tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-225198592024-03-13T07:19:54.384-07:00An inconvenience rightly considered"An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered."
— G. K. Chestertonmorning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-37396869332218338022011-06-10T15:42:00.000-07:002011-06-10T15:47:23.524-07:00The dangers of literacyI just read a short essay, "You Should Date An Illiterate Girl" by Charles Warnke. The whole thing is an explanation of why guys should avoid dating a girl who reads. (Bottom line? They're too smart for their own good. Or the good of the guy dating them. But now that I've ruined it for you, it's worth reading the essay to get to that destination anyway.)<br />
<br />
The actual point of the article aside, oh, how spoke to me. Because, apparently, I am a girl who reads.<br />
<br />
I know, you're shocked right? Stop the presses! Hell must be freezing over!<br />
<br />
Oh, wait, I'm the girl who read over 130 books in 2010. I'm pretty sure I have ink in my veins in lieu of blood.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
No, but seriously. This is like someone looked into my soul and described all of the dissatisfactions and frustrations and yearnings that I feel but couldn't articulate.<br />
<br />
Below, I've hideously butchered the poor author's work, expunging (extirpating?) the whole "why girls who read suck to date" premise, in order to to get to the core description of a girl who reads:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="border-left: #ccc 1px solid; margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.8ex; padding-left: 1ex;">"...a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much.<br />
<div></div><div></div><div>...a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.</div><div></div><div>...the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.</div><div></div><div>...girls who read are the storytellers. ...The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. ...[She] will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied."</div></blockquote><br />
That right there? That's me in a nutshell. So maybe I'm not crazy. Maybe I just read too much.<br />
<br />
If you want to read the whole thing, you can find it here: <a href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/dont-date-a-girl-who-reads/">http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/dont-date-a-girl-who-reads/</a>morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-27414603425796274882011-05-24T20:59:00.001-07:002011-06-01T08:54:52.453-07:00EvaporationThere's an <a href="http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki?search=Angel%27s+share" target="_blank">Angel's Share</a> that mysteriously disappears from the mixing bowl of every baked good produced in my kitchen.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Sneaky angels.<br />
<br />
(That's <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/2008/10/paris-a-deep-dark-salted-butter-caramel-sauce/">salted-butter caramel</a>. The angels seemed to be particularly fond of it.)morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-82181310563316958732011-05-20T12:30:00.000-07:002011-05-20T12:32:25.878-07:00ApocalypseIf the apocalypse actually happens tomorrow, you're all welcome to come over to my house for a post-apocalyptic brunch, say around 11 AM. (Assuming you can navigate the zombie hordes that I assume will be running rampant. My french toast is good, but you won't be able to fully appreciate it if you're suffering from a zombie bite, so please take appropriate precautions.)<br />
<br />
We should establish a password though, so my boyfriend knows to <em>not</em> bash you in the head with his home-defense weapon of choice (a baseball bat) when you try to enter the premises. Preferably something that strikes fear into the hearts of our enemies at the same time. You know, something like, "SPOON!!" Yeah, let's go with that.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Besides gorging ourselves on the last remaining bacon resources (after all, we have to eat them quickly while they're still good) and the multiple bottles of Asti (my favorite faux champagne) that I've been hoarding in my fridge (let's pretend I was hoarding it for the apocalypse, and not just because I'm crazy), I suppose we can also have a strategy session to evaluate our resources and decide on a course of action.<br />
<br />
It would probably help if you all make lists of your viable skill sets ahead of time. For example: I can cook (over an open fire), crochet and sew, shoot a bow and arrows and a gun (of course, I don't have either), and read. (No clue how that last one is going to help, but it's my primary skill in life, so I couldn't <em>not</em> list it. Right?)<br />
<br />
Excellent. Now that we've settled our post-apocalyptic brunch plans, I have to go decide what to do with my last night of civilization. Do I stay home and watch the last night of television ever? (I assume electricity will be one of the first casualties of the end of the world.) Or do I go out and enjoy the last night of free roaming and socialization? (I assume once the zombies are running around chomping on people our ability to wander aimlessly will be severely limited. Plus, it's hard to have an intellectual conversation with someone who is trying to eat your brains.)<br />
