Puppy Dog

My family's dog, Harely. Harley and all the dogs I got to hang out with this weekend (especially Sadie and Marley) really made me wish my living situation could accomdate a dog. Even though I like cats, it's safe to say I'm definitely a dog person. 

Blocked

I can't write.

Complete and total writer's block.

I have plenty of things to write about; I had a great time in Steamboat Springs and Winter Park this weekend, but the sentences just aren't living up to my expectations. I could vent about work, but that would be counter productive in my attempt to find a zen-like peace with my occupational frustrations.

So for now, until this goes away, I will be posting random pictures.

Enjoy and let's hope I find inspiration to write before I run out of pictures.

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Sunday night I had all of these ideas floating around in my head about posts I could possibly write. Because I had already posted that day, I decided to wait and spread them out over the rest of the week. For once I wasn’t going to have to think about what I wanted to write about.

Monday started out well…as silly as it sounds, I really did want to write about the Goo Goo Cluster discovery. I don’t get out much, people; ice cream flavors are a big deal to me. The problem is, I really can’t remember any of the other so called “great” ideas I was going to cover.

On Sunday night, after watching a special on NBC with Tom Brokaw called Separate and Unequal, I felt compelled to write about the subject matter covered over that hour. The problem is, there are so many facets to the socio-economic/racial divide in America, I don’t even know where to begin or how to address it in a deserving light. I see this divide every day at work. Over the last 7 months I’ve become very aware of the problems this country faces, but few people are actually addressing. Despite seeing it firsthand, I still feel too inexperienced and uneducated to write a worthy post. Give me another six months and you might see me on my soapbox. Stay tuned.

And after that, I really have no idea what I wanted to write about. Even though the heat is subsiding just a smidge and the evening thunderstorms make my apartment a little more livable (and sleep-able), I still wake up most mornings feeling exhausted, even after 8 hours of sleep. I will blame my inability to remember simple things like what I was going to post about or what I was going to tell Trout during our nightly phone conversations, on a lack of quality sleep.

Thankfully, tonight is the coolest it’s been in weeks, so I’m hoping with all of my windows wide open, I may actually be able to sleep with covers. That would be a welcomed change. Hopefully it helps me upgrade my appearance from walking zombie to sleep deprived. I can only hope.

Hello, My Old Friend

Yesterday was a very lazy day for me. So lazy, I somehow managed to forget that I could go running once the weather cooled off. Apparently it isn’t quite routine yet. This welcomed lack of activity made it very hard for me to get motivated to do anything, especially going grocery shopping.

Oh but I’m so glad that I did. Not only had I run out of staple foods like bread and orange juice, but the more fun food items were also missing from my kitchen. I’m trying to cut back on the unhealthy snacky foods and beef up my fridge with more fruits and vegetables. However, no matter how healthy I eat I will always, always, always have to have ice cream in my freezer. So as I strolled down the frozen food section, I was absolutely delighted by two things. Not only was ice cream on sale, but great googley-moogley, they had Goo Goo Cluster.

Not only is Goo Goo Cluster one of my favorite ice creams of all time (tied only with Cold Stone’s Founder’s Favorite), but I haven’t seen it anywhere in years. I probably haven’t enjoyed a big heaping bowl of the GGC since I was in high school. I thought they (whoever “they” might be) had just stopped making it.

Taking that first bite last night, it was just as good as I remembered. Chocolate ice cream with a touch of marshmallow (not to be confused with Rocky Road, GGC has creamy, puffy marshmallow flavored ice cream, not actual marshmallows) mixed with caramel and chocolate covered peanuts; heaven in a bowl that you can eat with a spoon.

In case the founders of GGC had indeed stopped making it and decided to try running it again, I need to ask my readership a favor. Could you all go out and buy a carton (or two) as to help ensure that is sticks around for a while. You can buy it at Safeway.

Thanks in advance, you won’t regret it. And if you don’t like it, well pack that puppy with dry ice and send it my way.

The coup de gras: the banner. They didn't leave this one up either. Go figure. 

Washing machine. There was also one on the dryer door, ironing board and in the dust pan. 

The sugar canister before and after. 

A little, fuzzy, but it should be noted that the picture normally in this frame is of Jenn and Phil's cat Rocky, as a kitten. The wording below the picutre is "meow." Needless to say, when they found this one, they put Rocky's picutre back right away. 

