Tag Archives: loveliness

things that make me so happy i could vomit;

summerrrr

oh! hey there. is anybody home? my bad, ya’ll.
it’s been a whirlwind couple of weeks and i’m lucky if i even remember deodorant most days.
now let’s cut the crap.

ever see that one episode of 30 rock? the one where jack watches a home video of one of his childhood birthdays and sees that he once vomited from a birthday present, that launches his quest to find out what could make him so happy he could vomit?

{no? that’s sad. you’re missing out on weeks of yelling “apollllooooo apollllooooo” to no one in particular.}

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30 rock moments aside, as you can tell, i’m of a weird breed. i get homesick while i’m in neat cities. i make playlists themed to fall-times when it’s the dead of summer {and had stared at my bathing suit all winter in longing}. i miss my dogs when my hand-holding cat is on my lap. all these things should make me vomit from happiness.

i suffer from grass-is-always-greener disorder.
sometime i just glaze over all of the really small and remarkable moments in my week.
like the following:

*reading hillary clinton’s twitter bio: “Wife, mom, lawyer, women & kids advocate, FLOAR, FLOTUS, US Senator, SecState, author, dog owner, hair icon, pantsuit aficionado, glass ceiling cracker, TBD…”
{and just her twitter in general. SHE TAKES SELFIES, YA’LL.}

*this list of thrilling, happy things to do this summer 

*this stevie nicks interview !! (she is woman hear her roar &etc.)


*the ice cream i had last night at ample hills creamery (peppermint pattie + cookies au lait. all the happy tears)

*the book i’m currently reading. i think it’s required reading for all who are  little girls at heart.

*i got to work a movie premiere last night{!!!!}{i didn’t see anyone famous from my will-call table, but i saw sandy bullock’s arm muscles and got cecily strong’s tickets for her publicist #littlevictories}

*my weekly fort tryon hikes. and seeing the stuart little boats. and all things, everything outside ever.

*$4 chinatown toads in buckets. plain and simple.

*rowing in central park.
{and how when we saw james taylor perform, we thought he was a wiggle. woops.}

*babysitting the coolest 9-year-old at a carnival.
{sno-cones! swings! magic shows! shout out @ veronica}

*swing dancing outside.
{dancing with strangers will never stop giving me that nice little happy jolt.}

{how about you?}

{ta-da! list} that time we walked the brooklyn bridge;

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that time we walked across the brooklyn bridge was the day we wore our feet down to little feet sausages with poor shoe-choices.{brogues and bright green pointy flats with rainbow sequins can do that to you.}

that time we walked across the brooklyn bridge was also the night we realized cash-only ice cream places are for-real.{and they are heartbreakers.}

that time we walked across the brooklyn bridge was when i realized that homesickness for boston and florida doesn’t have to make me feel sad, but more so lucky to have two homes i miss that much. {and also puppies. oh, and boloco. let’s be honest}

that time we walked across the bridge was the night we realized $1 vanilla cones at mcdonald’s can be bought with dimes, too. as long as you don’t have shame.{and as long as you have your regular mcdonald’s guys being heavy handed with their swirling.}

that time we walked across the brooklyn bridge was when i realized strapless bras aren’t for fancy balls and proms.{that ish is for everyday. no straps= no problems.}

that time we walked across the brooklyn bridge i realized i am blind as a bat. big glasses forever*~ sally jesse rafael-style, ya’ll.

#classicbrooklyn outfit rounded out by a manfriend shirt. where’s my owl-embroidered tote bag? my straight bangs? feather extensions? it’s like i thought it was halloween or something.

seeing things clearly and un-blobby is underrated.
…especially bridges at night like this beaut.

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i want to go to there, a reading list;

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{old orchard beach, maine}

basically, ya’ll, my wanderlust is going crazy enough to make me want to say “ya’ll”. luckily, a one bedroom in manhattan is my destiny this summer, so thankfully i have some place to walk my new mom-ish shoes around {baby girl loves sensible shoes, even if they age me ten years}.  never have i been more excited to kiss my little floridian weiner dog, or buy mass amounts of mangoes in crates on a street corner in new york. these books are helping homegirl in the meanwhile.

{berlin} berlin stories by robert walser

{berlin + france + boston}  my berlin kitchen by luisa weiss
{the happiest places} the geography of bliss by eric weiner
{britain + america}  i’m a stranger here myself by bill bryson
{ireland}  irish journal by heinrich boll
{europe} neither here nor there by bill bryson
{actually, just read all of the bill bryson: appalachia, britain, australia, small town america}
{paris} the dud avocado by elaine dundy
{italy} la bella figura by beppe severgnini

 

these days;

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signed a sublease for a charmingly large {that’s what she said, heeey ohhhhh. sorry, mom} one bedroom in upper {upper…upper} manhattan for the summer.

two favorite berries:  pinkberry on newbury.

putting “or whatever” after heartfelt sayings has been my main jam, i.e. “i love you or whatever”, “you’re cute or whatever”, “no, i’ll miss you or whatever.”

edie has been developing a love of fine luggage. baby girl knows what she likes.

the $8.95 thai lunch special at dok bua is both the life and death of me. dumplings on dumplings on curry on dumplings.

fenway has never been more gross and sticky and yet so very much my favorite place, even if i did drop my favorite scarf right into a puddle of day old bud light.

i’m also trying to convince coolidge theater that i can sublet one of their recliner chairs forever, because that’s what success and happiness look like to me.