<br />
Decisions, decisions...morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-53979871640445903632011-05-02T15:09:00.000-07:002011-05-02T15:10:28.860-07:00DisparitiesI think I'm having a mid-life crisis entirely conducted in my own head.<br />
<br />
I've been thinking a lot lately about the differences between who we actually are, who we think we are, who other people think we are, and who we aspire to be. It's funny how wide the differences between those versions of self can be.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<em>Part of my self-image is made up of bits and pieces of my past, that are no longer applicable.</em><br />
<br />
I was a truly painfully awkward teen and I frequently fail to remember that I'm now a fairly attractive adult. Or, I'll forget I'm not an 18-year old who dances 8 hours a day anymore (as evidenced by tearing my hamstring a couple of months ago while trying to do a simple arabesque).<br />
<br />
<em>I often don't notice new habits or behaviors that I've acquired more recently.</em><br />
<br />
For example, I've been going through a lot of work angst lately due to massive change, and my frustration has spilled over so that I've become rather short tempered and even a little angry in general. I certainly don't think of myself as someone who yells at people in traffic or snaps at loved ones, but lately I've caught myself doing exactly that with terrifying frequency. I've been generally less joyful that I think that I am.<br />
<br />
<em>Part of my self-image is entirely internal.</em><br />
<br />
I've always lived quite a bit in my head. From simple rehashing of conversations (I should have said this instead of that) to full out development of fantasy worlds and stories, I spend a lot of time thinking about things that I never share. I forget sometimes (often) that other people don't live in my head as well. There's a lot of my thought processing that never gets shared. Or only gets shared in part. My poor boyfriend is often subjected to my starting conversations halfway through (with the first half conducted in my mind) or picking up a conversation we ended hours, if not days, previous as if we had just left off (because I've been continuing it in my brain continually since then).<br />
<br />
<em>Part of my self-image is completely different from the way people perceive me.</em><br />
<br />
I'm rather shy. I often don't know what do do in social situations or how to interact with people. (Honestly, I frequently end up, halfway through a conversation, wondering if my facial expression was an appropriate reaction to what a person was saying, and worrying that it wasn't, and wondering how I should be reacting or responding.) Oddly, however, almost no one I've ever told about my shyness believes me. Apparently I've successfully learned to hide my awkwardness and I come across as sociable and friendly. So then I wonder if I ever do have flashes of shyness that people actually see but attribute to something else (like egotism) because they don't realize that I'm shy.<br />
<br />
<em>Part of my self-image is entirely aspirational.</em><br />
<br />
I think of myself as someone who reads. A lot. I read over 130 books in 2010. However, I aspire to be someone who reads quality, insightful books. And I do read quite a few works of good literature, but I also read a lot of rather silly drivel because it entertains me and lets me relax. If someone asks, I normally downplay the amount of trash reading I do and focus on the quality literature. Since there are a dozen quality books that I've read recently, it's not hard, but the reality is that quality literature is really quite a small percentage of the reading that I do.<br />
<br />
<em>So who am I?</em><br />
<br />
I feel like I have good self-awareness, but lately I've been realizing that I also have a lot of self-obliviousness too. I need to take some time to get to know the person I am now. And I need to decide which aspects of that person I like, which aspects I don't like but need to learn to accept, and which aspects I don't like and need to change.<br />
<br />
I think I'll start by carving out a few minutes regularly for introspection. I'm worth that much at least.<br />
<br />
I just hope that I like the person I meet.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-59825130721698864212011-05-01T15:35:00.000-07:002011-05-02T16:02:33.929-07:00Estival<div style="font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30850238@N08/5681824288/" title=" "><img alt=" by morning_aura" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5027/5681824288_e28e4bbc89.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The past year has been unseasonably and, dare I say, unreasonably cold in Southern California. We basically never had a summer - it was the coldest ever recorded - and there's been an unheard of amount of gloom and rain.<br />
<br />