This was the first card they found. At this point they thought it was the only card we hid. They've never been the victims of a prank, but I guarantee they'll be more suspicous next time. 

A Picture is Worth...

I have nothing going on today, I feel like posting, yet I have nothing really post-worthy to write today. So instead of writing, I have decided to post some pictures.

A while back, Trout wrote about a little prank that we played on my former landlords. Since Trout was unable to make it down to help me place all the cards, I took pictures for him. I didn't take picutres of all the cards (my camera's memory card isn't that big), but I did want to capture the more clever and diabolical places. Since Jenn and Phil have only found roughly 30 of the 50 cards hidden around their house, I will only post pictures of the ones I know they've found.

Enjoy!

How Cool is This?

A geek out moment, brought to you by CNN.com.

Don’t Stop Believin’

I mentioned in my last post that a part of me wishes I could sing. It’s not that I can’t sing at all; my senior year of high school, I was an alto in the choir and I can carry a tune without too much difficulty. That little part of me that wishes I had a killer voice, however, is the same little slice that also loves karaoke.

When I lived down in The Ranch with Jenn and Phil, I had a decent amount of exposure to karaoke. Phil had Karaoke Revolution (from the makers of Dance Dance Revolution) for his PlayStation, and much to Jenn’s chagrin, Phil and I played that game, and sometimes we’d even play it during parties or when other friends came over. Next to some of Phil’s perfect scores, I’m at least in the top 5 with my rendition of Britney Spears’ Hit Me Baby (One More Time).

However, despite all the at-home-fun, we didn’t venture out to share our singing with the rest of the world very often. While I was living in The Ranch, Jenn, Phil and I went to a karaoke bar just once. Even though that was over a year ago, I will forever be reminded of that night every time I hear Welcome to the Jungle, Tiny Dancer, Total Eclipse of the Heart and It’s the End of the World As We Know It. By the third or fourth song, everyone was singing along with the person on stage. It was entertaining whether or not the person singing was actually good. And even if they weren’t, it didn’t matter, they got cheers no matter the performance.

And that’s the great thing about karaoke. You don’t have to be good, you can make a total fool of yourself and no one cares. That was the reasoning I told myself when, most recently, I found myself at a karaoke bar. A large group of us went to this little Mexican dive to sing karaoke a couple of weeks ago. I was still trying to distract myself from the previous week, and after a gin and tonic (yes, folks, I know that’s not the way to cope or distract oneself), I sang a duet with Phil’s younger sister (Bohemian Rhapsody), I was the only one besides Julse, who knew all the words. Oddly enough, I also sang that song at my high school graduation party with a group of guys because I was the only one who knew all the lyrics. Apparently, it’s my karaoke song.

After a successful performance that even got the DJ to turn on the disco ball and multi-colored stage lights, I decided to go a step further and sing a song on my own. So after another gin and tonic, and thumbing through the song catalog a couple of times, I finally found the perfect song: Punk Rock Girl by the Dead Milkmen. Okay, so not many people were going to know (and hence, be able to sing along with) an obscure punk song from (as corrected by Trout) the mid 80s, but it wasn’t a pretty sounding song either. There wasn’t much of a tune, and some of it was spoken more than sung. It wasn't supposed to sound good and people wouldn't know if I butchered it anyway; perfect. After waiting through the next round of songs and continually stealing Phil’s mug of beer, as to not lose my nerve, I finally took the stage.

It was pretty terrible. The table I was with was very supportive, but I think they were just humoring me. I think I nailed the talking/singing parts more than the singing parts, but I didn’t care too much. By that time in the night, I was warm and fuzzy enough to think that, after hearing it performed, Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ was, quite possibly the most quintessential karaoke song of all time, I kid you not. Besides, after the terrible rendition of La Bamba, a dead-on Cartman impression through In the Ghetto, and Phil and Julse’s Baby Got Back, no one was going to remember my song one way or another.

I don’t think I’ll ever take up singing lessons, but I will undoubtedly still be singing along to my radio in my car, or in my apartment at the top of my lungs not caring if anyone else is listening. Besides, I’m not that bad.

