Russell Crowe at church

I lied in church on Sunday.

It all happened so fast. Suddenly, I heard Pastor Randy ask for a show of hands as to who had all seen Gladiator. Hands shot up across the sanctuary, and as I turned to scan the room, there it was. My little Judas. My left hand hung in the air, telling everyone in the room that yes, I had seen Gladiator.

But I have not seen Gladiator.

Imagine my horror. My embarrassment. My utter mortification. I had lied in the House of God! And for what? A Russel Crowe movie?

The shame.

I dropped my hand into my lap, hoping no one had seen.

But when Randy continued with a follow-up question, asking who in the room liked Russell Crowe, I breathed a sigh of relief as my hand truthfully stayed down.

A little lie about Gladiator was one thing.
But if I had lied about liking Russell Crowe ... well, that would be an entirely different ballgame.

remember me

Rented REMEMBER ME from the Red Box tonight to watch alone. What can I say? I was in the mood for some R-Pattz.

For some reason I'd figured it would be a lighthearted romance. Something that would leave me feeling happy and hopeful. Smiling, even.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is no such movie.

About halfway through I realized my heart wasn't getting any lighter. My brow was permanently stuck in a furrowed state. And I swear I felt a good bit of teenage angst rise from deep within. For no reason, of course. Because that's how angst works.

The movie as a whole was just ok. It was slow moving and angst-y and I was continually annoyed at how Robert held his cigarette (he must have been doing it the British way). The main girl had too round of a face, so of course I was reminded of myself (and in case you aren't aware, I have secret inner trouble watching movies in which a character reminds me of myself), and did I mention the angst?

But the end of the movie ... !!!

I almost cried. And I'm not a crier. It was sad. Horribly sad. And I couldn't figure out why I hadn't figured it out sooner ... but there it was.

And as for our dear, R-Pattz ... well ...

You'll just have to watch to find out.

Rating, and other info for Remember Me here.

in defense of poetry

Nothing has taught me the rhythm and cadence of words and phrases like poetry did.
It introduced me to pulse and inflection and timing.
Syllables and flow and inexact rhyming.
Words became notes and the story, the song.
And I the composer who moved them along
To fit in a format of phrases and lines, and sound just as beautiful when read without time.
So behind each story of heroes and beasts you’ll find is a symphony of pulses and beats and phrases that feel as though you have found peace
Because poetry taught me well.

show hopping

Just ordered two tickets for Tad and I to see Sufjan Stevens in Indy. And, I’ll be honest … I’m a bit nervous.

I used to go to shows all the time. Sometimes two or three in one night, which I suppose some would akin to bar hopping, except there was rarely alcohol involved. Well, at least not on my part (See mom, aren’t you so proud of me?).

They were rarely professional gigs, mind you, but I was a broke college kid, surrounded by other broke college kids. So we went to the local shows in which the music and crowds were so collectively terrible that it was the best fun we’d had all week.

After college, I sort of stopped going. I mean we all grew up and got jobs. And even though to this day I still hang out with many of the guys and gals I went show-hopping with, we haven’t been to a show together in ages. But I guess that’s how it goes. Suddenly, the late nights are a bit too late. The loud music is definitely too loud. And the mosh pit … well, it’s a lot less inviting.

(Which I suppose is another blog post altogether … the Fort Wayne mosh pit. In Peoria, we didn’t mosh. Everyone stood around and smoked cigarettes. But not me, mom! Aren’t you proud again??)

For awhile after college, I vowed to go to one show per year. And since I actually had some sort of income, I vowed that the show would be a real show. As in having opening acts, a headlining act and merch tables. That worked for a bit. Tad and I went to see Death Cab. Then, around a year later we went to see Bloc Party. But despite our faces being rocked off each time, we just … stopped.

And now, it’s been a couple years since my last real (or even fake, for that matter) show, and it took me a number of uploads on TicketMaster before I finally got the guts to complete the order.

Because … I don’t know … what if it’s not as fun as it used to be? What if we have a horrible time? What if Sufjan's not as amazing live as he is on the recordings? What if I change my mind at the last minute? What if I don’t fit in?

Better go dig up my Chuck Taylors just to be safe.

twelve

Have I had my share of bad haircuts? Yes. Even though I’ve gotten my hair cut far fewer times than the average person, the ratio, I assume is bad. Very bad.

It must have started when I was five and thought it would be a good idea if my hair came to a perfect point in the back. Like a reverse devil’s tail or something. Thankfully, my parents secretly told the stylist that it should be rounded, as opposed to a perfect point.