After this weekend, I think we're finally past that.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
The weather this past weekend was 80 degrees and sunny. The sky was cloudless and there was a light breeze. In short, it was perfect weather. Especially for April.<br />
<br />
Naturally, I spent as much time as possible down by the pool relaxing, drinking coctails, reading, and roasting myself to a crisp (or as much as possible with a huge sun hat and 100+ SPF sunscreen slathered on every inch of exposed skin).<br />
<br />
(Yes, a cold year in Southern California is still relative. But I put in my time in the Northeast buried under snow. I expect a ridiculous amount of sunshine and warm weather now that I live in California.)morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-43207400746653480022011-04-28T12:09:00.000-07:002011-04-28T12:09:24.816-07:00AuralI'm learning to play the guitar. For Christmas, my brother found me a twin of the guitar that he inherited from our parents. And over the past few months he's been teaching me to play it. (I've mentioned that he's awesome before, right?)<br />
<br />
It's probably not the way one should learn an instrument (it's certainly not the way I learned the piano or violin), but we've kind of skipped the normal "learn technique and all the chords first" and gone straight to "learn these five chords or this strumming technique in order to immediately apply them to this one song." It's a little convoluted, but much more rewarding, because then I can actually play something immediately. (Of course, there are lots of songs I can't play yet because I haven't learned all of the chords and such. You win some, you lose some.)<br />
<br />
So far I've learned a rousing 4 songs. I need to up my practice time and learn more songs soon, becasue whatever songs I'm currently studying are stuck in my head on repeat even when I'm not playing, and a 4-song playlist gets old quickly.<br />
<br />
At least I like the songs I've learned so far. A lot. :o)<br />
<br />
"Well it goes like this the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift..."morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-74965479141036896372011-04-21T14:19:00.000-07:002011-05-02T16:03:02.474-07:00RecuperationI just got back from a long vacation with my boyfriend.<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30850238@N08/5681825038/" title=" "><img alt=" by morning_aura" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5029/5681825038_326bcf027b.jpg" /></a><br />
<span style="margin: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30850238@N08/5681825038/"></a></span></div><a name='more'></a><br />
We took the train up to Santa Barbara. We stayed at a little inn where they served us breakfast every morning, wine & cheese every afternoon, and cookies & milk every night. We visited with friends and had BBQs and bonfires on the beach. We walked on the wharf and had lunch overlooking the ocean. We lounged by the pool and took a late-night dip in the hot tub. We went swiming in a freezing cold river and then sunned oursleves on the rocky bank to dry. We drank beer on the roof of my cousin's house while watching the sun set. We took a day trip wine tasting, including a visit to my friend's winery, where he took us in back and pulled tastings of his newest wines straight from the casks and fermenters.<br />
<br />
We relaxed. We slept and laughed and lived and loved.<br />
<br />
In short, it was heaven.<br />
<br />
<div style="font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30850238@N08/5681260149/" title=" "><img alt=" by morning_aura" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5067/5681260149_11b6ffa2ca.jpg" /></a></div>morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-38746069082388844672011-03-30T13:26:00.000-07:002011-03-30T13:28:12.820-07:00MelancholyA few lousy days on top of a bad weekend on top of a few rough months have left me angry and depressed, and I try not to spew that kind of angst on this blog. There's enough negativity in the world without me adding to it.<br />
<br />
So as soon as I shake off my funk we'll be back to our regularly scheduled program. In the meantime, thanks for your patience.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-82928613268381555582011-03-20T16:29:00.000-07:002011-05-02T15:39:15.070-07:00Indulgence<a href="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5134/5547633541_94b954952e_b.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5134/5547633541_94b954952e_b.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 512px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 383px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Today I made a brunch of pancakes (the classic Joy of Cooking recipe that my dad always made growing up) studded with fresh blueberries (purchased at the Mercato yesterday) and drizzled with real maple syrup (smuggled back on a plane by yours truly from the East coast because they do it better there), plus pepper-crusted bacon (mmm... bacon) and mimosas with hand-squeezed OJ (we seem to have lost our elecric citrus juicer during our exodus for fumigation, which is sad since it's probably the most frequently used appliance in our house)...<br />
