Tired of going about your normal "activities" without songs that truly speak to your yearning heart? Never fear! Your crush may not care, but these songs go out to you:
Mallory's Songs to Stalk By!
Even on those tough days when restraining orders and broken binoculars have you feeling blue, these classic and contemporary hits will keep you right where you should be: Hidden in the bushes under your beloved's window.
This collection makes a perfect gift for the stalker in your life, or --if you're the unappreciated one-- an excellent way to share your true feelings when you get so nervous your tongue swells up.
*disclaimer: Some of these favorites were written by obviously desperate individuals, so language/content may be seen as questionable, strange, or downright creepy. Enjoy!
There's a lot to cover, so I'll just launch right into it.
Of Puppies:
We got one. His name is Banjo. Poor Eric- his mom pointed out- has bags under his eyes from letting this little guy out at night. (I help, but somehow I sleep through the initial squealing, which ends up driving Eric nuts before it wakes me up. ) He--the puppy in question-- is incredibly potty-trainable, but I won't go into the details because I feel that most people won't find the specifics interesting. Of The Scene Aesthetic: (hint: They aren't here because I love them)
Basically, they're two guys who see nothing wrong with covering Taylor Swift's Love Story. The testosterone sure is flowing with these two. I saw them in concert last month, opening for Owl City, and everyone in our group was trying to rip their ears off by the second song. I've granted you all a boon by not posting one of their original songs, but misery loves company, so I had to say SOMETHING about them.
Of Theology: In seriousness, now. I used to be pretty relaxed about how people in the Christian community chose to interpret God's role in their life. I figured that the question of whether we choose God or God chooses us was chicken-and-egg and not too much of an issue. It is. God is the ultimate Being, the Creator of the Universe. If I had to pick Him in order to give Him any power over my life, we are all screwed. He has pulled me back, chastened me, and refined me all these years against my human will. And there's a lot more that is truly important. If Jesus is the Way, and the Only WAY... I hesitate to think that God wants us to blur every other line, I have been painfully convicted on the following points, lately.
You must fear God. Our Lord is not Barney the Dinosaur-- men were struck to the ground in the presence of angels, how much more so would we be humiliated by our sinfulness, our vanity, our humanity in the presence of God Himself? It is only fitting that we live in fear of His power, and be humbled by his grace. If one more girl insists that Jesus is her boyfriend, I may explode.
God is God over every aspect of our lives, and if we resign His influence to church on Sunday, we do not know him.
God is a political God. See above.
Rebuke is not hatred; it is one of the most sincere forms of love. If we do not actively wish to help better our brothers/sisters in Christ, we do them a great disservice.
We are not saved by works, but to refuse to do work is to not love Christ enough. We should not only do good works, but do them so cheerfully that people stop and wonder about us.
There is no topic on which God is silent. Even the tiny things either tend towards vanity (which tends toward Satan) or towards humility, (which tends towards Christ).
Back again to cheerfulness: Paul says in Philippians 4:11, "...for I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content:" He was in prison! "Content" does not mean bearing hang-doggedly with whatever comes our way, in fact it probably requires us to be almost unaware of what might trouble us. What's more, we should do it smiling, because Christ has borne our sins! The average person (me especially) has no idea what it means to carry a cross, or to be locked in prison... and given that fact, we should be incredibly careful of treating day-to-day challenges as if they were crosses to bear--if we think that a bad day at work or drama with a friend counts as a cross, we're hugely underestimating Jesus' gift.
I have so much more I could rant on about, but I think I'll put it all in one post one of these days...
And, to point out how insane Hollywood is. Celebrity Re-Incarnations: I infinitely prefer the originals.
I've decided the New Hollywood formula is basically this:
Be symmetrical/beautiful (unless you're Adrian Brody)
Resemble someone else who made it big
Up your "now" factor by getting a few tattoos
Don't overthink. Don't think at all.
My Grandma tells me I look like Loretta Young (I don't see it, do you?), so I'm set... some agent just has to notice me.
