a secret note

2011-12-03T14:55:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the Christmas Season comes around and it is a blustery evening and you have only one impulse, desire and wish: to watch a Cheesy Christmas Movie. And not just any Cheesy Christmas Movie, but one of the Hallmark/Lifetime variety. They're a special blend of mediocre (at best) writing, luke warm acting, costuming that inevitably looks like it came from the 2003 December issue of What People Who Dislike Themselves Wear magazine and heart-warming fake snow with a mistletoe kiss or two.

You find yourself craving that certain sort of holiday comfort found in the predictability of the three possible plot lines and the jazz flute remixes of Christmas carol classics ranging from Silent Night to Santa Claus is Coming to Town.

And sometimes you seek to satisfy that craving. So you log on to Netflix from your Mac Jacobs and peruse the assortment of Christmas fudge and cheese balls in the form of Recipe for a Perfect Christmas and Mrs. Miracle. After you've made your selection you watch with the rational half of yourself (which at any time of the year would probably be considered reasonable and worth listening to, but at this time and season sounds more like Scrooge in his miserly hay day) screams at you that what you are watching is manipulative, stupid and poorly done. But the other half of you (where sugar plums dance, everyone wears blackwatch plaid fancy dress with red shoes and lives on carmalitas, poppy seed bread and mint brownies) stuffs a sock in your rational self's mouth and activates your tear ducts.

Yes. You. Cry.

You cry because the two love interests just don't know how to communicate yet but they've got to before Christmas Eve or the pageant will be ruined and the children will become fully dysfunctional instead of just charmingly high spirited and mischievous. And then your throat starts to close up when, finally, just before midnight on Christmas Eve, the whole thing turns out all right. The new family made up of the love interest protagonists and charmingly high spirited children spend time with the old family that consists of a newly forgiven sister, her husband and their strange animatronic baby (only Lifetime still uses animatronics, guess a real baby just isn't in the budget). The tear slides down your cheek, the same shine as silver tinsel on the perfect Christmas tree on the film set.

And so help you, you're almost surprised that it all worked out so well. That is, until the credits start rolling and you come off your Hallmark high and remember that what you just watched was #1 in the three plot choices for those movies. But despite that, you are Christmas contented and everything looks like you've drunk the milk of human kindness offered to you by the Ghost of Christmas Present in Lifetime's sixth version of A Christmas Carol.

Sometimes that happens. Only sometimes.

2011-11-18T09:31:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year when the world fills with love and when I confess my Christmas Music Before Thanksgiving infraction. I had held personally pretty strong until it came upon this mid-morning clear, when I just reached the snapping point. I needed a little Christmas right that very moment. I was writing my dramatic lit. paper (checking it twice), where I deconstruct the performances of the contestant designers and judges on Project Runway using postmodern practices(yes, yes, I know you're jealous, you wish you're final paper could be half as intriguing and current as mine is). When almost without knowing it, my mouse walked in a winter wonderland over to the iTunes icon. Clicked, and then rockin round the playlist tree to the Ks . . .and what does that naughty (or nice?) curser do? It clicks on Kurt Bestor's Noel. The first album of Christmas. So help me, I listened as I tried to cook my ideas for the paper like so many chestnuts roasting on an open fire. It was holly. It was jolly. And I don't regret a single note of it.

I guess there's only one thing left to say, although it's been said many times, many ways:

Let the Most Wonderful Time of the Year begin!!

2011-11-05T17:13:00.000-07:00

Now don't keel over from the shock of hearing from me twice in one day after such an absence. But what I'm about to tell you warrants a two-post day.

It's no secret that I love theatre. And by love I also mean I am incredibly passionate about this particular art form. I go to see as much theatre as my wallet and planner allow. There are times when I am re-reminded the reasons theatre has survived for two thousand years and why I have fallen in love with it. There are also times that my pride in being a part of the BYU theatre program grows. Last night was such a time on all three accounts. Because of this:

I wept like a child and wanted to create into infinity because of this. I'm not sure what to say exactly because anything I say would probably guild the lily or cheapen the moment. One thing I will say: grow some culture and go see it. But save one ticket for me because I plan on being there once more.

(I'd also like to give a side note shout out to the BYU arts production for going back to using illustrations for the publicity posters for the shows . . .I feel as if my dissatisfaction was heard and the world was made better).

