September 29, 2012

joe fox & kathleen kelly.

"once, i read a story about a butterfly in the subway, and today, i saw one! it got on at 42nd and 59th, where, i assume it was going to bloomingdale's to buy a hat that will turn out to be a mistake, as almost all hats are."

"listen to this: every night, a truck pulls up next to my neighborhood bagel place, and pumps about a hundred tons of flour into underground tanks. and then the air is filled with a white dust that never seems to settle.. why is that?"

i live for character development.

September 27, 2012

it is highly possible that i have started to look like this when i go to school:

showering at midnight to avoid losing an hour of sleep, though i am unsure if that is counterproductive or not... throwing my hair up in a nightmare bun (oh, wait. i do that anyway). shimmying into a trench coat.

i often wonder if people think to themselves, "wow. she really has let herself go."

well, to those people, i say, "HATERS, BACK OFF!"
oh. and if you're super impressed by how much cereal five girls can consume, thanks for noticing.
we eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 
because, hi. meet apartment 4. we're domestic. 

do you know what bliss looks like?

can't you see me in there one day? we will pretend it's somewhere in cheapside, where i study the lives and great loves of my literary heroes while wearing a wool sweater, looking out into the poring rain.

the reality of it all, i'm afraid, is that it's a farmhouse in the island, north logan. nonetheless, i am in love.

September 25, 2012

a woman's right to shoes.

this morning, i woke up with cramps that hit my uterus like a thousand freight trains. i also woke up with a bad attitude. one might have had to do with the other, but nothing has been proven.

when "i [was] provoked (this morning), by some p.o.s. a-hole", i almost imploded.
this is why i am here right now. with you lovely folks. to call her out. all of her kind, really.
"because [geared] [blogs] are still better than going postal".
and like i always say, it's better to explode on the internet than implode in real life, the well-known american proverb. i'm sure you've heard it.

so. here we go.

     sex & the city. season 6, episode 9. carrie bradshaw attends kyra's baby shower. when she arrives, she is asked to leave her shoes at the door. although wary, she agrees. slipping off her silver buckle heels, carrie proceeds to enjoy the celebration. she sits. she talks. she drinks. she laughs.
     the time comes when carrie is ready to leave. she walks to the door, searches for her shoes, and unable to find them, returns to kyra, who is unsure of where the shoes disappeared to. kyra then offers a pair of her own, worn out white tennis shoes for carrie to walk the blocks home. carrie is reluctant, but feeling silly, she accepts the offer. the next day, she shows up on kyra's doorstep, asking if she's found the shoes. kyra remarks that she had completely forgotten about the entire ordeal. she got busy and the incident slipped her mind. kyra goes on to say that she feels like a fool for not offering to pay for the lost shoes in the first place. she reaches for her checkbook and asks carrie for the amount. carrie waves her hands in the air, not wanting to make a big deal. kyra insists, and carrie gives in.
     "$485," she says. 
     "carrie. come on," kyra replies, "it's a pair of shoes."
     baffled, carrie responds to her attacker, "well, that's how much they cost..."
     "i'll give you $200. that's all i can do."
     "this is awkward," she says, "i didn't mean for this,"
     "well, 485 dollars is a lot to pay for a pair of shoes."
     "they're manolo blahniks..."
     "i'm not going to pay for your extravagant lifestyle, carrie. i'm married. i have expenses. bills. responsibilities. a real life."

later, carrie says this:

"marlo thomas sang to us about accepting each other and our differences. but then we got older and started singing a different tune. we stopped celebrating each other's life choices and started qualifying them. is acceptance really such a childish concept, or did we have it right all along?
when did we stop being free to be you and me?
today, a newly married woman made a remark on my schooling. she informed me that a certain class that i am enrolled in, a class that i am absolutely passionate about, was a waste. it was the sole reason she dropped school in pursuit of a husband. 

shockingly this happens more often than it should. and i have heard it all: 
"it doesn't really matter what you study. you'll find a husband one day, and that'll be that." 
"if you had met someone, like me, maybe you'd be getting married, too."
"why are you alone all the time? date someone."
or, my personal favorite, "you're not going to care about that once you're married. all other things become so trivial." 

