Foxholes & Vantage Points

I wasn't going to post anything else this year, but there's something I want to say.

It wasn't one thing; it was a thousand. It was good food and good people. It was a visit from an old friend. It was new music and making out; it was surprises in the mail. It was the chance to extend a hand to someone who needed it, and it was reaching out and finding a hand extended to me. It was finding this and laughing so hard that I cried. It was second chances and it was first tries and it was knowing with all my heart that none of it's deserved.




I'm nothing if not a foxhole spiritual. I don't pray often, and when I do, it's in moments of dire need-- usually someone else's. Sending up a prayer on my own behalf always feels a bit like voting for myself for class president. There's a certain logic to it, but it feels somehow unsportsmanlike.

But this week, there was no foxhole. There was only snow on the ground and a blue sky above, a home cooked meal and the generosity of strangers. Twinkling lights, gifts I didn't deserve, and a warm blanket on a cold night.

I came home and I cried.

"It's not luck," a good friend said to me, but the truth is that it is. I'm surrounded by so much goodness, and just when I think the world can't get any better, the walls of my heart expand that much more. And on this white Christmas, with carols filling the car, a grinning dog in the back seat, and two people who I admire more than I ever imagined I could, I thought: I'm not given these things because I am good, I am good because I am given these things.




I came home to a silent house. I took off my snowy clothes and climbed into the shower, letting the water warm my tired limbs. Candlelight danced across the bathroom walls as hot water coursed over my shoulders, and I thought of all your sacrifices, and all my selfish choices. I thought of all my reckless squandering and all my taking-for-granted, of all the times when I was wrong, wrong, wrong.

And suddenly the words poured out of me like a dam had fallen. I prayed not from a foxhole, but from something higher, a place from which I could see. I prayed for wisdom and for strength, and for some kind of magic to make me deserving of all these blessings that keep finding their way to my ever-expanding heart.




Anyway.

This week has been good.

I just wanted to mark it.

photo courtesy budgiejen, saharsh, gabriela_camerotti

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A Year in Review: 2008

I did this last year and it was kind of amazing.

1. Look up your first post of the month from every month this year.
2. Copy the first few lines from each post.
3. Link to the original post at the end of the quote.

The result is an almost unnervingly accurate summary of 2008.

==

January
So here I am, packing again. I feel like I'm always packing.


February
Things finally seem to be coming together on the job front. Of course, ten things are all coming together at the same time because that's how it always goes.


March
I can't believe I actually finished! A few of the final tracks were just half-formed ideas (one doesn't even have a demo yet), but I finished!


April
These past several days, it's been 50 degrees and sunny, but the whole world's felt cold. Tonight I was perched on the edge of the couch, ready for flight, alone in the room as twilight made its inevitable descent, as it was slipping its long fingers through the cracks in the windows, stealing whatever light we'd hidden away between couch cushions.


May
My friend Russell recently directed me to thesixtyone, which is a place for artists to post songs and for listeners to find new music. The site works like Digg except that listeners "bump" songs instead of articles.



June
A few months ago, I wrote a song called "Wish" for FAWM. I was never really satisfied with it and today I recorded a new version.

The song still needs work, but it hit the T61 homepage about six hours after posting and, as of this writing, has 591 bumps. That is by far the fastest growth of any song I've posted!


July
I've never been the best with money.


August
Back in February, I sent a photograph to my favorite weekly paper here in town. They never used it, but rejection is part of my daily life, so I took it in stride and forgot all about it.




In further "Laurie is Now Kind of Famous" news, I just got an email from them that they're using the photograph in their Annual Manual, which is printed on fancy, high-gloss paper and hits newsstands August 21st! I expect to see it clipped to all of y'all's refrigerators the next time I come to your house.


September
My date with Fantasy Football was Friday night.

... and Saturday.

... and Sunday.

... and this morning.

Shit, dudes. I might be in trouble.


October
I've recently been inundated with emails, comments, and sternly-worded e-cards, all asking me the same all-too-reasonable question:

"How is it that the men in your life have not found your blog?"

