Lovely

Last night Margarita, Nate and I met downtown for dinner at Bouchon for all-you-can-eat mussels and a refreshingly light bottle of muscadet before the chocolate mousse and chocolate crepes for dessert. We sat on the outside patio and Nate and I had at least two rounds of mussels and a typical lively conversation. It was one of the best nights I've had this summer, and it's been a summer full of great nights.

Clandestine

There was this big stink this past weekend about someone stealing and publishing the prayer that Obama left at the western wall in Jerusalem, and all the news organizations then proceeded to publish it while condemning the theft.
Oh irony. You are so pretty.

Prayers are secrets; the whispers and language between a soul and a Great Hope. They are not something to be passed around and shared (unless you are Jabez, then I bet you are just straight pissed at that dude who made a ton of money off of you), a bit to be analyzed by masses.
I've been thinking about secrets lately, those things that adhere themselves to innermost walls and backs of tongues. Those things that never quite make it out; that can't navigate an exit.
Fact is, I loathe 'em. I loathe having them, I loathe when they destroy people. In most cases I see no good in secrets. I had a friend who quipped, "I hate clandestine organizations...unless I'm in them."

Not to say I want every little part of me to be known (I'm not THAT kind of blog owner) but so often I find that secrets do much to separate me from those that love me. But my exposing those secrets to light, I am released from shame, guilt, fear, rejection, judgement. I am freed. But my secrets, my prayers, are mine to be released not someone else's. They are mine.
Yours are yours.

That should be respected.

(This could be taken as if it's some sort of dig or warning to someone; it's totally not. I don't even have anyone with whom I'd have this conversation. Unless you want to start a clandestine organization with me, then lets chat.)

Notes on the Week

I manged to close my own hand in my freezer one morning while getting the coffee out. Actually happened. Have cut on hand to prove it. No more coffee in freezer; too dangerous.

We got a perfect 11 out of 11 on the potpourri round at Quizzo on Monday because the 10 of the 11 answers were taken directly from the lyrics to "It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)" and when I was 8 or so I decided to learn all the lyrics to said song. And I remember them. So that talent finally paid off. After 20 years.

I finally moved the fridge all by myself on Wednesday to tile under it, then got too excited about putting the fridge back to finish that last little spot that I managed to crack a tile in half. That was the second time in one week I've let out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. When I was a kid my mom washed my mouth out with soap. It only happened once, I learned my lesson. I may need to have that happen again, or just get a better thesaurus of cursing. (The best string of curses I've ever uttered was when I got shot in the leg with a paint ball gun by a drunk man hiding in the woods. Same night my steering wheel fell apart in my lap and got duct-taped back together while a cop stared at me. True story.)

Matt Sloan has informed me that I pronounce the word "both" weird. I apparently pronounce it "bolth" while the Southern way to say it is "Bowth" or something weird like that. Now it's my "Yankee" word. Whatever I've lived in "bolth" the north and the south; I'm just an east coaster.

Leslie and I got very excited about pulling out her CD book from the days of high school and college and I have this observation: She defended everything she owned. I mean from "The Other Sister" soundtrack to the SINGLE of Cher's "Believe". Seriously. No shame. It was great. But she also has the whole army of old-school REM so that just brought joy. Fun night. She did also have Sugar Ray.

Doug and I are starting a charity for children with toes growing on their asses. We don't know if this is actually a problem, but we feel the best prevention for Ass Toe Syndrome (ATS) is education and understanding. Won't you donate and help children with ATS? Make checks payable to me.

If you catch me listening to a lot of Ani, Tori Amos, old Liz Phair or Fiona Apple, chances are I want to hit someone or yell. If I'm listening to a lot of Patty Griffin or Innocence Mission then I probably need a hug (like my friend Kristen can attest). Lots of Dar Williams then I'm probably up for anything but may need to play a serious amount of guitar. All of them at once: Probably just went to a Lilith Fair reunion. Or just re-read The Red Tent. FYI.

She's Buying a Stairway

I'm back to sleeping poorly. I get in these cycles where my brain hums along with the ceiling fan motor, where sleep is restless, brief and full of vivid emotions and images. The alarm screams me into a morning tense, bleary and exhausted. I haven't been getting to bed at any good hour (just in the past five days it's been something like 2:30am, 4am, 1:30am, 1am, and 3am) and since I seem to wake up at the same time regardless of the hour of slumber my body is confused and can't find its beacon for rest. And the brain keeps humming along.