2011-11-05T15:48:00.000-07:00

This semester (which I realize is almost over and I've neglected this little note so long that now it's probably forgotten in the back of your desk drawer) I'm taking a puppetry class. Yes, I'm learning the craft of Jim Henson, Adrian and Basil as well as the Tanglewood Marionettes.

You don't have to tell me because I'll beat you to it:

Ladies and gentleman I am a part of the world's coolest field of study.

One of our recent projects was to create a parade puppet that advocated for some kind of social cause. I was in a group of three. And for some reason I'm still trying to tease out, we, as bright, young women, who are advocates for the arts and generally socially aware, chose to create a puppet to raise awareness about not throwing your gum on the ground where birds can eat it. Once the birds eat the old gum, it expands in their stomachs and they die, or so swears one of the girls in my group. . . whether or not I actually believe it expands in the bird's stomach and doesn't just sit there like a flavorless zebra striped rock, is beside the point. The fact is, we (where we is used in a rather loose sense) chose to be advocates for little gum ingesting birdies everywhere. The validity of the cause aside, we made a pretty kick kidney puppet. Behold:

Feel free to be impressed. That loveable blue bird is probably about 500 times the size of an actual blue bird and is made of hot glue, blue felt, hot glue, styrofoam, hot glue, wire, hot glue and plastic tubing. Oh and 6 fake feathers. Bet you just want to cuddle him. Well, I'm here to tell you, he doesn't cuddle . . .but he does dance.

The musical accompaniment and artistic cinematography as well as the really cool video quality are all complimentary bits of the experience. If you're not a hip enough film consumer to appreciate the artistic choices of this little documentary, then look at content. Isn't he utterly charming when he dances? Of course he is. He's made of hot glue magic.

2011-08-13T18:21:00.000-07:00

Y'all, y'all, y'all. My mama and I had a girls' date on Wednesday and we got ourselves to the nearest movie theater, bought us some popcorn and sat down to the best two hour book turned film I've seen in a long time The Help. Do you remember me talking to y'all about the novel. First of all, get off your hiney and get your sad self to the library and borrow a copy if you've not read it. Second, read it and then get your less sad self to a cinema and watch this movie. I mean it.

Aibileen. Oh mercy. I'm not even really sure what to say, other than: spot on. Gorgeously done.

And Skeeter. At first I wasn't sure (before I saw the movie) I mean I adore Emma Stone (I have since House Bunny and The Rocker. What ya looking at? You don't know my life) but I had my doubts. But child, I'm a believer now. Look at her. And the thing is, it's not just her, everyone was perfectly cast. The acting was honest and sensitively done. And the chemistry between the cast as a whole was enough to make you believe in movies again. Hallelujah! I believe.

Just do yourself a favor, go see it. Love the costuming. Love the accents. Love the storytelling and the acting. And I'm not going to tell you to be moved and learn something but I'm telling you you're made of something less like jello and more like stone if you don't.

2011-08-13T18:00:00.000-07:00

And so it comes to an end, mes amis. SYTYCD Season 8. And I'm not sure I could be any happier with the results. Because guess who won?

Melanie. Fat sack of a dancing force in a pixie body with a dash of acting finesse and adorableness. I mean come on. Do you see her hair cut? The girl has naturally curly hair and she still rocks a boy/pixie cut. How on earth. It makes a person (and I bet you can't guess who) feel almost tempted to go out and tempt the curly haired fate and chop all the cheveux straight off. But I digress. Melanie won and she deserved it. I think in all the seasons I've been watch SYTYCD I've not been as satisfied with the winner as I am this year. Usually the naming of the winner on the season finale sees me a nervous wreck, who has to fast forward through Cat's whole speech and then feeling a bit let down by who was crowned. And although the first part of that equation was entirely true (the dilapidated state of our den's love seat is a testament to that), the second most definitely was not. After a wonderful finale showing us highlights of this truly inspiring (when they have good dancers and good choreography I find the show to be so creatively inspiring I just have to talk to the computer or tv screen) dancing watching Melanie cry her eyes out and saying "thank you" after being named winner, was equivocal and perfect. I guess the ending of Season 8 means summer is ending, fall is coming and school is starting. But it was such a good season I suppose I can't be any kind of sad (especially since I have a whole new set of dances to use as homework breaks in the dead of winter).