[photo courtesy mermay19]

And to this all-too-reasonable question, my answer is a resounding: "... I have no idea."


November
I have a confession to make.

[photo courtesy stacya]

... I hate Halloween.


December
My trip to Florida was, in a word, pretty incredible.

Okay, that's two words.

==

Happy New Year, everyone! You've made it an amazing year. See you in 2009.

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I Want to Do Right, But Not Right Now

Little known fact: If you use a credit card, it's not real money.

This is the kind of ironclad logic I was using this week when I decided to buy a ticket to New York for New Year's Eve. This is how I always do things-- I scrimp and I save and I eat ramen every meal of the day and then... and then I get sick of it.

And I buy a last-minute plane ticket to New York.

ME. i found a ticket for $166
ME. BUT
ME. it gets into newark at basically midnight
ANNA. "ring in the new year... in terminal 5"
ME. i mean
ME. if i'm looking for a story
ME. that is it
ANNA. the newark train is like $15
ME. GENIUS
ME. party in style at penn station
ANNA. the houlihan's in port authority
ME. with my luggage
ME. and the "just spent 95 hours on a plane" look
ANNA. hot
ME. oh wait it's not even $166
ME. it's $208
ANNA. HAHA
ME. reading comprehension = fail

...

ME. ok ok
ME. this one is $214
ME. and gets into newark at like 7pm
ANNA. ok
ME. this is like looking at NY apts on craigslist
ME. the longer you look at them, the cheaper they look
ANNA. "$400 sounds pretty reasonable"

...

ME. laguardia is the closer one right?
ME. between LGA and JFK
ANNA. LGA is closer but the subway doesn't go there
ME. oh right
ME. i hate buying flights
ME. i'm always sure that i'm forgetting some vital piece of information
ME. in this case, it's that i make $12/hr

My reasons for taking this trip are many and varied, and almost uniformly retarded. They're also mostly secret, which is fun for me, but not for you. You can read all about it in my tell-all.


I know that a lot of you fools live in New York and I just want to apologize in advance that I probably will not see you. It's a whirlwind trip and I have some specific business (SECRET SECRET) to carry out while I'm there. But I'm already planning another trip for the spring.

You know, with my exorbitant horde of monopoly money.

==

In related news, I've been listening to this song on repeat for six days straight. Thanks to my dear Evin for including it on the best-titled mixtape anyone's ever given me.

[Look at Miss Ohio // Gillian Welch]

Enjoy your New Year's Eve, everyone. May your balls drop in a timely and enjoyable fashion.

photo courtesy mudpig

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Where Everybody Knows Your Name

cup of coffee: $2.00
vegan banana chocolate chip cupcake: $2.50

being able to pay with an IOU when I walk in, drenched from the rain, and realize I forgot my wallet at home: priceless

p.s. Is it really necessary to spend $2.50 on a cupcake when I'm eating peanut butter every night for dinner? No, no it is not.

photo couresy viewfromthemoon

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The Mother of Invention

I forgot to tell you about one more thing I did this week.

It's amazing what one can do with a $7 bottle of hair dye and five minutes of haphazard scissoring.

To say that money's tight right now would be a grave understatement. It isn't just homemade hair cuts and bottled blonde; I would possibly maim, though probably not kill, for a decent meal right now. Some hearty protein, a few leafy greens, and maybe something chocolate at the end of it. If a glass of wine was involved, so be it.

A side effect of my near-empty wallet is a wardrobe that's badly in need of an upgrade. I've been scouring thrift shops and the backs of drawers, accepting hand-me-downs from friends; pairing the old with the very old, cinching a belt on top, and calling it new again. Getting creative is half the fun, anyway.

But even the most loyal pieces must eventually join that Big Laundry Hamper in the Sky. And so today, I finally said au revoir to a tired grey sweater I bought in Paris two summers ago.

Saying that I bought it in Paris makes it sound very chic, but it isn't. It came from Monoprix, which is the Parisian equivalent of Kmart. It's served me well this past year and a half, but I must have worn it a thousand and one times and its prime had long since passed.