I have only one reoccurring dream and it involves what is supposed to be the curved servant's staircase in my great aunt's house. This staircase is made of heavy wood and is tucked into what could be a closet space; it is confined and sturdy. The staircase that appears in my dreams is almost always free-standing with no rails and infinite space to the sides of it. I have to climb down this staircase and it paralyzes me every time. In this last incarnation I sat down on my butt and wanted to slowly slide my way down the steps instead of trying to walk them. The thought of being upright on their lip was too much. I never make it down the staircase, I always wake up shaking.
Some people dream of attackers, rabid bears, wars: I dream of staircases.

She's Got Legs

I had a lovely weekend off of work, one in which I had grand plans to go camping, etc. Instead I ended up hanging out at the Shop til 3:30 on Friday night and going to Knoxville to see The Dark Knight on the IMAX on Saturday. Also managed to jack up my back pretty bad and spend most of Sunday propped up, staring at a wall but the plus side is the day ended with a sweet massage from my roommate, who happens to be in massage school. Best idea for a roommate. Ever.
Don't have too many thoughts or ideas, so I thought I'd share some photos from the ongoing and almost done tiling project. Enjoy and happy Monday.

This is what my legs look like. Those Carrharts will never quite look the same.

Had one tile that was too loose; didn't put enough mortar down, so I had to pull it up, chisel out the old mortar and redo it. Took a while but now it is fine.

Can't Stop the Hipster

I went to an indie rock show last night.
You know the kind--the tiny bar is filled to capacity and that's 30 people, the smoke hovers like fireworks have been lit in a confined space--that kind of show. The girls all have haircuts that look as if students at dog grooming school were given a chainsaw and some uppers, the boys' jeans are probably girls jeans and they all have floppy hair and t-shirts with nonsensical phrases across them, selling product that hasn't actually been produced since 1986.
I, of course, was in J.Crew and a pair of Rainbows.
Strike one, yuppie.
But I do have plastic framed glasses. Real ones. With a prescription. That I wear.
Ooooh cool.
And so there I was. The Hipsters all chain-smoked and drank PBR tall boys. Why is PBR the new beer for Hipsters? Must they really rebel against the audacious oppression that is Really Kickass Microbrews? Did their parents one day say, "Son! You must drink this hand-crafted Pale Ale made just down the street!' and the son said, "FU dad I'm going to drink this shitty midwest beer! In a can!" and then dad cried.
Way to rebel.
And then there was the music. The first band was, of course, people I know (score a point) who played very loud instruments and jumped around and sang earnestly songs in which I could only understand one out of ever six words. Translating Hipster songs is like trying to understand Telemundo. Now I suffer from a grave affliction called No Seriously Stop Dancing and it flares up mightily in the presence of Hipsters, what with their European looking shoes and really interesting names and all. They all dance as if they are getting repeatedly shocked by a low-voltage taser and though this looks relatively easy, I still can't do it. So I have to restrain my urge to snap (why snap? Lose a point) and just sort of bounce to the screaming guitars and angst pouring out over the crowd. Of 30 people.
The show didn't start til 11:30, which is usually when I'm climbing under the covers, not waiting to see the opening band. But I stayed awake and only yawned once, which I guess is a mortal sin from the looks I got. Can't help it. Work night. I came home smelling like Natural American Spirit cigarettes and the bizarre hipness of national beer and may have pulled a muscle in my leg not dancing but all in all it was a fun night.
If you can be hip enough for it.

Go Westy

I live in one of the prettiest places in the country.

There are days when I almost wreck my car because I'm dumbstruck by the scene outside my windshield; this town is nicely nestled in the lush, maternal mountains that surround it. It is breathtaking in every season.

(I-mean-it-sucks-don't-move-here)

After Quizzo recently I've been heading down to the Warehouse/Shop to hang out and play darts with Adam, Jonathan, Yeatman and whomever else is around. It's the perfect endcap to a night consumed with answering inane questions over pints of microbrew. After last week's strong showing (and one in which I won my 6^th shout-out question) I was feeling energetic so I stayed at the Shop after Margarita and Yeatman left. Jonathan and I got to talking and decided we should go camping the next night. His best friend and his girlfriend were in town in their Westy camper and since Jonathan essentially lives in his it'd be a breeze to pack up and head to the Smokies in matching VWs. So after doing some tiling in the morning I met up with the crew at the shop and with a few stops to get meal makings we were off, cruising at the brisk 55 top speed of the Westy.
We first headed to a favorite spot of Jonathan's on the East Fork of the Pigeon called Garden of the Gods, where we proceeded to rock hop and scramble up continuous 12-20ft waterfalls with deep pools full of native brook trout for almost two hours. Great fun; I haven't rock hopped like that in ages. I love the puzzle it becomes, the weight distribution and foot placement; the translation of right handed movements to the left-handed brain. The river mets up with the road and we easily walked back down to the campers.