<br />
All while still in my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">PJs</span>.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
The fact that I was still in my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">PJs</span> is more impressive when you realize that "brunch" didn't happen until after 3 PM.<br />
<br />
Before you panic, I did eventually change out of my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">PJs</span>. Into a swimsuit so we could go in the hot tub. With our mimosas still in tow. Of course, after the hot tub I immediately changed back into my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">PJs</span>.<br />
<br />
Hooray for Sundays!<br />
<br />
(Let's pretend I didn't also spend about 6 hours working from home, lest we ruin the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">mystique</span>.)morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-60302835536748199612011-03-16T13:23:00.000-07:002011-03-21T14:41:52.567-07:00ContritionDear Daylight Savings Time,<br /><br />I know I said some hurtful things on Monday morning. Things we probably both regret.<br /><br />But I've had some time to think about it, and maybe I don't really hate you.<br /><br />Maybe you're right. Maybe the fact that it's still light out when I leave work late is worth a few painfully-early-feeling mornings.<br /><br />I hope we can put all this animosity behind us.<br /><br />Love and hugs,<br />Lmorning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-23319718405388040132011-03-15T14:42:00.000-07:002011-03-21T16:00:56.982-07:00ArgentineMy brother and I worked out together at lunch today. He's kind enough to let me prattle on about crap like why I love my new running shirt for ten minutes straight. (At least until he picks up our pace enough to ensure I can't get enough oxygen to breathe anymore, much less speak. I'm sure that's not at all strategic on his part though.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, he still manages to keep our conversations interesting. (Despite my best efforts to bore him to death.)<br />
<br />
<div align="center">***</div><br />
Me: So did I tell you what I love about my new workout shirt?<br />
<br />
<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">JB</span>: No, I don't believe you did. Unless it's that it's super light-weight and breathable. You might have mentioned that. Four or five times.<br />
<br />
Me: That too, but it also has this technology where they weave silver or something into the fibers.<br />
<br />
<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">JB</span>: Silver? Does that give it a higher SPF rating?<br />
<br />
Me: No, it helps it repel...<br />
<br />
<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">JB</span>: Vampires!<br />
<br />
Me: What? No, odor. It helps repel stinky sweat odor.<br />
<br />
<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">JB</span>: And vampires.<br />
<br />
Me: Yes, it repels odor and vampires. Which is a valid concern when you're working out in Southern California. Outside. In the middle of the afternoon.<br />
<br />
<div align="center">***</div><br />
Wait, isn't it <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">werewolves</span> who are allergic to silver anyway? Crap. We'd better get that figured out before I walk into a nest of vampires thinking my (amazingly light-weight and breathable) running shirt is going to protect me.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-15709706600454802682011-03-14T23:14:00.000-07:002011-03-21T15:47:29.351-07:00CullingThis weekend I tried on everything I don't wear regularly and ditched anything I wouldn't buy all over again if I was trying it on in a store today. Sure I saved a few things for sentimental reasons, but I've already filled two whole garbage bags with clothing to donate and I have more still to go!<br /><br />Let me explain. (And this is where the crazy starts, so if you're adverse to insanity, now might be the time to avert your eyes.)<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>I had a revelation last week that I horde a lot of things simply because the thought of getting rid of them makes me feel bad for some reason: guilt for having wasted money on it to begin with, regret that it wasn't exactly what I wanted, sadness that I'm not as skinny as I was in high school, loss that something I used to love has shrunk or stretched out or worn out, or whatever.<br /><br />So I kept all kinds of things, because trashing any of them made me feel like I was saying I was a failure. Or, if it was a gift from someone, like I don't love them enough to enjoy the gift they gave me.<br /><br />(What? Letting posessions make you feel bad about yourself isn't sane? Pfft. Whose blog do you think this is? I'm pretty sure I never promised sanity here.)<br /><br />I realized that the reality is that every time I just look at those not-used items, it makes me feel the same sense of failure anyway. And if I get rid of it, it won't sit there staring me in the face and making me feel like crap.