So today, in a flash of inspiration, I grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped it straight down the middle. Now, my lazy old sweater is a shiny new cardigan-- and from Paris, no less. Practically vintage.

I paired it with an on-sale top my mother bought me from Target and the necklace of my dreams, treasure-hunted yesterday at the thrift store down the block. Underneath is a black&white striped dress I've had for years and a pair of black leggings I'm horrified to tell you are from Walmart. They were four dollars, y'all.




Leaving the house today, I was so utterly pleased with my own creative invention that I failed to don a scarf or a winter hat. The past few days have been snowy, but pleasant, so this didn't seem like cause for alarm.

But today? Not so pleasant.

Today? Twenty-seven degrees below zero, with wind chill.

I'm sorry to report that near-death by hypothermia is considerably less pleasant than one might imagine, so for the walk home, I knew that going sans scarf was not an option. I brainstormed for a moment-- could I fashion something out of paper towels? Maybe I could somehow bunch up the hood of my coat?

Then: inspiration. I took off my newly altered cardigan and altered it yet again-- into a scarf.


Warm and fashionable? I'll drink to that.

As long as you're buying.

==

If you're a member of Twenty-Something Bloggers, this is a friendly reminder that it's award nomination time. You can read more and cast your vote here. There's a lot of good shit out there, y'all.

In further exciting news, I promised another contest when we hit 200 subscribers and we are frighteningly close. If you haven't yet taken the leap, now's a good time to strap on your parachute.

And that's all the housekeeping I have for today. Happy Solstice, darlings. The days are only getting brighter from here.

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And Now You Know Everything

Hey, so I had a cool idea today, guys. How about if I wipe off the black nail polish, turn down the Cure records, and stop being so fucking emo?




Yeah? Ok.

I'm touched, humbled, and a little embarrassed by how many of you reached out to me this week. Whether it was by email, telephone, morse code, or carrier pigeon, each message warmed my snowy Wisconsin heart. I received no less than six Christmas invitations, including one from Canada that made me cry. I love you all.

Platonic love is a difficult thing for me to express. I don't know how to tell you all how often I think of you, how I cheer for you, how I sometimes even pray for you, to some unknown god or goddess who may in fact be nothing more than a wind chime on my neighbor's porch. I compose love sonnets and thank you notes while walking to the bus, but I never send them, do I?

Yes, even to you. I never send them.




The past week has been topsy-turvy in every sense of the word. I thought I was dreaming when I was awake, and awake when I was dreaming. Everything felt upside-down and opposite and I couldn't have found North if I'd been holding a compass.

A sampling of the past week's activities, in no particular order:

• Went on a non-date date. Drank cozy beverages in a dimly lit bar and debated the arguments for t-rex v. velociraptor in a dino battle to the death. Subsequent admission: 100% of data for said debate was obtained from the movie Jurassic Park.
  
  
• Spent hours playing the piano in my underwear, snowflakes on the window and a jumble of words on my tongue. Fingers felt creaky and tired on the keys, but I'm warming up.
  
  
• Had a five-hour conversation with the only person who's ever irrevocably broken my heart. Words were said that I'd waited four years to hear, and to say. It was heartwarming and heartbreaking and everything in between.
  
  
• Ate peanut butter straight from the jar and called it dinner. Almost every night.
  
  
• Booty texted an old flame in the most hilariously forward way imaginable. Am now convinced I've spent entirely too much of my life trying not to shock people.
  
  
• Had phone sex for the first time in my twenty-six years. Am now contemplating this as a new career path. $12/hr v. $2/min. You do the math. Related plan: start reading a lot of Judith Butler and ending my sentences with question marks. Third wave feminism or accidental exaltation of the male gaze? You decide. All I know: this boy is ridic cute.
  
  
• Discovered that 'hilarious' is not an ideal adjective with which to describe my rent check. Or my pay check.
  
  
• Started a top secret new project. Lost momentum almost immediately.
  
  
• Sat around a solid kitchen table on more than one occasion with cheap wine, bottomless belly laughs, and people who make my heart flip-flop with joy.
  