(Not Jonathan's Westy but one very similar)

By this point it was strongly dinnertime. We drove up onto the Parkway and parked at the overlook for Devil's Courthouse, where we popped the tops to the campers and cooked our meals. This is when Jonathan's modifications on his Westy really began to impress, though I was most impressed by the command to simply sit in my chair, drink my wine and not do a darn thing. We had pan-seared king salmon steaks, fresh salad, asparagus and red wine and it was delicious. Yes, that was cooked on a stove in a VW camper. And we had some classical station as background music so we almost looked classy what with our lexan wine glasses and all.

(Devil's Courthouse)

After dinner we drove a short distance to the parking area for Black Balsam Knob, a 6200ft bald in the Shining Rock Wilderness area (in comparison, Mt Marcy in NY is 5344 ft, Mt. Washington is 6288ft) where we popped the tops and set up camp for the night. We didn't get to bed til after 2am. I haven't slept in the pop-top of a VW camper since I was probably 12; it brought back some of my favorite memories of camping with my dad in my grandparents blue 1982 VW.
The sun was bright and clear in the morning and as neither of us are morning people it was nice to sort of ease into the day, to the tune of actually attempting to go back to bed after a breakfast of pancakes with strawberries and fresh coffee. Didn't work, gave up on the napping and finally left to hike Black Balsam. It has one of the best views in the Pisgah area; as a bald it's clear in all directions with views of Looking Glass, Graveyard Fields, Shining Rock, Mt Pisgah and Cold Mountain. We had a picnic lunch at the summit but the threat of rain sent us scurrying back down the trail to head back to town. This was all about 30 miles from my house.
I know that was long but I hope it did the trip justice. It was throughly enjoyable.

(The summit of Black Balsam taking from the internets as my camera is broken)

"Umm...How Did That Get There?"

Ok, so "the Most Embarassing Songs on Your iPod" topic has expanded to include the hypothetical. Here are some of the songs I'd consider embarassing if they were indeed on my iPod...if I do have them I put a star next to it. I'll keep myself honest.

• Barbie Girl--Aqua
• Wannabe--Spice Girls
• Any Cheetah Girls
• Any Weird Al
• Most Show Tunes. Sorry. (I have the whole score of "Rent")
• Any O-Town
• I Honestly Love You--Olivia Newton-John
• Keep On Lovin' You--REO Speedwagon
• Neil Sedaka
• Girls of the Summer--LFO
• All By Myself--Eric Carmen
• Sugar Ray
• Muskrat Love
• Ricky Martin
• Yes
• America
• Europe
• Rush
• Wasn't Me--Shaggy
• Xanadu
• Barry Manilow* (Guilty. Have "Mandy" and "Copa Cabana")
• Do They Know It's Christmas--Band-Aid
• Donnie and Marie
• I'll Never Get Over You Getting Over Me--Expose
• Ashlee Simpson
• My Humps--Fergie (I do have "Fergalicious" and "Glamorous")
• My Heart Will Go On--Celiene Dion
• Most Theme songs from just about every show/movie
• Ride That Donkey--12 Gauge
• Pretty Fly for a White Guy--Offspring
• Menudo
• She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy--Kenny Chesney
• God Must Have Spent A Little More Time On You--Alabama (and N'Sync)
• To be fair, I do own the entire album of "Love. Angel. Music. Baby" by Gwen Stefani.
• And "Mizundastood" by P!nk. The whole album.
• And "Breakaway" by Kelly Clarkson. Ditto to the whole album.

Any additions?

Burn After Reading

I'm feeling honest.

I want to see the new X-Files movie.
I loved the first few seasons of the show (before Mulder left) and the first movie, so experience says I will go see and probably even enjoy the second film. I just watched the preview and got a little excited. Yeah I was THAT kid. To quote Phil Collins, "Take a look at me now..."

I've had Talking Heads stuck in my...umm..head for about three days. Specifically, "Psycho Killer" but don't read too far into the song selection.

Insatiable sushi craving. And mussels. I need seafood.

I went to Shindig on the Green last night with Jonathan and Nancy and we got BBQ sandwiches and sat father away on bleachers to watch the little kids clogging and the jamming bluegrass all around us and I couldn't imagine being anywhere else at that moment. The night's air had the weight of pregnant sky.

I watched the first season of "Weeds" on Netflix and I'm impressed and mildly addicted. I love Mary-Louise Parker; she's one of those great actresses who's not too overexposed; she could grocery shop next to me and I might not notice it's her.

Norman the Pug keeps pulling all of his plush toys out of his basket and throwing them around the house. I assume this means play but when I throw his stuffed owl he just looks at me and goes and grabs another toy.

I went camping last week and promise to post something about it because it was a highlight of my year. I can't believe I get to live here.