2011-07-22T19:05:00.000-07:00

All good Americans go to Paris when they die. Thomas Appleton, a 19th century American rich-boy, artist/writer/arts lover, said that.

It may be because I'm reading David McCullough's new book The Greater Journey, Americans in Paris or that I'm watching Julie/Julia right now or just my general neuroses but I've been nostalgic for ma belle ville more than usual lately. Perhaps this is a bit melodramatic, but Paris is always a dull ache in a small corner of my heart. Something always pulls me back to that city. And I'm not the only one. According to McCullough's book, thousands and thousands of Americans crossed the Atlantic to see and learn in the City of Lights in the 19th century. Many went back again and again, while other just staid.

More than anything I want Appleton to be right, or I guess not quite that far but I think if my version of heaven could have a slightly cleaner Paris, where the metro always runs on time because the workers never are on strike and I'm never without someone's hand to hold whilst strolling in Parc Monceau and I could live in the Musee Rodin . . .well I think I'd be vachement contented. But I suppose more than that I want to go be the good American who goes there again while she's still living. I've never been in a city that I felt more immediately at home in. I was comfortable as soon as the jet lag wore off. Is it possible to fall in love with a city? I never thought much of Paris as a teenager or really at all until I applied to study there. I thought it was the city that people pretended was wonderful and put into bad teen movies about vespas and twins and fashion. Which of course, it absolutely is not. But in some ways, it was like it was meant to be. Now that I've put enough vaseline on the lens of the camera filming this post, so everything is misty and glowing, I suppose I only have one thought: read Mr. McCullough's book. Eat it up like chevre and chocolat. And then go get a private French tutor . . .I know I probably should.

2011-07-20T17:54:00.000-07:00

Here's something I love: rompers. Some people call them jumpsuits, but I find that name to be a bit off-putting in a mechanic or state penitentiary way. And if you're my sister, you find it to be one of the more distasteful or at least desirable pieces of clothing for an adult woman to wear. But I can't help it. I am a sucker for a semi-artsy, sort of funky and somehow vintage romper. 1.It's one-piece and you can't tell me that's not all kinds of convenient. Like your favorite dress you can just slip on and go. 2. Well, I'm not sure what the second thing is, except I have an inexplicable draw to this sartorial bit. But don't worry, like nearly everything in my life I'm rather discerning. I don't like every shiny rayon poly-blend teeny-bopper 1972 throw back jumpsuit I come in contact with. I prefer the Anthro vibe. I seem to be in pursuit of the perfect romper in a strange sort of way. It was this pursuit (and I've achieved it with these 1930s feeling overalls I made a few years back) to complete a rather hair brained scheme of making a romper out of men's dress shirts.

This story begins with me researching pictures of overalls for a costume viz for the scene I directed for a class final and Google images brought up this little gem:

It's a men's romper . . .a strangely terrifying, albeit fascinating idea. Mostly just icky. This picture then lead to a styling idea picture, which showed this jumpsuit with this sad blazer and mule sandals. Tragic and not any kind of ok in my book. But it did get me thinking. What about that? What about using oxford material to make a romper (a girl's romper)? A good idea, right? So that's what I did. I went to Saver's and by some sifting miracle, I found two sizes of the same Ralph Lauren shirt. And I used the bigger one for the legs and the smaller one of the top of the romper.

It turned better than I anticipated (aka really well) and it's pretty darn adorable. The cuffs of the bigger shirt's cuffs are now the cuffs of the legs. I mean, come on that's a pretty good idea. Right? Anyway, it's drop-waisted, oxford cuteness and I love it.

But I finished it about three and a half weeks ago and I haven't worn it yet (hence no picture). Why? I think I'm still trying to figure out the right time and to be quite honest, the right styling. Valid question. Red flats? Most likely. But what about the hair? Should my luscious locks be up or down, braided or head banded? So many things for me to wonder.

2011-07-19T16:33:00.000-07:00

It is an important day, y'all. An important day. I went to the movies. And guess what I saw?

That's right. And it was a fat sack of expecto patronum fantasticness! I mean, holy Hogwarts!