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kate nash. jukebox the ghost. matt pond pa. all of the paper bags being hyperventilated into. all of them.

the discovery of the one direction store in boston= life has improved a million percent and rising.

my loyalty cards have extended from just cvs to include: panera, petco, dunkin’s, pavement, starbucks, and whatwaslifewithoutfreescones,guys

brother and mother filson and i pillaged the harpoon brewery of its pretzels and harpoon summer. 

{and considered going by ferry to do the same at cisco  brewery in nantucket. we don’t mess around}

tardis blue velvet cake for the whovian manfriend. disgust-o-meter went way off the charts this weekend.

slowly but surely the people of boston are getting back to their normal selves;

…which is to say the italian guys in the north end give me discounts on strawberries for my red hair,  and i delight in the drunken conversations had by people on a saturday night on the train home.

 

 

a montreal itinerary;

{this past valentines day weekend i got myself on a greyhound and traveled all the way to montreal. for other itineraries, click here.}img_4083

get to south station at 7am after a valentine’s date of romantic egg sandwiches eaten under the glow of subway lights and alfred hitchcock, which is to say i was under a pretty hefty bagel coma.

promptly down the largest mcdonald’s coffee and delight in all of the artificial sweetener, fake cream, and ambiance. then, take two melatonins.

but actually don’t, because that’s like a big LOL to your body. if you feel the need to shake your right leg in place and scratch your head, but also fall asleep, you’re doing it right.

allow seven hours of talking to patchouli-scented busmates and buying $9 maple syrup at a sunoco in white river junction, vermont to pass. this is very important. do not question me.

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gallivant the city of montreal solo hell-bent on trying new things like poutine and maybe use some high school french (french club president 08-09, hollaaaaaa), but end up speaking english and ordering a fast food tofu green curry on styrofoam plates almost immediately. it happens.
extra points if you accidentally shout “I’D VOUDRAIS A  VERT TOFU CARI S’IL VOUS PLAIT?” when you get nervous.

that also happens.
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delight in the dreamboatiness of josh ritter and fantasize about him noticing your glance across the room, prompting him to say “you want to pull on my suspenders, don’t you? come on over. don’t be shy.”

what actually happens:
1. you forget to get cash out for coat check and the canadian bouncer is really not jiving with you holding your puffer coat the whole concert, but your card shuts down before you can because you’ve only just crossed the canadian border abruptly and are buying erratic things like ear plugs, sketchy hostel reservations, and $9 bottles of maple syrup. you are essentially a terrorist.
2. also, get a nose bleed in the middle of the concert.
3. get one of those delightful chronic uti’s is also a plus (tmi, but i need you all to really understand the gravitas of this comedic display of sad). go to the bathroom eight times, strategically placing the bathroom door cracked so you can still sing along to “bright smile”.
4. forget to pull your skirt down when you return from the bathroom for the sixth time. don’t notice that everyone can see the butt flap on your sweater tights until you go back for time #7.

even so, fun was had.
home girl doesn’t play around. she plays for keeps.

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spend the next morning prancing around mont royal imagining how on earth montreal hospitals and public parks can be sexy. they’ve taken it to an art form, ya’ll.

eat a burrito-sized crepe filled with nutella and raspberries on a stoop near mcgill because you really don’t feel like tipping anyone.

pretend to your instagram followers that you went into museums, because you truly can’t afford it. but pretty pictures outsides and selfies in gift shops count for something.

realize that your southern accent is coming back the more you go north on this continent. it’s probably been at least 11 hours since you’ve spoken to someone, so you spend two hours laughing about “montre-ya’ll” as a pun. this will help in hiking up mont royal, somehow.
this is how you solo travel, ya’ll.

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if you’re ever in the market for a porn version of “dude, where’s my car?” or some disney channel original movie (i’d be all for a “luck of the irish” version personally), fear not; montreal has already done it and it’s playing right around the corner.