"Oh, this is going to be awesome!" Eric said, swerving the car back onto Oak Glen Road, and frantically scanning the ground from the windows. "What? What??" I kept asking, failing to see what had caught his attention. Cars whizzed by, other drivers befuddled by the maneuver. "I saw a Tarantula in the dirt over there" he turned the car around once more "...dang it. I can't find him anymore." Seemingly defeated, he motioned to turn homeward again. I quickly weighed the possibilities and asked "Should we just get out and look for him?" "Really?" Obviously he had been hoping for such an answer. "Um.. yeah, sure." I said. So, we trekked a few yards up the road, and there he was... Furry and crumpled (by his own wishes, not by the impression of a tire-track) in the middle of the right-hand lane. Eric did what any self-respecting male would do and threw some rocks at it, meanwhile searching for a stick with which to poke the little guy. I kept a safe distance, and we both jumped and backed away whenever our arachnid companion decided to mosey over in any direction. Then Eric moved from Stage 1: Intimidation, to Stage 2: Confiscation, and we ran back to the car for "some tupperware" which Eric says every car should have, and ours-apparently- doesn't, which left us rifling through the junk left over from long days at work and trips for fast food. I had thrown away my Starbucks cups the night before, so we settled for a plastic bag. The bag actually turned out to be a good choice, since it was virtually invisible when placed, open, on the ground. Once we had tricked him into walking into our trap, we quickly panicked, realizing we had nothing to close the bag with, and spidey was pretty angry... so Eric clutched the top of this bag and we ran towards the car, again bewildering -or amusing- other motorists with the sight of a lanky fellow in 1880's clothing holding a plastic bag at arm's length and running down the road with me trotting at his heels. Then we used my ponytail to close up the bag, and I felt sheepish for not thinking of that in the first place.
And that's why there's a Tarantula (now in tupperware) on our kitchen table.
This is NOT the Tarantula we caught, but he looks like this.
We were supposed to bring him with us to work, to show the boys and then release him in an empty field, probably near where we found him... but somehow we "forgot" him and I worry that Eric may have more intensive plans... *Dun dun Dun*
An acquaintance's jangling and unidentifiable ringtone.
Earworms, in addition to their obviously frustrating ability to become stuck in one's head, are all--rather uncannily-- uncool. Today, I am battling the sickeningly sweet strains of The Fox and The Hound's "Best of Friends" and it makes me feel utterly lame. Why can't I have some almost-unlikable but patently-cool indie song stuck in my head? That way, if anyone hears me humming, I'll be beyond reproach...
So, the Husband and I (and my family and some friends as well, and well, pretty much everyone) were present for Rep. Adam Schiff's Obamacare Townhall in Alhambra last night. It was pretty crazy to see the event swell from a hundred or so scattered picketers to what was rumoured to be nearly 3,000 people. It was utterly insane, but a good experience.
A friend and I were talking earlier today, and she asked me if it felt like a long time, or if it felt like it went by quickly. I was stumped. Sometimes, due to the fact that we've settled into a routine, it seems like we've been together forever---in a good way, no major fights or even any bickering. We're pretty comfy, and tend to spend most evenings watching Smallville and attempting to tame our wild Iguana.
But then, sometimes I wake up and my knee-jerk reaction is "Where am I?" and "Who is this man?" ...and after about a .9 seconds I remember and I'm all happy and stuff.
So far we've had a couple major adventures: Like the other night when I suddenly decided that I wanted peaches, and Eric actually went out with me at ten o'clock at night to buy some; for some reason I convinced myself that someone was going to try to kill us on the way home, and proceeded to warn him anytime a car behind us got too close ("They're following us!") or remind him that we still had watch out as we walked from the driveway to the house. You never can be too careful. Another fascinating episode was the Case of the Feminist Social Security worker, who took the liberty of informing me that it was my choice to change my surname, and if I wanted to keep-or hyphenate-my maiden name, it was socially acceptable. The boy said we should go back and ask her if I can change my full name to Drazin Drazin Drazin. I opted for the normal option and retained my first name, which he afterwards concluded was the best way after all. (He likes my name).
We have also attempted to give George the Iguana a bath. That was by far the most dramatic episode of our story so far.
I don't quite remember the point of this post, but Happy Two Months, husband. I love you.
I'm photographing my former music teacher's wedding today. They're old friends of the family (played music for both mine and my parents' weddings) and now they're tying the knot!
I am so nervous. I'm more nervous than I was about getting married.
Wedding memories are pretty much a lifetime thing, and the thought of managing to capture them all without missing a beat is making me a tad uneasy.
(I hate the picture above, but it accurately describes this morning's mood)
Before I begin this tirade, I will redefine, for the sake of my argument, one of my subjects: By discomfort, I do not mean the type that your doctor or dentist will use to describe a feeling you may have as a result of a procedure they are about to perform on you (often used interchangeably with the word "pressure"); that feeling is actually "pain," the other subject of my argument.
