are drawing something recognizable from some other angle.

The air smells. It's a distinctly Oregon mix of grass growing + sun on rich soil + a breeze blowing across mountains & vineyards & Nordstrom's perfume counters from the sea. It makes me feel cleaner, even though I could frankly use a shower and am hoping for a late evening nap to help me out there.

I wonder about the ways being a mom has changed me that have nothing to do with my actual parenting. Maybe these are just things that come when you've done all the schooling they can come up with degrees for, and you move to a new town from a place with your first truly adult life. Maybe I've always been lazy like this but the structure of my schedule helped me ignore it.

Anyway, today is better and I hope tomorrow will be like this, too. Even if it rains I'm going to try to sit on the deck for a bit and catalog the fresh air.

Recipe: Greenies

Don't say this blog never gave you nuthin'.


So t'other day I was sitting in my living room and a craving overtook me for something a little sweet but also substantial, y'know? And I thought to myself: Oatmeal Cookies.

Just minutes later I found myself thinking another thought entirely. That thought? Vanilla extract and green food coloring bottles should look differenter.























Luckily last night was a New Music concert, and the green thumb went over well.

More stuff lust.

So, I am totally not getting paid for this- sadly. And I promise I am not spending all day shopping the internets.

But I love metal and glass. Stone's nice. Substantial, elemental. Neat.

This bowl's spendy ($88 at Resource Revival) but how groovy, for the cyclist who has it all.