<br /><br />It's still kind of hard to get rid of things, but I keep reminding myself that sure, I may be giving up a blouse (one I never wear or don't like myself in), but what I'm really doing is purging myself of the negative feelings I have when I look at that blouse. And if I make room in my closet [house/life/whatever], then maybe I'll wear the things I like more because I can actually find them. And I can feel good, and happy when I walk in my closet [house/life/whatever] instead of stressed.<br /><br />Added bonus? I found out that I fit into clothing I wore back in college. (That's almost 10 years ago, if you're counting.) Huzzah, me!<br /><br />Added, added bonus? I found clothing I love but didn't even remember I owned. (How sad is that?) It was like shopping in my own closet. :o)<br /><br />I've also purged old magazines, bath products, makeup, knick knacks, and other odds and ends. (Basically, if you're not one of my favorite posessions and you're not nailed down, look out!)<br /><br />Whew! Anyway, that's my tale of not-so-fascinating intrigue. I think you deserve a cookie or something for hanging in there to the end and not running away when you realized the magnatude of my insanity.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-30719632177990757482011-03-10T14:57:00.000-08:002011-03-21T16:02:26.122-07:00EvictedAfter three years, I still feel fairly new to life in California. Lots of things about living here still surprise me or strike me as odd.<br />
<br />
For example, having grown up in Ohio and upstate New York, it's still a miracle to me that I'm not buried in 4+ feet of snow 9 months out of the year.<br />
<br />
Also, there are basically no insects here except for a few spiders. (Yes, I know spiders aren't technically insects, but Webster promises that they fit under the "non-technical" definition of insects. Roll with me on this one.) And apparently termites.<br />
<br />
Because we got a letter informing us that we have termites and thus the condo association was going to fumigate our building and we'd need to find alternate housing for three days.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Maybe I resided in a delusional utopia, but we never had a problem with termites when I lived back East. (I think this brings the score to: Cali 1,522 / Ohio: 77. I know, it's closer than you expected, right? Two words: deciduous trees. They don't exist out here. Also, have you seen the way people dress in SoCal? Ohio is not a bastion of haute couture, but SoCal is frequently a bastion of idiocy in clothing choices. Also, flat-brimmed hats are an abomination. And the kids here are all hoodlums. Wait, what was this post about...? Oh, right: fumigating our condo.)<br />
<br />
If you've never had your house fumigated, you're missing out on the joy of double-bagging every food, beverage and medication (and anything else ingestible) in your domicile. That includes the 50 jars of mustard in your refrigerator, your extensive spice rack and baking supply stock, as well as toothpaste and Advil, and the huge collection of various liquors that you didn't even realize you own. (What kind of 20-something owns more liquor than she realizes? I think this means I need to throw a party. Hairy Buffaloes anyone?)<br />
<br />
Also, you have to find foster homes for your plants. Because apparently they don't like poisonous chlorine gas or whatever any more than termites (or people) do. And have you ever tried to find responsible plant foster parents? Because I'm convinced they're about as real as unicorns.<br />
<br />
Also, you get to do all of this after a mind-numbingly-exhaustingly-long work week made up of 12+ hour days. (Although maybe that last bit is just me...)<br />
<br />
And did I mention that the eviction started at 8 AM? On a Saturday? So I had to get up at 6 AM, after said hellish work week, to finish preparing our house to be bathed in toxic fumes, only to be cast out by 8 AM with nowhere to go. (Oh, sure, friends and family say you can come over, but curiously no one actually answers when you start pounding on their door at 8:15 AM. On a Saturday. Maybe next time I should try showing up with Bloody Marys in hand or something.)<br />
<br />
On the upside, you get to go stay at a hotel for the weekend.<br />
<br />
On the downside, you have to pay for that hotel, even though it wasn't your idea to vacate your house to begin with.<br />
<br />
Also, the tear gas they use to remind people that the building is full of otherwise undetectable poisonous chlorine gas (or whatever) lingers in your towels and bedding (no matter how many times you wash them) and your eyes swell shut every night for the next few days after you retake possession of your house until everything finally dissipates. (Although maybe that last bit is just me... Yet again...)<br />
<br />
But did I mention that I got to spend the weekend at a hotel? Where someone made my bed for me every day? And they had 3 water slides? (Which I could actually enjoy because March in SoCal is about 50,000 times better than March in Ohio.)<br />
<br />