I'll spare you the whole "it's the end of an era" stuff. Even though, I'm feeling the same way I felt after finishing the seventh book . . .like the story I had personally discovered (and what 11 year old that picked up The Sorcerer's Stone at their school's book fair the year it hit the US of A doesn't feel like they discovered Harry and consequently grew up with him?) had ended and I wasn't sure what everyone was supposed to do without a midnight showing or reading about the world we all wished we were a part of. I also felt some things were rather perfect, giving me the satisfied feeling I was longing for in this 2 hour 40 minute goodbye.Neville standing up to Voldemort in a fair isle sweater, was a highlight. Although the standing up was rather wonderful, I'd have to say it was the sweater that did me in. Boys, are you listening? Do like the Britts, wear knits of the fair isle variety.
Ooops! Not exactly a high light of the film per say but it doesn't bear ignoring. Why hello Neville, I would love to go out with you in your three piece suit, felt flower boutonniere and darling self. Just let me slip into something a little less like yoga pants and arts institute tshirt and I'll be right with you. Who'd a thunk? And I know you can't tell in this picture, but he has a really nice smile, which includes good teeth. Sweet mercy. The dark horse of attractiveness in the Harry Potter race.

Other highlights include the protecting of Hogwarts (I literally felt tears begin to well up in my eyes as those beloved fictional people got ready for battle) and Sanpe's unrequited love and a few kisses (one more satisfying than the other). Not to mention the bit that made me cry in the book and the movie (spoiler alert: it has to do with a convo between Harry and his mama). Part of me says the whole dream-realizing thing was a highlight (I know, right? I must have it pretty bad)

Maybe it's the ownership I feel from the first time I randomly chose the first book out of a line up that makes me all misty-eyed for the bravery, friendship and triumph after a struggle that's in this movie.
Even more than that, I rather lamely ask myself "would I be brave enough for that?" I fancy I would be. I fancy I'd be clever and brave enough to be part of their gang, kicking Death Eater butt and taking names. But what kid who grew up with Harry, Ron and Hermione doesn't?(Can you see me? I'm running just behind Ron . . .too much? ok, ok, maybe. I guess there's really only room for one Ginger in the posse, I'll just have to accept that.)

2011-07-11T20:11:00.000-07:00

I seem to always hear people talk about summer reading lists. You know, almost every magazine has some variation of the "summer reading: what's hot" or "beach reads" etc. Well the past little while, about 4 days actually, I've been pondering over my recent summer reading selection. And I've found myself in Siberia. Sentenced to eight years hard labour along with Ivan Somethingorothervitch.

Yes, I'm reading a Russian novel. Don't worry it's not Crime and Punishment or War and Peace or something else, long, vodka-soaked and generally beautiful in a cold, once-glorious way. It's A Day in the Life of Ivan D . . .well, I've forgotten his last name. And goodness me. I am lost in the literary wilderness and have no foreseeable way of getting out of it except finishing that day with Ivan in the "special" or hard labour camp.(can you believe it's called "special" camp? If it wasn't so puke-inducing sad, it'd be funny). It's 130 pages of one day. One day. Chew on that for a while. And I can't read it at night, or I end up having dreams about bed bugs, frost bite and grey oatmeal. There are few things worse than reading a lengthy description about grey oatmeal and how it's made. Grey oatmeal. Grey oatmeal!

Don't ask what possessed me to choose this novel of all the thousands of years of literature. And please don't ask what compels me to keep reading. I don't even like Ivan all that much. He just makes me want to cry because he had scurvy. So tonight I think I'll take a break from the haunting, grey oatmeal world of special camp and go for something lighter. . .where's my copy of Jane Eyre?

2011-07-09T21:14:00.000-07:00

Well, it's July and I've decided that perhaps it's high time to stop mooning over The Royal Wedding and move on to something new. Dance and summer. Dance is an interesting thing. It's one of those art forms I make believe I know something about and am good at. Spoiler alert #1: It's just make believe I don't and I'm not. Summer is also a wonderful season. I realized it's the time of year I tend to blog about tv. Spoiler alert #2: This season is no different.

No different because So You Think You Can Dance season 8 is going on right now. And thanks to the miracle of tv on the internet, I've been watching each show like it is a miracle. I can't tell you the five different kinds of happy and excited I get as I watch the dancers and choreographers do their thing whilst knitting like a mad person, talking to the screen. Tonight was no different. I had created my customary SYTYCD (guess what that means and you'll finally become a sytycd insider) nest on my bed, had the blinds closed and fan humming, when I was blindsided by this beauty:

Feel that little stirring near your heart? That's the fat sack of emotions being ding dong ditched on your proverbial door step by this routine. Excuse me, Cat Deeley (of whom I'm not overly fond) you must warn me before you decide to show a beautiful dance about the seven stages of grief performed by seven rather wonderful (and not so bad to look at) men. If you don't, I'm liable to pass out.