when i hear these comments, comments that "belittle my existence" in the words of kathleen kelly, i start to get a little bit itchy. when elements of my own life (key phrase) are attacked by these ignorant yuppies, i first try really hard to pretend there are buttons to hold my lips together. i try not to make a fuss, and let these women feel horrified all by themselves. while i am a big believer in marriage, huge into families, babies, aprons, and homemaking, i am not so concerned with them at the present time... a statement i should not have to be scolded for. i celebrate all things white dresses, bunting on wedding cake, even burlap table runners and ginham bow-ties! it is all good and fine. however, so are michelangelo, pencil shavings, and drool from an all nighter. i'm on cloud nine with my textbooks and consider saturday night at the library with jeans and tupperware macaroni to be steps in the right direction, leading to the girl i'd like to be some day. i delight in keeping up with the kardashians and catching up on hulu. my knowledge of pop culture is astonishing, something i take pride in. and the beauty of it all? it is quintessentially me. and you don't have to want any of it.

so, as for the woman who barked up the wrong tree, consider this my rebuttle:

     forgive me, dear sweet one, for this morning i did not crawl out of a bed, away from a man like you did, but i have yet to see the way in which that elevates your success and discounts mine. i am sorry that my victories have little to do with other people, and much to do with making myself happy. i do apologize for my selfishness and the way that it offends you, but i am unaware of the part where it is any of your business.
     i wouldn't think to feel sorry for you. you are loved by another, and you love in return. you call him 'hubs', and that freaks me out, but hey, you're still a rock star... one with a glowing halo of rose gold that sparkles when you wash dishes. i celebrate you and your accomplishments, bring you wedding gifts in the form of cutlery, and i keep my mouth shut when i feel the urge to comment on how i wouldn't want to be you right now. please show me the same courtesy, though my fingers are barren as i run hot soapy water over my own dirty dishes. we all have them, regardless of how many we're doing. and be not mistaken, the water is equally hot.

you owe me nothing but the decency to respect my decisions.

however, if you ever read this and recognize the stupid you should feel, i'm "a size seven with excellent taste." 

yours truly,
a regular carrie bradshaw.

September 23, 2012

a truth universally acknowledged.

 "my good opinion once lost is lost forever."
"oh, dear. i cannot tease you about that. and what a shame! for, i dearly love to laugh."
pride & prejudice, jane austen

i like to imagine our meeting in heaven, jane's an mine.
there'll probably be mint tea and white linen couches to sit on. 
a table, with lace doilies and a ruffled skirt.
she'll walk me through her writing process, and i'll tell her my kardashian theory, and how she manifested a family with her pen, even two hundred years before reality television!
(well, first, i'll explain reality television. and television in general.)
how kris is mrs. bennett, kendall and kylee are spitting images of kitty and lydia... and i'm still trying to decide which sister gets to be mary...
but, i do have the rest of my life to map it all out. SO NOBODY PANIC.
i'm sure she'll just eat it up.
and i'm just going to predict right now that these meetings will happen weekly.
she's got a lot of celebrity gossip to catch up on, and you know she'll be fascinated by it.

September 21, 2012

the prettiest one.

hi, mom. 
you're probably wondering why this picture of you is on my blog. 
well, let me tell you. 

did you know i always watch you?
always have, always will. 
did you know that i notice the way you spread peanut butter on your banana, cutting one big gash down the middle, then filling the hollow space?
and did you know that i do it, too?
today is your birthday.
i don't remember how old you are. 
i'm sure i could do the math, but i'm not so into that kind of thing--doing math, that is... a trait didn't exactly inherit from dad...
however, the other traits i inherited from you are golden. for instance:
you taught me to love europe. you bring it to life every time we go back, and i could swear that in each museum we visit, i am a carbon copy of you as i point and nod in silence, taking in every breath stroke. thanks for teaching me to feel the art with everything i am, and thanks for letting me talk your ear off about it later.
thanks for all of those weekends of showtunes saturday night, subway dinner runs (even though you prefer it for lunch), and nights out at the dollar theater. they have been some of my favorites.
i remember the first time i was introduced to katharine hepburn and humphrey bogart in the african queen. we had both come down with the flu, and were confined to your bed with nothing but the company of each other, and the AMC classics. even as a little girl, it was one of my most favorite weeks, and remains to be something i will never forget.
thank you for loving literature.
and symbolism.
and dense, heavy writing that melts as it dances on paper.
thank you for teaching me that that's what writing should do.
i love coming home from a long few weeks at school and seeing you making peach jam in the kitchen.
i love that my face resembles yours more and more each day, and i love that other people notice, too.
thank you for being my mom and loving me even when i get traffic tickets.
also, sometimes, behind your back, i call you nance.
but, to be fair, you call me by my first name, too...
i love you the most-est from coast-est to coast-est.
you're the most wonderful woman on the face of the earth, and i hope to be just like you some day.

happy birthday, mama!

September 17, 2012

if only it were that simple, ry.

the little girl in the yellow dress.