All in all, I'm calling this one a win. How soon do termite populations take to re-infest a building? Because I could use another stay-cation next month...morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-78261206506671386282011-03-07T13:10:00.000-08:002011-03-16T13:54:31.215-07:00NomenclatureI think I've mentioned before that I volunteer for a Swedish cultural center. Lately I've been helping plan their Easter brunch. The best part? They call it Eggsexa. I may just have the sense of humor of a 12-year old boy, but I'm pretty sure that's never going to get old...<br /><br />Seriously thought, I'm pretty sure that's the best name for a party. Ever.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-59838485356142228882011-03-04T09:57:00.000-08:002011-03-16T13:55:46.980-07:00Allegories (or is it Allusions?)I just tried to convince one of my consultants that his broken Word document was like the platform for the train to Hogwarts. You know, Platform # 9¾? The one that’s invisible, but if you run straight at the very real-seeming wall, you magically don’t crash headfirst into brick but instead end up where you want to go? You know the one I mean.<br /><br />Only in this case he needed to delete something that didn’t seem to exist in order to fix his problem. (He had a mysterious extra section break that was throwing off his page numbering, if you must know.)<br /><br />Anyway, the metaphor made more sense in my head. Before I tried to explain it.<br /><br />Maybe I need better allegories. Or is it allusions? Crap. Now I have to go find literary works to cite that aren’t written for pre-teens AND a dictionary. Lame.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-33879197928722569382011-03-02T18:50:00.000-08:002011-03-04T10:00:22.720-08:00LinguisticsFor the first time ever in a single week, I’ve gotten to use every foreign language I know: French, Spanish and Italian on the job, Swedish at the cultural center where I volunteer, and sign language giving a deaf stranger directions.<br /><br />And here I thought I was just learning languages for fun.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-77010342579143837662011-02-23T17:55:00.000-08:002011-03-16T13:56:03.935-07:00Timidity<strong>Coworker</strong>: How's it going?<br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Me</strong>: Good, but I'm really busy. I've been here for almost 12 hours now with no lunch break and I still have more work to get done before I can go home.<br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Coworker</strong>: That's nice. Did I ever tell you about my favorite pen? I could write a sonnet about how much I love this pen. In fact, I'm going to stand here in your office and eulogize about my pen, ad nauseam, for 45 minutes...<br /><br /><div align="center">***</div><br />Seriously, why can’t I just tell people to buzz off?morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-16797089664154922842011-02-13T17:00:00.000-08:002011-05-02T15:39:42.834-07:00Saccharine<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oa0l18UumgI/TXEr-1KilZI/AAAAAAAAAFI/vqJT8Jva3VY/s1600/Saccharine.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580289771711927698" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oa0l18UumgI/TXEr-1KilZI/AAAAAAAAAFI/vqJT8Jva3VY/s400/Saccharine.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 299px;" /></a> <br />
<div><br />
<div><div><div>I spent the afternoon volunteering at our local Swedish cultural center. I get to learn about Swedish culture and then share it with the public, which is awesome, except for the fact that I also gorge myself on coffee and sugary-sweet almond bread the entire time. It's very Swedish of me, and the combination of caffiene and sugar is great for the first two hours, but by hour 3 I'm pretty much convinced I'm dying.</div><br />
<div>(Spoiler alert: I didn't die. But I did feel like crap for several hours.)</div></div></div></div>morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-46655766165526881842011-01-26T18:15:00.000-08:002011-05-02T15:40:46.962-07:00Crepuscule<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_jhe2HTyp7k/TXEsduQe5XI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/EY3Vh6SkB8s/s1600/Gloaming.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580290302433748338" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_jhe2HTyp7k/TXEsduQe5XI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/EY3Vh6SkB8s/s400/Gloaming.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 299px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
I live near the ocean. Okay, I work near the ocean and live near a bay. Whatever. I get lots of awesome <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">oceanscapes</span> (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">bayscapes</span>?) driving to and from work (and anywhere else in close proximity). If I time my day right, I get to watch the sunset over the water on my way home.<br />
<br />