A Guilty Pleasure

I went to happy hour at the usual hangout with Rebecca last night and we decided that despite everything we’re doing to get back to normal this week, we will never fully get over what happened. The best we can do is to get up and move on as best we can. With that being established, tonight’s post will be nothing but shallow and frivolous. Another way to move up and onward.

There’s this show…on FOX…a reality show…a competition show where America votes for their favorite competitor…I…can’t…stop…watching…it.

No, it’s not American Idol.

Let’s call it American Idol’s less-popular little sister. Mistaken for its wider known sibling, it dreams of being friends with the cool kids someday. But alas, it’s been thrown into the slums of summer reality TV, and it just may never reach Idol primetime status. But I love it none-the-less.

Oh yes, that’s right folks, I love me some So You Think You Can Dance?

I think, somewhere deep inside my psyche, the little girl who wanted to be a ballerina never died. The funny thing is, I never wanted to be a ballerina when I was a little girl. Yet, for some reason, I watch these people on this show and wish I could do all the dances they’re performing. Okay, I take that last statement back; I wish I could do everything but contemporary. Anything contemporary in the fine arts realm holds no appeal to me…but that’s a diatribe for a whole other post.

Where was I? Oh, yes…I wish I could dance. And not just going out on the dance floor and being able to move around to the beat without looking too much like a fool. I can do that just fine, thank you very much. I mean I wish I could waltz or tango, swing, dance around like a maniac to Broadway music (which also brings up a wish that I could actually sing…but I digress once again), tap, or even be able to do a little hip-hop (alas there’s no junk in the trunk to make that one happen).

This little voice in my head tells me I could be capable of doing it, but I have no means to find a way to prove that to myself. So, for now I will live vicariously through second-class summer reality TV. And when I’ve had my fill of dance, I can continue my first reality TV guilty pleasure…America’s Next Top Model. The only difference there is that I have no want or any ambition to take up modeling as a hobby.

You can all breathe a sigh of relief.

My Return

Two weeks ago, Trout and I were enjoying a beer at a local bar, looking forward to a 4th of July full of soccer and fireworks. My mini-vacation was a much needed break from the disappointment from the previous week. Before Trout left on the morning of the 5th, he told me, reassuringly (because I was a little mopey), “don’t worry, I’ll see you in a week and a half, that’s nothing.”

A little over 24 hours later, work was turned upside down and time became irrelevant. Since then, the weeks have crawled by and have simultaneously been a blur. It took me a week before I finally started returning to my normal routine. Very slowly the haze of shock and disbelief began to lift and I was able to do simple, everyday tasks again: pick up my clothes, wash dishes, do laundry, cook dinner. Doing these things felt therapeutically normal and oddly foreign all at the same time. I felt human again, but significantly changed in a way I never imagined.

This past weekend, I went to L-town for a friend’s wedding. When I finally saw Trout, I couldn’t believe it had only been a week and a half since the fireworks and festivities. This has, quite possibly, been the longest 10 days of my life. As with regaining my daily routine, it felt therapeutic and foreign to be out amongst people who weren’t engrossed in the same situation where I had spent so much time.

Now that I’m back home, things continue to improve. The only thing I’m not doing is running. As beneficial as that would be, the recent heat wave makes it very hard to want to run. When it’s still 90 degrees at 10:00pm, and living in an apartment with no AC, running is the last thing I want to do.

Little, random things still bring back memories and every once in a while, I still can’t believe what has happened. I think I will always have moments where I can’t believe the previous week’s events are a part of my life. On the other hand, I’d be more worried if those thoughts became so routine it never bothered me.

An Update

As to not disappoint all 10 or so of my loyal readers, I feel the need to at least let you know I’m amongst the living.

After what could quite possibly be described as the longest and worst week ever (despite it only being a three day work week), I have retreated to the sanctuary of the suburbs. It’s been a tough couple of days, folks, and this coming week doesn’t promise to be any easier. All the problems of the previous weeks pale and are petty in comparison to what has happened this week. Recent events have simultaneously made me want to give up on the world and have left me strangely driven to continue to try and change/help improve my little corner of the world. I won’t go into any more details; this is neither the venue, nor do I have the energy to re-hash everything again. Most of you know enough to know what I’m talking about, anyway. For those of you who don’t, consider yourself lucky.