  
• Made several sad but necessary realizations, leading to the reexamination of many things, primarily myself. Listened to a lot of Rachael Yamagata. Cried more than I'm entirely comfortable with, but somehow still not enough.
  

And that, my friends, is the maximum number of details you are getting on any of the above. For more info, please see my Hollywood Tell-All, set to publish in 2029.




Monday night was spent trudging through snowy embankments with one of my Most Important People. Our breath came out in puffs of smoke, burning our lungs and creating cloud formations in the air.

We passed a palm readers' shop on a busy downtown street and she asked me if I believed. I told her I thought it was more about knowing how to listen.

"I'd like to believe it's real," she said, with that childlike enthusiasm I find so infectious in her, and so inspiring. She pulled her scarf a little tighter as we crossed the street. "It would be nice to live in a magical world."

I smiled to myself as we weaved through the snowy cars and the patches of ice. I felt an almost overwhelming urge to grab her mittened hand and squeeze it.

"I think we already do."

photo courtesy alwaysbecool, andreaskristensson, hoodedfang, carst

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I Don't Usually Do This Either

"Oh, by the way," she said, dropping the files unceremoniously beside my bowl of instant oatmeal. "Don't bother coming in Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday next week. I'll be gone for the holidays."

I turned to her, dumbstruck.

"Same for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of the following week," she added with a bright smile, as she turned to go. "Enjoy your time off with your family."

I sat for a moment; mouth poised for a question, a retort, or possibly a plea. I blinked quickly, one, two, three; my throat tightening, my tear ducts threatening to betray me.

I'm not going home for Christmas this year. I went home last month to see one of my best friends in the world celebrate the premiere of her short film. I visited some people who needed visits. I paid some respects. I did some things that needed to be done. It was a hard trip in a lot of ways, but it was good.

And I missed five days of work in the process.

Cross-country plane tickets are pricey and words like 'vacation time' and 'paid holidays' have been stricken from my lexicon. Twice in one month is two times more than I can afford. So I'm staying here.

It was a hard decision-- my close friends and roommates will all be gone and this will be my second Christmas in a row that I couldn't be at home. But it's hard to justify unpaid vacation when you're crossing your fingers that your landlord doesn't make it to the bank this week.

I noticed yesterday that my mother transferred money into my account. It's money she can't afford. It's almost funny-- before I left home, I hid some cash between the pages of her mystery novel, and on the way to the airport, she tried to sneak a five into my purse. We're passing imaginary dollars back and forth like some Gift of the Magi reenactment.

It isn't enough anyway.

I've always known I was playing Russian roulette with this job. It's impermanent. I have no benefits, no paid leave, no security. No set schedule. Depending on this paycheck as my sole source of income is ill-advised at best, and yet--

It's a nice job. And it's hard to leave a nice job for something that might not be so nice.

So here I am. Here I am, spending Christmas in an empty house for which I'm three months behind on rent. It's just a day, and it's just money. I've done this before and I can do it again. It's just a day.

And yet.


The worst part of all of this is that it isn't even one-tenth of why I'm broken. This latest bombshell is merely the sorry-for-myself frosting on an already-bitter cake.

I spent the weekend cleaning, writing, playing piano. I spent it staring at the wall, twiddling my thumbs, counting the nails in the door frame. I spent it trying to breathe, trying to eat, trying in vain to find someone, anyone who would just talk and let me listen. I spent it doing anything but sleeping, or crying, or giving into whatever this is that's hell-bent on knocking me under the bus.

I wish I could blame even a corner of this on someone else, but, as usual, all fingers point to me. C'est la vie, mes amis. Let's pray for a new year. I hear one's coming.

photo courtesy a-day, zanzibar

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I Don't Usually Do This

I don't usually do this, but I just wanted to mark it somehow.

This has been one of the hardest weeks of my adult life. I'd tell you why, but I'm not sure you'd understand. It hasn't been one thing; it's been a thousand, and I don't know when I've ever felt so alone.

I don't have a message here, or a story. I don't even have a picture. I just wanted to mark it.

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Elvis Has Left the Building

Kids and Kiddettes,

Guess who's guest-blogging again? Oh, weird, it's me!