I submit that pain is most often better than discomfort. "What?" you say, "Blasphemous!" you say, and perhaps I am being a tad twisted (I have been known to laugh through a charlie horse or two), but here's the reasoning of this: The single sharp sensation derived from being poked by a pin could never compare to the constant annoyance factor of a too-tight waistband or a pair of shoes that aren't exactly too tight, but chafe just enough to make themselves a nuisance. I would rather deal with a headache than the uncomfortable sensation of being stuck to a leather couch on a hot day. The marked contrast between these feelings is two-fold:
Ability to concentrate on the task at hand. When one is in pain, pain becomes the task. With an enormous toothache or a throbbing cut on one's finger, other things are irrelevant and inconsequential, affording your full attention and ability to the ordeal you are currently suffering through. On the other hand, to be uncomfortable is only a distraction from something that is important and must be done. Recall, if you will, the last time you had a ball of sweat rolling down your forehead or a stray hair tickling your neck while your hands and shoulders were otherwise occupied. A nagging sneeze or plugged ear is distracting, but does not require the immediacy of response that an open wound would afford. Therefore, you must continue with your task in a state of mind that is, in some ways, rather tortuous... as you cannot give your task your full attention, but cannot drop your task to see to your annoyance. Which brings me to,
Ability to complain or avoid work. A painful stomach flu gives you every opportunity to evoke the sympathy of others while meanwhile diverting any chance of manual labor---whereas complaining about or drawing attention the fact that you um..have an uncomfortable wedgie is completely out of the question.* A well-deserved pity-party over something that is causing you obvious pain is almost always joined into by your friends and family, whereas any frustration expressed over a slight--but looming--discomfort makes you seem like a baby.
Do you see what I mean?
Now to see if I'm crazy... Your turn: Given a choice (and fully understanding the variables at hand) which would you choose,
Minor Pain or Major Discomfort?
*as a side note, I have found that, often, the most uncomfortable things are also the most embarrassing things
First of all: Pictures of the apartment are coming, but I'm having a little trouble keeping every inch of the apartment clean, therefore I'm having to take pictures intermittently at various "angles" so as to obscure a pile of (clean) laundry here, or some unwrapped appliances there. It's testing me to my creative core.
Also: Since it's becoming old news before it was any news, Eric and I are the proud owners of an Iguana named George. He's an eensy, weensy, teensy bit of scaley cuteness and we pretty much love him. Pictures of him pending as well. We're actually not sure of his gender, but - as you can tell- we've contented ourselves with assuming his maleness.
On my mind lately is what sort of art to hang up in our little apartment. As of right now, we have several of Eric's movie posters in the living room, including this amazing and GIGANTIC Creature from the Black Lagoon: But except for that awesomeness, our walls are pretty bare.
Now, I'm a sucker for Art Deco and Art Nouveau-type things: But I'm thinking it won't quite work for our "theme," which is a psuedo-retro monstrousity that has taken on a life of its own and defies me at every turn!
If my fiancee weren't such a handsome hunk, I'd have to say that River's Cuomo has a good chance of being my obsession:
*le sigh* That being said, I have to say that my fiancee is, in fact, *the* handsome hunk.
This is my desktop background, by the way.
Okay, seriously. No more engagement pictures, I promise!
Plans are going great... My dress fitting was last week, and it only needed to be hemmed, so I'm stoked. I found some awesome things for the bridesmaids on Etsy, and... I'm sick of talking about the wedding, actually.
No, for real.
I might actually talk politics, or theology, or literature maybe: Since my friend Em had me read a few of his poems, I'm a little bit obsessed with Robert Frost: he twists around just enough in the head to keep me coming back. Especially a few points in the poem "Maple"
....She would forget it. She all but forgot it. What he'd sowed with her slept so long a sleep And came so near death in the dark of years That when it woke and came to life again The flower was different from the parent seed. It came back vaguely at the glass one day, as she stood saying over her name aloud, Striking it gently across her lowered eyes
To make it go well with the way she looked.
It really just strikes me as fascinating; a common human theme to wonder if our name makes us... or we make our name. I'm sure Frost was trying to say so much more, but that's how I relate to the piece.
Well, this has been one long ramblyness that should probably end for now.
Engagement pictures today, then swing-dancing at the Coffee Depot. I wore the dress my mom and I have been sewing and stressing over the whole weekend. I tried a Depoccino (Espresso over vanilla ice cream... like an espresso float)
I am utterly exhausted and happy.
A small taste of the engagement pictures to come (Much much thanks to Emily and her brother)
In one sense, I have been follicly blessed. I do have a head full of hair, after all.
The problem lies, however, in the fact that running a brush through my hair has often been a physical impossibility. Curly, wavy, frizzy. Whatever you want to call it-- it's a little twisted. I'm not sure when my hair became the way it is, because I look at pictures of myself in child form and my hair then seems to have been quite manageable. Or maybe it just lived a peaceful life because I didn't care what it did... So, by that logic, the moment I started to care about it, it rebelled. It rebelled in 8th grade. I don't suppose it helped that the styles that year were incredibly pin-straight. I used to watch those shampoo commercials where the models ran their fingers through their fantastically straight and shiny hair. I'll tell ya, there is nothing worse for a curly-haired girl than a single Fructis commercial; it will squash your ego under a rock in the Mariana Trench for at least six months, maybe more if you were having a really bad hair day on the view-date.