2011-04-30T16:38:00.000-07:00

I woke up at 1:45 yesterday morning. Not a terribly interesting fact, although it may indicate insomnia related to stress or the consumption of

too much sugar, nothing to write home about. Unless it was my marimba alarm on my iPhone 4 that woke me up at that hour. But why? Why would I wake up before birdsand farmers, make my bed, pull on yoga pants, a hoodie and my wellies to slosh through the spring rainstorm outside to get to my friend's house? I've got two words for you folks who don't understand the significance of

April 29, 2011:

Royal. Wedding.

Yes, I was one of the crazies that woke up when most clubbers are just getting home from the discotheque in order to watch two strangers say I do (or technically "I will" "I do" was never part of the ceremony) because they are royalty and adorable and I'm a hopeless romantic and fancy life/fashion junky. It promised to be everything lovely and British and it did not disappoint. It was all about the love . . .and the fashion. Toss up which was more important to me. And who can actually blame me?

If this dress isn't sigh-worthy, I don't know what is. It's classy, elegant and as if Grace Kelly and Maria Von Trapp's wedding dresses got together and had the most perfect baby. The bodice. Don't worry that the bouquet is quite parfait as well or that the suitably elegant and sparkly but not too much tiara was the tiara Queen Elizabeth received on her 18th birthday. I have a rather far fetched fantasy of Princess Kate and the Queen having a little dress up party before the wedding.
I love that the little girls look like little girls (do you see the scalloped hems?) and the crowns of flowers were sweet but not overwhelming. And the maid of honor. What a classy, to die for dress. Sweet Mercy, if only all brides were confident (and nice) enough to let their maids of honor look as good as they do.
They look so well together don't they? A lesson to learn from a royal wedding all y'all that are planning to tie the knot: people in a wedding party ought to look like they're all going to the same wedding. The bride and groom need to give us a visual cue of being a couple. Done and done with this royal couple, as far as I'm concerned.

Here are the party clothes. I love that this reception dress and her actual ceremony gown aren't the same but again, they look like they belong in the same wedding. All of it in such good taste. Worth the 2am wake up call? Mais oui!

2011-04-21T08:30:00.000-07:00

I have never been much of a makeup person. I didn't start wearing mascara until I was 16 (I'm not entirely sure as to the reason why, maybe I was willful or lazy or just had some mental block up against it . . .and believe me it was for no "free women from oppression" or other feministic reasons, the reasons were more personal, I'm sure. But who wants to delve into that right now? Not me). Anyway, and since then, I do wear it but I've basically found things that work and stuck with them. Not in a I'm still wearing the hot pink lipstick I wore at me high school graduation in 93 way, but in a "oh I woke up and I'm naturally gorgeous this way" way. Well Winter semester 2011 represented me shooting out of makeup comfort zone in TMA 267: aka Beginning Makeup Design (I kid you not. It's required. I know, I am in fact in the best program in the whole of BYU's campus). But believe you me, it was not all a frolic in a field of bouton d'or, no m'am. It was some rigorous stuff but along the way I discovered some things: 1.putting foundation on makes my freckles go away and I've decided I don't like that sensation. "Time to take my individuality away" I'd say as I got the foundation out (yes, I'm very charming sometimes, aren't I?) 2. I look good in red lipstick. Who'd a thunk. And I secretly loved wearing it. 3. My absolute favorite part of makeup design: grossies and gories or what I call ouchies and owies. I tell you what, there is nothing more gratifying in this whole wide makeup world than making a convincing cut or chemical burn. I was ruined to all other forms of makeup design after being introduced to the world of wounds. I imagined every other design being created out of a series of cuts or burns. I pined for the day I could once again show my mad icky skills. That day came when we received the final project. We had to choose a character and design the makeup for it. The grossest-faced character I could think of was the Phantom of the Opera, sans his mask. I really don't like that show, or the Phantom but I would sacrifice that if I could do something gross. Oh and it was gross. Take a look:
I mean come on! Pretty fantastic, yes? It's putty, liquid latex and toilet paper. All painted and vaselined. The more I look at it, the more delight I get from it. I know, right? Every once and a while I'd turn to my two friends int he class and ask: icky? Usually there was a slight yelp followed by a "good work." What can I say? We all have our special talents. I think one thing that draws me to the ouchies and owies is the fact it doesn't take tons of precision. It's all about playing around with the color and texture. In some odd maybe twisted way, it helped me get all in touch with my inner child.