     "but i'm too little," the little girl frowned.
     "yes, but someday, you'll be just the right size," comforted the mother.
     "how do you know?" the five year old kicked her heels together in an unmistakeable upset.
     "because... i just do." her mother smiled one of those smiles that mothers do, and continued her walk in the fresh produce section.
     "and when i'm big," the girl continued, tracing her mother's footsteps with her own two, small feet buckled in baby janes, "i will wear one, too?"
     "i suppose," mother lifted a head of lettuce to the light above her, examining every inch, but finding herself distracted by a different item. she held the lettuce with her right hand, while a small diamond on her left stole the attention. she stood quiet for a moment, wiggling her finger to catch the light.
     "and what if i don't?" she asked.
     "then i will love you just the same, my cora," mother set the lettuce down carefully, and lowered herself to meet her daughter at eye level, kissing her round cheeks twice. the two of them continued to walk. cora shuffled her feet along the tile, creating scuff marks.
     "and then will i be like you?" she wondered. the mother fell silent, unsure of what to say next, when a tall man with hair combed back in gel, wearing a crisp red tie snuck up behind her.
     "oh, i do hope so," the man remarked, kissing the woman. on the lips. the little girl tilted her head and smiled.
     "and who'll be like you?" the little girl asked. the man straightened his tie, raised an eyebrow to his daughter, and after a moment, whispered in her ear.
     "my darling," he began, "that is entirely up to you," he finished.
     the little girl stood still for a few seconds in her yellow dress. she examined the ruffles at her ankles and ran her fingers over the ribbon in her hair. the father stared at her, feeling as though he were watching the wheels turn in her very mind, proud of the thoughts that had been provoked.
     "well," the little girl said, "i hope that he'll kiss me on the mouth."
     the mother and father looked at each other, smirking. the man winked at his wife, and in that moment, the little girl knew she must have been the luckiest girl in the world.

September 13, 2012

concerning face paints,

one day, when we have actual money, i'm going to buy expensive makeup. i'm going to buy trish mcevoy's entire line. and i'm not even going to feel bad about it.

unless you totally don't want me to buy it. and in that case, i will feel bad about doing so. but i probably might do it anyway.


your fancy-makeup-deprived someday.

September 10, 2012

the art of falling, and the trouble with it: an autumn story.

     she had been cold as she left her apartment on temple street. the air was chilled and outspoken; she liked that about autumn mornings. she appreciated the way they refused to apologize for their curtness. autumn was impolite, a trait she had come to love.
     he missed the sun. he caught himself wishing it would return to paint his skin, change his natural pale. he loved the hot pinches that came when he stood still for too long, and ached for the spots he saw in the sky while looking too close.
     she wondered when the leaves would begin their change, basking in the anticipation that came with the changing season. she looked forward to the melting of each snowstorm, sure, and rejoiced in renewed blossoms, too, but there was something silly about the autumn harvest, something that made her come all unglued. the way it didn't last long, but managed to satisfy, somehow, each of her senses at once made her smile. the dying earth and the hope of it resurrecting in just six short months made her fingers tingle. she marveled in all of it, trusting in something bigger than herself. she stood still on her walk, letting the wind play in her hair, taking in the scent of one last summer parade, for she knew its time had come, and this would be its last warm breath until next june.
     he noticed the grass on his way up the stairs. it was coarse and feathered. the small pieces of green were static and hard to come by. he stared, knowing what came with it: cold winds and a sky that knew only grey. he stood unmoving for a moment with all he had, pleading with the sun to stay just a few more sundays. and then, as if bidding a bitter farewell, the ball of light disappeared beyond the clouds, not to be seen by summer until the next solstice hit.
     and then she quit her own still charade and walked into his view.
     she was delicate. she wore a thin, woven sweater of cream yarn. the wind brushed a wave of hair to the side of her face, and with a book pressed to her nose, she crossed the courtyard before him.
     he watched her from three feet behind, examining every step she took. her eyes were intense on the pages of her book, with not the slightest trip in her tread. he particularly adored that.
     "excuse me," he pressed, scaling to her side. her eyes stayed focused on reading.
     "yes?" her reply was sweet like powdered sugar. he caught up further and cleared his throat.
     "do you always walk and read at the same time?" he asked, timidly. this was new for him. he'd not had a shy spell all of his life, though he'd never seen a more interesting girl so pressed into a book, either. he figured it was no coincidence that the two rarities happened on the same day.
     "often," she remarked, still without a flinch.
     "ah," he said, dipping both hands into his pant pockets, "and it has never gotten you into trouble?"
     "trouble?" she flipped the page, "what sort of trouble?"
     "the kind that would have knocked you into me, had i been walking just three feet ahead of you." the woman's eyes met his.
     "oh, no," she shook her head, intriguing him.
     "no?" he wondered.
     "it would have been no trouble at all," she began. he listened intently, "if that had been the case, i would have looked up, apologized, wished you a well morning, and continued on my way," she was abrupt and matter-of-fact--the way autumn had taught her to be. her eyes broke into the book once again when he stopped just before her, halting her, too.
     "well then," he started, "thank goodness you've trained yourself in the art so well, for otherwise, you'd have been gone before i would have had the chance to open my mouth." he spoke softly, his green eyes smiling.
     and for the first time, as she walked with a book to her nose, she fell the way he'd hoped she would.
     ironically in a moment that she'd been standing so still.