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meet up with lovely blog soul-sister, emily. and delight in all things kitschy and dairy-filled (foreshadowing*~).

suddenly your mind is filled with all kinds of exclamation points: accordion players! french things! kitschy thrift stops with clear coffins with a dead jesus inside of it (really, this happened. it was right below the cash register)!!

bike baskets outside of erotic movie theatres! erotic bookstores! erotic lingerie stores! i was significantly disappointed on not finding an erotic bakery, but you win some you lose some.
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and then the inevitable happened. seeing as emily and were those types of girls: the kinds who ordered virtually ordered all the same things at all the restaurants we went to, we got lactose-sick off of a plateful of omelet du fromage, sadly enough.

we hobbled from shop to shop, through creepy jesus-sarcophagus-filled thrift stores to  shop-dog-filled shops, but realized a nap in our hostel bunk bed was what the doctor ordered.

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seeing as we had been calling out things as “so0oo0o instagrammable” (you know what i’m talking about: lattes, cats, flowers, clouds, anything fluffy/sparkly/alcohol-induced) all around the city, we decided to strike the most instagrammable poses; that of us crouching in pain inside a metro station. we tried to make a statement and i think it worked.

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year twenty-two;

IMG_4211perform stand-up.
move somewhere new.
post-grad corgi????
pierce the schnozz/nose. make it sparkly.
watch the entirety of doctor who.
sing in public.
say nope.

graduate (!!!)
bike around a new city.
learn to read crochet patterns (achievable goals, ya’ll.)
read at least three children’s books auf deutsch.
go to a mormon church service.
go rock-climbing.

go see a show at ucb.
do at least three levels of improv class.
write more letters.
self-publish my collection of awk short stories.
go see the sea ponies at chinctoteague island (8 year old dream, gah!)
get a real, big girl job.

here goes nothing, ya’ll.

{berets and bongos} 99;

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“i’ve got to tell you
how i love you always
i think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me i need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

at night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and i am lonely
thinking of flutes

i miss you always
when i go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although i never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and i stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card i’ll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
i beg you do not go”

-frank o’hara.

a february playlist {a-side};

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{click image for playlist!}

this may or may not be a shock, but i’m really not a romantic.

don’t get me wrong; i love love. i just don’t like the notion that love has to be this compartment that we have to fill with this sounds-like-love, looks-like-love, smells-like-love, feels-like-love-so-it-must-be-love-kind-of-thing. that it must be from someone who is romantically entangled with you for it to be legitimate. that is has to be someone who makes out with you under yellow-lit light posts, or in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, or in the rain, or any other taylor swift-ized notion of romantic love.

love, for me, is how much i spread my appreciation towards the things that have decorated my last 21.9 years on this earth. the cinnamon rolls my grandma forced me out of my fold-out-couch bed every year on christmas even to make, that took three agonizing-yet-delicious hours. my grandfather inviting me to pick corn in the backyard, picking out special ears of corn for each family member.

it’s the tattered old vhs tape of the b-rated, non-disney version of peter pan, which i still think of as the best (can someone pleeeease help me find it).  the elementary school boys who ripped up my gel-pen-decorated love notes (complete with cover letter…wish i was joking) on the bus as i stood and watched them do it (i’m looking at you, hunter, i’m looking at  you and your stupid gelled-back hair.)

the mayonnaise my mother attempts to put in her famous broccoli casserole each new year’s day, that i lovingly pretend not to notice, gets my adoration. it’s your roommate, who chimes in when you pen a katy perry parody song about turkey slices when you really should be sleeping. it’s the moment when you really  made your brother, the funniest person in your small world, really sit back and laugh.

these are the songs that aren’t of the sound-like-love, feel-like-love, taste-like-love, look-like-love, must-be-love sort. they’re the love from your family when you still pick all the dried blueberries out of the box of “blueberry morning” cereal, and the moment when you found a dear friend who did the same thing growing up. mouthing the words to billy madison with your older brother. the matching set of skinned knees you and your best friend got from roller-blading into mailboxes because you still didn’t know how to stop. sure, the ooh-yay-i-just-got-kissed-in-the-rain-by-a-really-big-dream-boat kind are sprinkled in there, but they also deserve a spot in that definition, don’t they?

 what it boils down to is this: hunter the love-note-ripper gets my love. mayonnaise gets my love. i think approaching the world, this world of long-lost-hair-gelled crushes of fifth grade, with all kinds of love is the only way to approach it. i think of valentine’s day under this lens. i think of most special days with this lens. i remember when i was thirteen i read that ronald reagan called his mother-in-law each year on his wife’s birthday to thank her for giving birth to his wife. that sort of love, stretching out of something bigger, is the kind of love i’m trying to hit upon. to love all the things that surround the little moments, the little quirks, the little essences of all your favorite people and memories.
that’s what i’d call love.

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{tune in next week for the b-side!}

{berets and bongos} 98;

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“girl with typewriter eyes
forms an ivory exclamation mark
in the black circle
of her pupil every time
he calls her lovely
in the other’s dark key
appears a question mark
she often wishes her thoughts
were not so inscribed
in her expressions.”

-rebecca lindenberg, “girl with typewriter eyes.”