I latexed over the whole design so my face basically came off in one chunky piece. Gross, but funny. I must admit that when I show these pictures and the viewers get the shivers, I feel gratified. I've done my grossies job.

Even I have to admit that this is pretty gag-reflex inducing. Especially the fact that on the side you can see where the latex pulled hairs out of my head. But this is the Phantom's skin post-mortem. I showed someone this picture and they said "Ahh! I thought it was a piece of bacon!" That's almost a nastier notion than what it really is. Can you imagine gluing bacon to your face. C'est berk ca!

2011-04-19T10:19:00.000-07:00

At one point or another in a person's life their thoughts will be preoccupied with something that seems trivial or perhaps meaningless but actually is a big deal. These things may come up more often for those of us who think too much for our own good. But alas, such is my lot. And as I am ending winter semester and am luxuriating in the six days of no school before spring term begins, I have been thinking some on the subject of hair.

Or rather my hair. Maybe it's the change of seasons or weather or thinking about the fact that exactly a year ago in 5 days, I was on a plane to Paris and now I'm not (which is ok, and school is fun . . .it's just not Paris, ya know?) or the fact everyone around me is getting a new do whatever it is. But everytime I look in the mirror I think:

Dear Hair,

I take good care of you, right? I wash you and condition you and put mousse on the curl so it doesn't freak out in a negative way (we both know there are 2 kinds of curl freak out, enough said). And I love you; your color and curl. So why, dear hair do you seem to be angry with me at the present time?

Affectionately,

Caitlin

You don't write letters in your head to your hair? I find practicing friendly letter writing everyday to be a useful task, keeps you in touch with the past. Anyway. Although I know it's pretty much me and my Mama that read this thing I'm asking y'all: how do you fix this thing? I think ever since the haircutting post about 14 months ago I've been scared to do anything with my hair. All I know is I'm getting to the point where neither a braid nor a bun satisfies, so I half way French braid my hair and then put the rest of it in a bun. I don't know what this means for me exactly, but it feels like it may be a less than positive sign.

2011-03-29T17:46:00.001-07:00

Do you ever eat a piece of whole wheat toast with butter and homemade raspberry jam on it and think: "Wow. This is pretty much as good as it gets. Bread. Butter. Raspberries. I could eat ten more pieces just like it."

You don't? Oh. Well, come on over to chez-moi and I'll give you a bite of mine. Then you'll see.

2011-03-25T11:21:00.001-07:00

I wouldn't call myself much of a You Tuber (and I guess not much of a blogger lately either). I don't spend hours on the you tube searching for remixes of remixes of remixes of a song made from a local news interview, like some of my generation do. Don't get me wrong, I find the You Tube just as useful as the next person to stalk and re-stalk a Tony or So You Think You Can Dance performance (which are the perfect amount of time for a quick homework break) and for finding videos for lesson plans or other multimedia whatnots. But I still consider myself to be a mild to moderate You Tube user.

Genrally.

There are a few exceptions. Yes, I am sad to say, exceptions. Even a mild-moderate You Tuber has them. These are the exceptions that have helped to keep the You Tube firmly planted in the bottom lefthand corner of my favorites sites page on Safari. On this rather snowy and blustery Spring day, let me share them with you. Help keep you warm, happy and You Tubing.

(**Note that these are not in any particular order as far as favored status goes**

SASSY GAY FRIEND - Hamlet

2011-03-25T11:17:00.000-07:00

Video #1: Sassy Gay Friend: Hamlet

We'll definitely consider this my guilty pleasure of the You Tube. It was all the quoted rage in my acting class in the fall and I didn't understand, until I watched. I understood. Maybe it's just a stupid theatre thing but there's something so funny about inserting a modern stereotype in to a play chock full of Elizabethan stereotypes. And it really puts things into perspective. Did Ophelia actually have to die I mean die?