This time I'm tracking mud all over the just-mopped floors of Miel et Cannelle, a hip design blog by a freelance writing superstar and all around lovely lady.

I have no clue why she asked me to guest blog, but I'm flattered and thrilled and if you're looking for a link to click, why not try this one. It's mostly pictures.




On & on we go,
L

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Stop Me If You've Heard This One

I don't know why he asked, but I thought for a moment before answering.

"No," I said, finally. "I'm not."

I ran my finger along the edge of my quilt. "I don't really get lonely."

And it's true, I don't. It's rare that I crave company, or feel empty without it. Like laughter down the hall and dirty soup bowls you find on the counter... I fall in love with strangers because they don't expect to walk me home. Lonely isn't part of my vocabulary.

But alone? Alone is something else. Alone is a full room and an empty heart. It's arms that don't quite reach. It's water down the drain, and a door that closes softly. It's the sense that none of this means a thing, really, and the gulf that keeps You apart from Me is an endless expanse, even when your hand is touching mine.

Alone. That one I know.

photo courtesy tread

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I Cannot Resist the NPH

ANNA. i'm watching the prop 8 musical again
ME. i actually haven't seen that
ME. despite the fact
ME. that literally 900 of my facebook friends posted it
ME. i think that's why i haven't watched it
ANNA. laurie backlash
ME. "900 facebook friends can't be right"
ME. i'm pretty sure that i'd be a great fascist dictator
ME. i have a relatively low tolerance
ME. for differing viewpoints from my own
ME. and would have no problem making them illegal
ME. // cause for beheading
ANNA. laurie - you cannot resist the NPH
ME. wait what is nph?
ANNA. neil
ME. OMG
ANNA. patrick
ME. stop
ANNA. harris
ME. i don't think i realized he was in it
ME. AVOIDANCE FAIL

==

JD from Shirt or Dress posted a preliminary review of the mix CD she won here last month, if you want to check it out.

I promised another contest when we hit 200 subscribers and we're getting mighty close... if you're not subscribed yet, now's the time!

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Scotch Pines & Hand Saws

ME. trying to finish up a video 
ME. from christmas tree buying on saturday
LK. ooh
LK. i really want to go buy one
LK. but M isn't into it - and I'm the Jew!
LK. plus I feel kind of bad killing a tree
ME. i know i felt bad
ME. until the trees started biting
ME. then i realized they would cut down your ass

LK. it seems like a total pain
ME. it totally is 
ME. J & A's fell over after they put it up
LK. oh no! what happens then?
ME. just a huge mess
ME. because you put it in water
ME. so there was muddy snow // tree water
ME. and needles everywhere
LK. ugh
LK. sounds like yom kippur to me
ME. is that what you do on yom kippur?
ME. pour mud and snow everywhere?
LK. no you repent
LK. but it is all around sucky

For your viewing pleasure: a motion picture representation of Saturday's Christmas tree search and subsequent trimming, set to the smooth sounds of one Sufjan Stevens.  And also a song from The Weepies, who will forever be remembered as The Band I Discovered on a JC Penney Commercial.  If ever I possessed an Indie Cred card, that is the day that I handed it in.

Not my best editing work, but boy howdy do I have cute friends.

photo courtesy alta vista

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For a Snowy Evening

Work was canceled today, due to our location in an icy tundra not intended for human habitation. I spent the day editing video, baking peanut butter brownies, and lamenting the snow.

Dear Winter,

Prayerfully yours,
Laurie

Since I'm snowed in for the day, I thought I'd share with you a grab bag of sorts. I have some deep and serious posts in the queue, covering such thought-provoking topics as: "How do I keep my sweater sleeves from getting pushed up inside my jacket sleeves?" and "What is that mysterious stench in my bedroom? (No, seriously, what is that?)"

But in the interim, let's talk about something near and dear to my heart: funny youtube videos.

Now, I want to be clear with you. I am not someone who spends hours and hours watching endless reels of kittens falling off the back of couches. No, I am a Youtube Connoisseur, sampling only the finest of videos from the finest of sources.