One of my favorite questions to ask a group of people is "What is the most embarrassing song on your iPod, the one that if it comes up on shuffle in front of people you quickly try to talk it away or change it?" and the responses have been amazing. Every person has a different answer. Kristen Ashton may win with an acapella version of the Carolina fight song. See if you can do better, because most of my songs that come up are intentionally hilarious...like "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" by Meatloaf or "Always Be My Baby" by Mariah Carey.

Dangerous Breakfast Cereals

Apparently I haven't worn these jeans in months because I found a list in the back pocket that I started making at work back in April. Enjoy.

Dangerous Breakfast Cereals:

• Fruit Loops of Burning Death
• Apple Jacks yo' Lexus Foo'
• Un-Lucky Charms from an Angry Voodoo Shaman
• Fruity Pebbles Raining Down On You Cuz It's Actually An Avalanche
• Alpha-Bits of Broken Glass
• Berry Berry Kix You In The Groin
• Capped n' Crunched
• Count Shock-U-La
• Corn Pops A Cap In You
• Grape Nuts
• Honeycomb Stolen From Some Seriously Pissed Killer Bees

Blanket Statement

I haven't been posting actual updates in a while and I don't know why. Here's what's been goin' on:

* Slappy went back to the Sloans on Sunday night. I woke up on Monday morning and suddenly had all this time; I was 15 minutes early to work. I miss that little weiner dog. Sometimes.

* I've been terrified to actually start laying the tiles. I get this "Holy crap Jane spent a lot of money on these and you better not screw this up, Spooner" feeling and then I freak out. But I finally got over that and thus the tiling has actually begun. It looks really good so far. Hopefully all the full tiles in the hall and dining area will be laid by the weekend. Gulp. Since I've only been working on this project for what feels like, oh, 9 years.

* July 4th: best one ever. Hands down so much fun. BBQ at Clark and Nancy's (luckily missed the water balloon fight) but ate lots of grilled American awesomeness and drank from a small keg of Pisgah's Pale Ale, which is the best of the local ales (though French Broad's 13 Rebels is the best ESB and Green Man's IPA is off the hizzy) before they had their own little fireworks show. Right before dusk we headed down to Adam's warehouse/shop in downtown where we all climbed out onto the roof and watched the fireworks. We were so close the booms were setting off the car alarms around us. After the fireworks most people cleared out but Margarita, Johnny, Yeatman and I stuck around til way too late, playing darts and talking over each other.

* The night before Johnny and I had headed out to Black Mountain to watch "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" as it was screened in the backyard of a mutual friend's house. Sitting in lawn chairs, drinking a Sam Adams Summer Ale, watching a favorite movie: priceless. Then we went to a campfire with friends and stayed up much too late laughing and eating roasted brats.

* Quizzo on Monday: I got in an argument with the MC about Martha Washington's maiden name. Seriously. And I won the argument. If only Mr. Gillespie could see my mad US History skills now he would have just given me a blanket A in AP History all those years ago. (By the way, it's not Custis like everyone thinks. That was her first husband's name. It was Dandridge.)

Blog of the Day

Whenever I go back to my dad's house, I end up watching something like 19 hours straight of inane VH-1 Countdowns. I can't help it, they are like crack to quasi-lazy semi-educated single white girls. It turns the brain to a cold oatmeal mush but it's oh so good. What makes it better is Michael Ian Black's commentary, as he and Hal Sparks seem to be in every single thing that VH-1 can seem to make a countdown about. And I love him for that.
That being said, today I found Michael Ian Black's blog.
This is made even better by his running fake feud with David Sedaris.
Now that I know he has a new book out ("My Custom Van: And 50 Mind-Blowing Essays That Will Blow Your Mind All Over Your Face") I must get it and read it. Soon. Enjoy the new blog waste of time, suckas. It's hilarious.

Cocooned

What is it about summer that brings people out of doors, into late hours and deep in conversation?

The winter is sleep; 11pm in February is much too late but by July 11pm is just the beginning.

Summers have been these patchworks of all-encompassing warmth, a different sense of living, this deep vitality that starts in the toes and works its way into everything. The nights are the pinnacle of temperature, neither too hot or too cold, neither too dry or too muggy but that place where heat and coolness are settled and quiet, a tenuous and teetering peace. When the worries of balance fade away one finds themselves on that little plateau of solace, itself covered in a swath of conversation, one ready for harvest each summer. Why is that? Why is conversation so easy on summer nights?
It doesn't matter if its a stoop in a city, a deck in the suburbs or a campfire in the country it all melds into nights made later by more words to say. It's as if what lives in summer cannot be filled in a day, even with its seemingly endless sunlight. It must breathe and walk among the stars.
This season has already had its bouquets of ripe conversation and laughter; I am in awe of this yearly constant of quality that blooms as the temperature hums. Summers are awe.