But that experience sparked what I can only assume to be a complete inability to properly explain what I want done. Because even though I break my ‘wants’ down into the simplest of terms, I end up with something wackadoodle.

Like the time I told the stylist I wanted layers.

“Layers?” she asked, her tone betraying her confusion.

“Yes, like where one layer of hair is shorter than the other … it’s quite popular.”

“Um … o …. k…”.

I ended up with a cut that looked as though my 5 year old brother had attacked me with a scissors in my sleep. Like seriously, I had one chunk of hair that hit my shoulder, while the chunk underneath it hit me mid-back. (Apparently, the layered look hadn’t yet reached Elk Grove Village, IL …?)

Then, there was the time I brought an issue of Vogue that had Ashlee Simpson on the cover and said, “That. I want that.”

Forty minutes and $55 later, I came out looking like some mini van-driving mom who had cut off all her hair in an attempt to make life with a million children just a bit easier.

And the most recent offender?

I was running behind in life, so I decided instead of trying to schedule something with my regular girl (who is usually book 3 weeks out), I’d just drop by the Regis Hair Salon in the mall. I mean it was the same price point, after all. And since my usual stylist seemed to understand my current language when explaining what I wanted done, I figured this new girl would, too.

Wrong.

Sure, it looked great when she styled it, but now, I’ve noticed a sudden rise in people saying that I look 12 years old.

12 years old.

Ok, maybe that one person assumed I was 17.

And then there was that other person who guessed me at around 22.

Look, I know I look young. What can I say? GOOD GENES.

But 12?

Excuse me while I visit the local vitamin store in search of some sort of hair-growing supplement.

heat wave

We’ve been living with practically zero air conditioning for the entire summer. It hasn’t been too bad, really. I mean after all, when playing video games, Tad tends to slip in and out of consciousness anyway. And I? I don’t think of myself as ‘home for the day’ until about 7 or 8pm. And by then, the world outside is just starting to return to quasi-normal temperatures. So yeah, it’s been ok.

But the past few days have not been ok.

Allow me to use haiku to explain this humidity that has suffocated the Midwest over the last week:

Swimming as I walk,

Body bracing for impact.

Asphyxiation.

Multiply that by eight, and you’ll have what we’ve been going through here in landlocked USA.

Last night, after getting home extra late (9:30), I found that I could not move without either 1) breaking into a new sweat, or 2) my hair doubling in size. Enough was enough. It didn’t matter that we were trying to be strong … trying to save our landlord (who happens to be in ministry) the financial burden of supplying us with the 3 window units that are now kaput. All that mattered was being able to sleep through the night. And blow drying your hair without collecting sweat beads on your brow. And cooking a piece of chicken without wondering if you were going to instantaneously combust.

And wouldn’t you know it? The landlord emailed us right back and said he’d be over the next day to take measurements.

So, there we were. 10:30 at night, cleaning like maniacs, because to be quite honest the house hadn’t been touched since before I did a quick trip to the West coast last week.

And though I never knew that folding clothes could work up such a righteous sweat, I will say that it crossed my mind that that night would possibly be one of the last nights I’d have in which the morning resulted in a 5-pound weight loss.

I took advantage of that fact with a 2am bowl of cereal.

Impressions - Portland Edition

1.Where did the sidewalks go?
2. I want a tattoo, too.
3. My hair is definitely not rockstar enough.
4. Where did all this nature come from? I’ve almost walked into five spider webs.
5.I can’t believe Sandra is complaining about the humidity.
6.Do two-story homes exist around here?
7.Wow, their attempt at growing corn is pathetic.
8.This oyster tastes like mashed potatoes.
9.I miss mashed potatoes.
10.I really like how I don’t feel like I’m melting all day long. Thank you, overcast sky.
11.I should have brought my guitar. Everyone else here has guitars.
12.Just Starbucks? Guess I expected some sort of “Portland’s Own”.
13.Where’s Wal-Mart?
14.I wonder if they know that I’ve never heard of the term “die back” when referring to grass losing its greenness. I guess we always just say it ‘dies’. Well, after it’s covered by snow.
15.Oh, no snow here? That’s sad.
16.FYI – we light our bridges in Peoria, too.
17.Is that a homeless boy or a homeless girl? I can’t tell.
18.Where’s the ghetto?
19.The Rose Bowl sounds less wimpy when you realize it was named for all the roses in Portland. Ok, no it doesn’t.
20.What’s wrong with ordering chicken tenders?
21.All of that nature and only one mosquito bite. Who would have thought?
22.Clams are squeaky. I don’t think I can eat more than five.
23.I definitely can’t eat more than five.
24.I think I’ll visit again!
25.I’m ready for Edward to carry me up this tree, now.