i have officially dubbed monday as a writing day. because i'm going to go crazy if i can't write for myself at least one day a week, and my pen needs exercise beyond scholasticism. so, consider monday a day of word clusters and stories. all of them true, though, with small embellishments. because embellishments are additions that make writing pretty.
this is going to be fun.

label: true stories.

September 9, 2012

a few things you should know about courtney kearns:

courtney kearns does not. do. football.
and while the rest of the family prays that the aggies will beat the utes,
courtney kearns does this.
which shouldn't really surprise anyone.
thing number two you should know:
courtney kearns drinks mcdonald's caramel frappes.
because they're hella good.
and yes, she did just say hella. 
sometimes courtney kearns leans a little bit to the tacky side, and she's okay with that.
numero tres:
courtney kearns plans whimsical trips to texas, drives to the SLC, and then doesn't get on her flight.
either one of them.
then, to prove that she has fed her soul, just by being in the airport,
she pulls one of these.
and then she eats an entire caramel apple in under ten minutes by herself. because she can.
hence, the food baby.
she thinks this house on 1st east, a boy with dimples like john davidson, and babies with sticky jam hands could make her happy for the rest of her life. that ivy alone tickles her pink. and she'd give her right arm to grow some just like it. "someday," she says.
and last, but not least,
walking in the kitchen to this sight on an autumn friday afternoon sure does make a girl want to be just like her mama.
courtney kearns thinks this, yes, but she also knows that you do, too. so, she stated it as a fact of life.
 an indefinite statement, you know?

now that you know five things about courtney kearns, you should also know that she loves her life.
the end.

September 6, 2012

this is a story about how my cat ran away from his home.

well, he did it.

gabe finally left the nest. he must've thought it was time for him to grow up. so that's just what he did.
i mostly tell myself all of this because i am too heart broken to think of the alternatives.
i had a dream that he came running into my arms a few nights ago, and i woke up teary eyed the next morning when i realized i had only been asleep.
when he wasn't whining at the door, scared to death of the rain and lightning last weekend, we all sort of gave up hope of ever finding him.
i felt a little piece of me missing when i came home and didn't find him sunning himself on the warm carpet--why is that? why are we, as humans, so attached to our animals? maybe it's because we give them human names.
like, gabe, for instance.

if you're reading this, (which you probably are. because you're the smartest cat i know...) it has been the best 11 years of my whole life. 
thanks for letting me dress you up, lock you in rooms, and call you names that didn't belong to you.
i always found your popcorn fetish pretty weird, and i hated that time you brought me a dead mouse. but i forgive you now.
you were the best cat in the whole world, and i hope you're having adventures beyond the backyard, and eating like a king. 
thanks for growing up with me.
“There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside you they work their magic.”

diane setterfield, the thirteenth tale

read the last sentence of this post. that's the title.

what is true love?
"it's when they hug and kiss. and, um, be happy together."
"true love is when you love somebody soooo much. like, us girls, we love... chris brown. you don't know him."

what's the perfect date?
"you take somebody to applebee's. and you buy them hot wings."

i finally bought this movie. mostly because i'm partial to raw film and uncomfortable conversation.
also because i love it when little kids analyze big kid concepts. like love.

but let's be honest, the ultimate reason is because i have an inexplicably mad love for michael cera...can inexplicable be used as an adverb? i don't know the answer to that.

September 5, 2012

"who's. chasing. you? nobody. get it?"

oh, the clarity that comes with harsh reality and friends who tell you like it is.
justifying and making exceptions.
it's never going to change the facts, and that blows.
it really, really, really blows.
however, i'mma handle this one like a champ. like julianne potter.

and "by god, there will be dancing." 

p.s. tonight i started nailing things to my wall at midnight.
it didn't exactly get me any friends.
p.p.s. this song is quite possibly the best one i have heard in a long time.
we were all silently thinking it (i was, at least). i'm glad somebody finally had the guts to write it. this is why i love her. (also, if you hate swearing, probably this song isn't going to be your most favorite... sorry...) without further ado, my angry anthem.