In fact, I bribe myself into getting up early in the morning with promises of sunsets on my drive home. (That's normal, right?)morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-80313238968379604942011-01-01T16:20:00.000-08:002011-03-21T15:48:42.696-07:00Retrospective (2010)Happy New Year!<br /><br />I made goals for myself for last year. I haven't gotten that far this year (I'm mostly focused on my 30-before-30 list through July anyway), so instead, let's review last year's resolutions and see how they went.<br /><a name='more'></a><strong>1. Hug More</strong> - What? That's not creepy. Okay, maybe it is a little creepy. But I'm not good with soliciting affection (don't most people think of hugging as soliciting affection?) or being overly demonstrative with people I don't know extremely well. So I stand there awkwardly trying to decide between shaking hands or just waving or hugging, and then the moment drags on and I feel more and more awkward and... Never mind. Let's avoid over-analyzing my neurosis. (Ha! That'd be a first.) I'm just taking the issue out of this by hugging more.<br /><br /><p></ br><em><strong>Result</strong>: Awesome. It took the stress away and let me just enjoy embracing people. And, bonus, it seemed to make other people happy too.</em></p><br /><p></ br><strong>2. Volunteer More</strong> - I used to volunteer a lot before I moved to SoCal. I haven't gotten involved in anything like that here yet, and it would be nice to get back into the habit of giving back. Plus, it could be a good way to meet people.</p><p><em><strong>Result</strong>: I'm still working on this one, but I joined the local Swedish Cultural Center, where I help spread the joy that is Swedish culture AND get to help out a bunch of Swedish octogenarians. Double win. Next up? Maybe finding a local theater company that needs help painting sets or something.</em></p><br /><p></ br><strong>3. Read More</strong> - Ha. Because that was ever really an issue. I'm a voracious reader, so this was pretty much just self indulgance. I more just decided it would be fun to track every book I read. In a spreadsheet. And then statistically analyze the results. What? That's not creepy (either).<br /><br /><em><strong>Result</strong>: I read over 130 books this year. That 's normal, right? Bonus: I read more of a variety and more works of "literary merit" than I would have otherwise because I had to actually write them all down. </em><br /><div align="center"><em>***</em></div><em></em><br />My brother has decided that 2011 is the year of taking risks. I can get behind that.<br /><br />First up? Learning to surf. Actually, we'll wait on that until the water warms up a little.<br /><br />New first up? Learning to play the guitar.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-79198850062056452272010-07-13T10:26:00.000-07:002011-03-16T13:49:16.970-07:00PatralinealToday I’m wishing happy birthday to the woman who gave me a love of reading, mad crochet skills, and a fondness for pie. Plus, she taught me how to milk a cow, deal with evil chickens (that's all of them, in case you were wondering), and make just about anything out of fabric scraps. And her molasses cookies rock.<br /><br />You wish your grandmother was as awesome.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-53159604903425768532010-05-10T21:03:00.000-07:002011-03-21T15:51:38.232-07:00HomonymI flew to Philadelphia today for work. My carry-on suitcase weighed about 50 pounds because I got to hand carry all of the handouts for the event. (They weren’t printed in time to ship.) My boyfriend kindly dragged my bag down the 3-flights of stairs from our condo to the car, and while wincing under the weight, asked if I was even going to be able to hoist the bag into the overhead bin on the plane.<br /><br />Since I was walking away at the time, I yelled back to him, across the entire length of our condo complex,<br /><blockquote>"Have you seen my snatch? I think I can handle it!”<br /></blockquote><br />My boyfriend froze for about 5 seconds and then lost it.<br /><br />Based on the reaction of our neighbors who were around at the time, I’m guessing they didn’t realize that I was referencing my proven ability to complete the weight-lifting move known as a snatch as evidence of my ability to lift a heavy suitcase above my head.<br /><br />Things like this are why our neighbors hustle their kids past our door on Halloween. (Come back! I promise our candy doesn't contain razor blades!) <blockquote></blockquote>morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-49097986723023200302010-04-14T08:31:00.000-07:002011-03-16T13:53:08.948-07:00ImprudentDear Self-from-last-night,<br /><br />You needed to drink an entire bottle of wine? Really? And basically skip dinner?<br /><br />Just because Self-from-this-morning inexplicably woke up without a hangover doesn’t mean that was a good life choice. (Actually, I’m pretty sure it means that Self-from-this-morning is just still drunk.)<br /><br />Sincerely,<br />Self-from-this-morning<br /><br /><strong>Update</strong>: Self-from-this-afternoon can confirm that, yes, self-from-this-morning was definitely still drunk.