Over the years I have tried many, many approaches with the willful beast on my head. (Pardon all the self portraits. There have been points when I had no life and entirely too much camera access) I'll get the worst out of the way first:
The "Let's Pretend it's Not Curly" The procedure was simple: Slick the front with enough gel to keep even my eyebrows immobile, then stick the rest in a ponytail: out of sight, out of mind. Also known as the most mindless thing I have ever done. Notice the random tendrils. Those were on purpose, please don't ask me why.
The Somewhat Bun. The slightly more subtle evolution of the first. Sad confession: I still do this sometimes.
The Legolas Wannabe Mis-use of a straightening iron. I was a LOTR addict. (note the random braid) This is painful for me to talk about, so we'll move on. Covering It Up scarfs, hats, headbands. You name it. Then I went short. Easy to take care of, I loved it. But looking back, I have to admit that it was a tad triangular.
And in Pigtails Oh poofball pigtails and green eye makeup...I'll miss you.
Straightened and Short I actually would not mind this again. Wasn't all that much work with most of my hair completely gone.
Grown-out, Again. Experimented with mega-curlyness.
Annnd Straight. Again. Still wishful thinking from time to time..
And The Recent Method ...doing nothing to it at all.
Your turn: What's your hair evolution? Did you do insane things that make you wince when you see old photographs, or do you have a signature style that remains pretty unchanged?
My Xanga (yes--I am that old school) was raided by the gossip bots recently, so this may soon be the only place I can maintain a small level of anonymity for the venting of my frustrations. No worries, though, I don't feel like ranting at the moment.
I am in love with these fellas, lately. Sure, they're over-played, but with good reason. I guess I never gave them a chance until Day and Age came out, but I've found myself listening more and more. I realize Hot Fuss has been around forever, but I'm just now realizing the complexity of it and--like I said-- totally in love.
Valentine's this year has been a tad uneventful, but making Drazin's card *pictures soon, once I get to see what he thinks of it* made me think about making more cards/paper-crafts in general. I'm not actually that bad at it, and--though it's probably chock-full of carcinogens--I love spray-mount. And different papers... Tissue... Envelopes. Yep.
I want to keep this little blog up, so I have a few little projects and ideas coming up, hopefully.
The problem lies however, in the fact that, while my concious-self is thinking "Aww, cute!" my subconscious mind is playing the themes from Jaws and Psycho.
I've always been a book-lover: I'm not just talking about the words in the book, the stories contained--I'm addicted to the yummy, sniffable pages of a new softcover, or the pleasant mustiness of a creaky old hardcover. I love the font, the covers, the random stains you find in ones at thrift stores (a rather creepy feeling, to wonder if those drops are tear-stains from an overly-emotional reader or.... something else).
So, something like the above (which requires one to glue pages together and cut a square hole in the glued mass) or the image below--th0ugh my sister made me a beautiful one for Christmas--:
....gives me chills, and perhaps not in a good way. Because, yes, in theory the idea is freakin' adorable; however, the dramatic thought that future generations will never thumb through the pages of those books makes me want to faint away, or something. How could something like these crafts be used to display a love of books? One has to murder a tome in the process!
The question remains: Will I quash my deeply-held principles to pursue that gorgeous wedding idea?
Probably.
But I'll use an empty journal or something, to feel better about myself.
Story behind this one: The new tradition upon seeing this sign is to shout "OH NO! HAWAIIAN BBQ!" in the most terrified of voices.
Faces help too.
And for something completely different: A "craft project"
If one pair of sunglasses makes you cool....
Our ultimate honeymoon destination.
"We'll charge you an arm and a leg and then give you....an armless suit"
The "Brad Pitt" face.
I snuck a camera in the DMV.
After a few weeks of some pretty extreme highs and lows, including getting my little heart crushed over a dream-house deal that fell through, it was good to have a lovely day with Drazin. In my life, I have had friends who prefer to just hang out, and those who work out these structured activities, and it's all amazing--- but I prefer nothing above just driving around with this kid.
I honestly wish I could say that I'm skilled in irony, with a cutting wit... but my wit at this point is more butter-knife sharp ( I think it might have something to do with being in love and wanting to be nice to everything as a result)
*shrug*
Death by blunt trauma is still death.
But I'm thinking it won't quite work for our "theme," which is a psuedo-retro monstrousity that has taken on a life of its own and defies me at every turn!