It is a known fact that 95% of the so-called "humorous" videos the kidlets send around in their "gmail" accounts are pure, unadulterated crap. I want to help you help yourself.

And so, after years of painstaking search, ruthless dismissal, and sophisticated curating, I bring to you the five youtube videos that not only made me laugh, but may or may not have made me snort orange juice through my nose. Videos that I've watched again and again and again. Videos that I've forced friends, family, and the teller at my bank to watch as well.

Sometimes people just need to be strapped to a kitchen chair and forced to experience the finer things in life.

And so, without further ado, I give you...

Your Ill-fitting Overcoat's Top 5 Best Youtube Videos of All Time

1. Drunk History vol. 1 with Michael Cera
   
   This video contains three crucial elements: historical re-enactments, drunkenness, and Michael Cera. Need I say more? If you know what's good for you, you've already hit play.
   
   
   
   
2. How is Babby Formed
   
   You've seen this. We've all seen it. See it again.
   
   
   
   
   
3. Eugene Mirman's The Truth About Swift Boats
   
   I have watched this video approximately 97 times... and that's just this morning. It's got more catchphrases than a season opener of The Office, more laughs than a barrel of particularly amusing monkeys, and more politically irrelevant jokes than a Pat Paulsen monologue. If you watch one Youtube video this year, make it this one.
   
   
   
   
   
4. Drinking Out of Cups
   
   This video is two and a half minutes long. I spent the first minute and a half utterly unamused. "I don't get it," was my incisive review. And then I realized... there's nothing to get. And I spent the last minute laughing so hard I had tears streaming down my face.
   
   NOTE: Audio is not work-safe, so plug in some headphones if you're at the office.
   
   
   
   
   
5. Ok, I actually couldn't think of a fifth one. Tell me your favorite!

comic courtesy toothpaste for dinner

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What's Your Type, Baby?

He's short, but not shorter than me. Deep brown eyes and hair I can run my fingers through. He wears glasses from time to time and he's got a smile that could stop traffic. Bonus points for a slightly receding hairline.

He takes everything too seriously, except for himself. He's well-traveled. He's too smart for his own good. He's cocky-- just short of too much-- and pretentious (just past too much). He's ambitious, but not in a business-y way. He's compassionate to a fault. He's stubborn and he's moody and he's a little bit of an asshole.

It's more than a Type. It's a one-way express pass to my heart, or at least to my rumpled bedsheets.

(Exhibit A)

The illustrious Brandy wrote a post this week about Types and it got me thinking about my own.

My two serious boyfriends were several years apart, not to mention thousands of miles, but they had some eerie similarities. Both were vegan. Both were soccer players. And both were thrift-store-shopping, from-scratch-cooking Scrabble champions from Kentucky. How do you get that specific? It's like I special ordered them from some freaky catalog.

"Oh, you're out of the Kentucky model? That's ok, I'll wait.... no, West Virginia is not the same thing."

A few additional points, in case you're taking notes:

• He has a ridiculously common first name.
  
  Oh, to date a Trevor! A Toby, an Elliot, even a Thadeus... alas, it is not meant to be. I have made out with a minimum of three people named Chris-- possibly four. Ben, Ryan, Josh... if your name is featured on the first page of America's Most Popular Baby Names, you are a qualified candidate for tongue kissing.
  
  
• He's politically liberal moderate liberal.
  
  This one's a little confusing. Historically, I've dated men who make Dennis Kucinich look like Jerry Falwell. Food Not Bombs, vegan hot dogs, hippie deodorant... the whole shebang.
  
  But lately, I've witnessed a disturbing trend in my dating life. My past several crushes have advertised themselves on Facebook as... cue ominous music... Moderate.
  
  Now, this may not sound like much to you, but to a bleeding heart commie pinko such as myself, calling yourself 'Moderate' is like saying you pal around with Dick Cheney on the weekends, bombing Iraqi civilians and running over baby seals with your Ford Explorer.
  
  And yet. There it is.
  