Staying in my PJs until 2:00pm, playing lots of Mario Kart, eating a lot of comfort food, watching hours of shallow-happy television, movies, and doing a little retail therapy have helped far more than I would have thought. Never underestimate the power of keeping your mind distracted. Tonight the distraction continues when a group of us (to belatedly celebrate Phil’s birthday) head into (or return to) the city to sing our hearts out at a karaoke bar.

Thanks to my friends and family for all their support this week, it is appreciated far more than you will ever know. I love you all and I wouldn’t have been able to keep my sanity if it wasn’t for you.

Motivation

I’m sitting in my living room tonight, trying not to be too mopey because I’m now on the other side of my long and crazy fun weekend. As much as I want to chronicle everything that happened this weekend (because a lot happened for this socially deprived girl), I feel like this blog is becoming a bit monotonous. I don’t want it to become an “I did this, then I did this, and this and this” kind of thing. If I could get away with that, I would, I’m not a good enough writer to make that interesting all the time. If anything, I’ll post some of the pictures from this weekend so you all have some of idea of what went on.

In case any of you are going to hold me accountable for the things I say in this blog, I thought I would update you on my running. Yes, all you doubters out there, I am actually still running. I’ve even upped my distance slightly and don’t feel like I’m going to die nearly as early in my routine. I guess that’s what the professionals call “progress.”

The strange thing about this whole situation is what motivates me the most every evening. It’s true that I find it to be a good stress relief after work, which after last week and the weeks to come, is greatly needed. However, I’ve discovered that the main reason why a routine has been easier to create than I originally thought is, sheer boredom. Okay, so maybe boredom is too strong a word. Very rarely am I ever bored. Even though my social life may not be the most exciting thing in the world, I can usually find something to do.

Running has, on the other hand, given me another hobby. When I feel a bit restless, or I’m not sure what to do next, I now have another option. It gives me a reason to get out of my apartment and out amongst the living. Despite the ways I’ve found to spend my time, I realized I was missing a little of that; I live in this great neighborhood and I was missing out. I would have never guessed it would turn into something I could even classify as anything, let alone a “hobby,” but there you have it. Whatever works; I’ll take it!

Grown Up

I have graduated from college. I have a great job with decent pay, great benefits and paid vacation. I live by myself in a one bedroom apartment that I have almost decorated to my liking. I am in a stable, fantastic relationship with a wonderful man. Occasionally, I even socialize with coworkers, family or friends on the weekends or after work.

All of these statements somehow have combined to make me an adult, a concept I am still having a hard time comprehending. I don’t feel like an adult. I see other people my age (or close to) everyday and I still don’t feel like I can relate to them, they seem older than me, more mature or more put together somehow. This isn’t a slam on myself or anything like that, there’s just some sort of disconnect between how I see my life and how I see my peers’ lives.

I don’t think I’ve spent my life with this romantic vision of adulthood, and have somehow become disappointed when living it isn’t as glamorous as I had imagined when I was a kid. But maybe that is my problem; I could never relate to the adult world entirely because I never was an adult, and so these romantic notions somehow crawled into my head, and now that I’m here, I realize that it’s just my life. “Just my life” is a very good thing, folks, please don’t take that last statement the wrong way; I have never been happier.

When I was younger, I always had a hard time imagining what it would be like to be older. When I was six, I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be 12, when I was twelve, it was hard to see myself at 18. And unremarkably, every year I would become an age I once had a hard time picturing. For awhile I had a hard time grasping what it would be like to have my own place, support myself, and ultimately just be on my own. But somehow, it just happened and now here I am.

Yesterday morning Jenn, Phil, my Mom and Dad came over for brunch. It was the first time I prepared a meal for more than one other person (besides myself). Okay, sure there wasn’t much cooking involved. I cooked some bacon and my Mom helped me with the scrambled eggs. The rest involved cutting up a lot of fruit and mixing the orange juice, setting the table etc, etc. It was really nice to have (almost) the entire family together. I acquired an iron bench from an evicted apartment in the building (with permission from my landlord, of course), which fit nicely in my kitchen and gave everyone a place to sit. I’ve had countless breakfasts with my family, but this was the first time everyone came to my place. Best of all, I didn’t feel a disconnect, making breakfast in my own apartment for my family felt like my life.

Slowly, but surely I’m actually beginning to realize that I’m an adult, not just some 23 year-old who stumbled upon this life by accident.