Thought of You - by Ryan Woodward.flv

2011-03-25T11:10:00.000-07:00

Video #2: Thought of You (animated by Ryan Woodward)

Sweet mercy. We all know what a sucker I am for dance . . .especially modern dance . . .especially modern dance made up of a boy/girl duet with an ambiguous love story. Add gorgeous pencil animation, the Weepies and the fact that my most darling MM friend is the boy dancing (the first time I saw this I was with him and after, I looked at him maybe with a tiny almost tear and said "that was you. he looks just like you" and he laughed "that's because it is me!") and you've got me hook line and sinker as the saying goes. And that doesn't even take in to account the fact that this is the result of a collaboration between animation and dance faculty at BYU. Friends?! Creative friends?! I'm a gonner for sure.

Subtitled "How to speak with an irish accent"

2011-03-25T11:01:00.000-07:00

Video #3: Potatoes

I was introduced to this little gem by a girl in my Adolescent Development and Multicultural Education classes last fall. Maybe I am so attached to this and giggle like a little school girl every time I watch it because it was the thing that counter balanced the monotony and eye-rolling blah of those two courses. Thank you 1996, I really appreciate it.

MARCEL THE SHELL WITH SHOES ON

2011-03-25T10:56:00.000-07:00

Video #4: Macel the Shell with Shoes On

Oh people. Come on. This is a fat sack of funny stuff. You may find yourself saying "come on, come on, I love you" next time you're trying to get a clog out of your vacuum hose, or you're stuck at an eternal red light. Listen for the interviewer, the existence of that character makes this even funnier.

2011-01-18T14:57:00.001-08:00

The face of love. No?

(ok, ok, I'll stop daydreaming over the loves of my life and get back to writing about classroom management tools).

2011-01-18T14:38:00.000-08:00

Here's the truth. I'm pretty much smitten. I'm in love with a four-year old, who adores The Sound of Music, wearing a blue cape while he does ABC puzzles

and telling stories while he paints.

I gonna paint a robot, Cait, blue cause that's my favorite.

You like em blue?

And they walked outside and it was rainin
There was a mud puddle and it make um em all dirty
It wasn't very nice when they put em dirty shoes on the clean floor.

(I could sit and listen to what comes out of this child's mouth every hour the sun shines and then the few it doesn't that he is actually awake and coherent. Do you believe in soul mates? Could it be your nephew?)

2010-12-18T11:57:00.000-08:00

I'm safe and sound back in Okiehomie town. I love being back in my stompin grounds, my roots. And I've been reminded of what is so great about Oklahoma and being an Oklahoman. First was the sunset as my plane was landing. It was like a welcome home banner in the sky and I just had to take note of it as I wrote furiously in my leatherbound. Amidst all the scrawling rigamarole on the page, was a simple "I love Oklahoma sunsets, I'm home." Then this morning I ran to the post office to buy some holiday stamps for some Christmas greetings. And I knew by all the hellos and Merry Christmases and jolly chit chat happening in the very crowded, very near closing post office, that I was home. Bless this darling outcast of all regions state (oh no, it's true. The midwest won't claim us because we're too much in the middle, the south pretends we don't exist because we're too far north even though some of our boys fought with the Confederates during The War, and we're not the west .Anyway) and the kind dear hearted people that live here. We may be an interesting breed, but at least we're a polite one. A breed where everyone's your neighbor, especially at Christmas. (was that sufficiently Hallmark Christmas movie enough? Yeah, I thought so too, but it doesn't make it any less true).

2010-12-14T15:58:00.000-08:00

It is the most wonderful time of the year and nowhere is it more evident than on the BYU campus. Every building has decked its halls and the trees are all lit and ready for you to wonder at how the grounds crew wraps the lights around each little branch. Well, there is another place on campus that wants to be part of the festiviti

es. The L. Monte Bean museum. Have you ever been? In three words: taxidermied animals . . .I fail to find a third word sufficient for the fascinating horror that this building with maroon and green carpet with the smell of old fur coats in the air thick and stale with the indignant spirits of decapitated giraffes and more kinds of antelope than I care to mention. Basically, I'm not a huge fan. I think it's supposed to be a learning e

nvironment, an indoor zoo of sorts where you can go and get up close and personal with animals sans fear of bodily harm. Only instead of learning when I go there, all I can think about is what it took to decapitate that poor giraffe and if the person who did it can sleep at night and then I think about the custodians of the building. Every time I think about the horrors they must encounter as they vacuum past the stuffed wild boar I shiver and thank my lucky stars all I have to deal with is twenty desks drenched in Martinellis because the honors kids got a little rowdy at their end of the semester party.I generally try not to think about the Bean museum. But The Reason for the Season has made it imposs

ible to ignore. You see, it has recently come to my attention that the creepy Bean has followed in the great tradition of the creche. The nativity. Yup. They put up a nativity scene. But don't worry, it's not any regular old nativity scene.