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-57384130825112922852010-03-19T11:45:00.000-07:002011-03-21T15:49:51.178-07:00VociferateI would have woken up screaming last night, but when I clawed my way out of sleep the air was congealed in my lungs. This is uncommon, but not unprecedented. I have a ridiculously overactive imagination and a rich inner landscape, which often spill over into my dreams.<br /><br />Only I don’t dream, I embark on epic quests. I have dreams so detailed and nuanced that they should be full-length feature films. I’m often fighting and running. I frequently battle evil. Sometimes I fall in love. Sometimes I revel in solitude. Sometimes I triumph. Sometimes I die. I dream almost every night and usually, when I wake up, I remember my dreams in all their Technicolor glory.<br /><br />I also usually recognize that it was just a dream. Sometimes, however, it takes me a while to get to that point. Sometimes even when I realize it was a dream it was so deeply disturbing that I still can’t shake it off. Last night was one of those nights.<br /><br /><a name='more'></a>There was a lot to my dream, most of which is irrelevant to the terror that drenched me when I woke. It actually started as a nice dream – I was at a bonfire party, enjoying the play of flames, the refreshing taste of cool beer, the laughter of friends – but something went horribly wrong.<br /><br />The night turned cold. The dark turned menacing. The scenery turned sinister. Mist so heavy it could choke rolled in, blanketing everything in shadows, smothering the fire and obscuring the sky, twisting otherwise ordinary shapes into grotesque monstrosities.<br /><br />I got confused and wandered away from the group, ending up alone. I yelled, trying to get people who I was sure were nearby to respond so I could echolocate them. Even as my shout faded into expectant silence, I regretted the sound that revealed me. And my fears were realized as, instead of the replying voices of friends calling back, a screech ricocheted through the night, filled with equal parts rage and pain.<br /><br />What should have been a woman tore through the mist. Her clothing was all wrong. A dress decades, if not centuries, out of date hung off her in tatters. Her hair was a Medusa’s nest of dark, tangled curls. She was gaunt to the point of skeletal. Her mouth was open, continuing to emit that chilling screech, a gaping maw darker even than the now pervasive shadows.<br /><br />Out of the mist she flew at me, hands outstretched, her emaciated fingers with their bony knuckles and long ragged nails reaching for me. I tried to back away, to turn and run. I tried to throw up my arms to protect my face. But by the time I saw her emerge from the mist she was already on top of me.<br /><br />One wasted thumb caught in my mouth as her fingers reached for my neck. I almost bit down on that digit, but something in me rebelled deeply at the thought of consuming any part of this hag. Even if it was just an ounce of flesh that could be quickly spat out, I was convinced that the inevitable blood would still somehow contaminate me.<br /><br />Even as I debated with myself, however, she extracted her thumb from my mouth and clenched her hands firmly around my throat. Within seconds, I began to black out, my starved lungs screaming for air.<br /><br />And that’s when I woke up, with my lungs still aching, locked tight and refusing to gather enough oxygen for even a whimper. In the darkness of my bedroom, I couldn’t shake the image of the woman burned into my brain, lunging out of the darkness, tearing at my throat.<br /><br />And so, when I finally did get my breath back, I yelled just to prove that I could, to prove that I wasn’t trapped in a dream where you can’t scream.<br /><br />It felt amazing.<br /><br />My apologies to any neighbors who might have been rudely woken up at 2:35 this morning.morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22519859.post-63953765653946748012009-11-12T09:45:00.000-08:002011-03-21T15:53:11.535-07:00EmbattledI had a dream last night that I was kneeling up in bed, a war cry on my lips while I brandished a pillow to fend off the hoard of mechanical spiders spilling up and over my headboard. (No clue why they were mechanical. But they totally were little tiny robot arachnids.)<br /><br />That’s when my boyfriend woke me up.<br /><br />Because, apparently, I really was kneeling up in bed, while yelling, and brandishing a pillow.<br /><br />No spiders though, which was actually kind of a letdown. But I think the fact that I was actually shouting and swinging a pillow in real life, just like in my dream, is kind of awesome.<br /><br /><em>Side note:</em> Is it weird that I was bummed to discover that I wasn’t actually battling tiny robot arachnids? I’m not really fond of spiders, and I certainly wasn’t disappointed that my bed wasn’t full of a swarm of them. I think I’m just looking for the epic in life.<br /><br />And, while I’m pondering, why robot spiders? Were regular spiders not exciting enough? My dream interpretation books agree that spiders signify change, but there’s no mention of what robot spiders indicate. Perhaps there’s a new computer in my future or something?morning_aurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08907342946837655439noreply@blogger.com0