  Maybe it's because I want someone to balance me. Maybe it's because my mother married a Republican. Or maybe it's because I've spent the past six years up to my eyeballs in tree-hugging, granola-crunching hippies and I need a break from the lingering stench of sandalwood and hypocrisy.
  
  Either way, if you're sitting center-left on the political spectrum, you are officially in the running for VP of my Heart.
  
  
• He's unconventional.
  
  Dropped out of high school to join the circus? Toured the country for three years in a VW van, filming a documentary on small town art cinemas? Make your living in a completely retarded, unsustainable way? LET'S MAKE OUT.
  
  

SPECIAL NOTE: All of these requirements will be waived in the presence of a sport coat with elbow patches. Resistance is futile.

==

I don't mean to limit myself so drastically. I've legitimately tried to branch out. I once slept with someone who was a full six or seven inches taller than me, I recently kissed a boy with blue eyes, and I've made out with at least one person who had a 401k.

When I first started seeing FF, I was smugly pleased with myself. Here I was, kissing a boy who wore baseball caps! He ate red meat. He had a big screen TV in his living room and he went to football games on purpose. It all felt so subversive. I pretended to be embarrassed, but I was secretly thrilled.

However, I quickly realized that beneath his pseudo-frat exterior, FF was the same self-absorbed, temperamental genius I always go for. The cover may change, but the book is always the same.

My mother's childhood best friend loves German Shepherds. She loves them. It's the only kind of dog she's ever owned.

Tragically, German Shepherds are prone to painful, expensive hip problems and every dog this woman has ever brought home has ended up with early-onset hip dysplasia. Every single one. She's spent thousands and thousands of dollars on these dogs and cried countless tears and my mother cannot figure out why in the ever-loving hell this woman keeps buying German Shepherds.

It's something I think about a lot.

Know what I mean?

photo credit arrivistepress, meredith_farmer, conwayl

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The Times We Had

My trip to Florida was, in a word, pretty incredible.

Okay, that's two words.

There were backyard campfires, 3am avocado omelets, and cuban sandwiches as big as my skull. We wined and dined at LK's film premiere, we took over the bar of a boarded-up restaurant, and we played drinking games 'til the wee hours of the morn.

I also met Baby Everett-- the newest addition to the Overcoat family-- and I visited LD's 5-month-old bundle of delight, during which I learned enough about childbirth to determine that all of my children will be adopted from distant lands, as far away from my vagina as possible.

But, really, what more can I say? This video says it all. Good people, good music, and low-quality video production. The song is "Postcards from Italy" by Beirut.

Friends, meet friends:



There were times when well-meaning relatives tested the limits of my ironclad civility and there were times when the novelty of being carted around in the backseat of a sedan lost its quaint, nostalgic charm. But on the whole, the trip was a success.

Such a success, in fact, that by the time my plane was ready for take-off, my heels were planted firmly in the St. Augustine grass. I don't know when I've ever dreaded anything like I dreaded coming back to this place.

It was the quickest flight I've ever experienced. Too quick, in fact. Before I knew it, the pilot of our 50-seat puddle-jumper was announcing the weather in preparation for our imminent landing.

"Alright, folks, the weather in Madison right now is about 21 degrees with blowing snow..."

I involuntarily winced.

My cab ride home felt longer than the flight. My driver prattled endlessly about his various pet peeves and unsung talents, as I stared resignedly out the window at the snow blanketed roads. I occasionally offered a half-hearted response, but these went largely ignored. Like most people who corner me for conversation, he wasn't talking to me, but rather at me. We skidded twice in the snow.

I wearily climbed my icy front steps, struggling under the weight of my bags and my overwhelming sense of defeat. I pushed open the front door and was greeted by a darkened hallway, the muffled sound of whitewashed indie rock, and the familiar smell of stale cigarettes and McDonald's wrappers. My stomach lurched.

I dropped off my bags in a bedroom that didn't feel like my own, wrapped my scarf a little tighter, and set out for a walk in the snowy twilight. The whole world was silent, but for my boots crunching through the new-fallen snow. I watched the sun dip below the horizon, turning the sky a brilliant pinkish-gold above the lake.

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Mini Vlog: Love is a '94 Corolla

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