It's this:

Please just note the wombat thing that looks like it's about to eat the Baby Jesus. Or maybe the dead-but-looking-alive-for-eternity kangaroo that looks like she'd like to steal the Baby Jesus as her very own joey. Just a second, there's a stork. I fear for the Baby Jesus's eyes, that stork (who, I guess if you believe in that sort of thing, is just

taking a rest after peacefully dropping the Baby Jesus into the manger in front of Mary). Is the array of semi-exotic dead animals huddled

around the Baby Jesus not enough for you? I understand. Well then I'll leave you with this bit of cheer:

How about the Holy Virgin Mary in the likeness of a freaky fashion mannequin ca.1975. Or maybe Baby Jesus in the form of a Baby So Real Doll? They reached for the reverent creche and whether they reached it or not is in the eye of the beholder. So I suppose there's only one thing left to say:

Merry Christmas from the Bean Museum, y'all.

Merry taxidermy Christmas

2010-11-03T14:28:00.000-07:00

The button on my darling denim romper broke. Don't worry, it didn't just come off, no it broke. As in broke. So I'm going orphan/newsie style and tied the strap through the button hole. I guess that's what you get when you change hastily backstage for a scene . . .karma's a romper killer.

2010-10-29T13:40:00.000-07:00

Hey it's Halloween! You know what that means: it's pumpkin time y'all! This season I've rediscovered a love of nearly every sweet thing pumpkin that is not pie. I'm nibbling on a pumpkin chocolate chip cupcake with cream cheese frosting right as we speak (I know, right? Try not to salivate on the keyboard as you ponder on that one). But it all started with one thing: Chet. Yup, reason 647 to lalalove my iPhone 4. Pumpkin.
You see, one day I was perusing my Epicurious app, trying to keep myself from remembering and slightly resenting myself for thinking that early morning custodial really is a great idea (it is, actually. A good idea. It works for me in every way. But sometimes that's a bit difficult to remind yourself when it's 5 am). I was looking in the section called Halloween Treats and for the most part it was what you'd expect. You know, just your run of the mill spider cookies, witch fingers made of baby carrots and "blood" filled cupcakes. But then there was something different, so intriguing I tapped on the icon to see how to make it. My relationship with Epicurious generally dwells in the realm of platonic, we aren't even in the friend zone. Basically I look and dream about being a semi-gourmet perhaps a little hip maybe Ready-Made Julie/Julia hip but I never act on any impulse to make anything from Epicurious. But this recipe. Pumpkin donuts. Pumpkin donuts. I mean fat sack of the most perfect piece of fried serendipity I've ever come in contact with.

So I did the only thing a body can do in that situation. I created an excuse to make these treats. I had a partay. Sort of. Anyway some of my most darlings came and we made pumpkin donuts. Pumpkin donuts. Something I learned is that basically everyone becomes intrigued and somewhat nostalgic for something but they're not sure what when you mention pumpkin donuts. And they did not disappoint. It was just as pumpkin was intended to be experienced: the taste of pumpkin pie but the texture of an old fashioned donut, smothered in cinnamon sugar. I mean come on. You'd have to be made of stone or severely allergic to the squash to not feel some kind of positive reaction to that thought. We liked them. And I'd say we're rather discerning bunch. Plus there was no chocolate, but I still managed to feel satisfied. For whatever that's worth. So, here you go, try it. The Recipe. Love it. And maybe this will help renew your faith in this fall staple. It sure has for me. Thanks Chet.

2010-08-16T11:14:00.000-07:00

I'm app happy.

But I'm a specific kinds of app happy (so really I'm an app snob. . . but what else is new?) I'll tell you what else is new: my Museum Mate app, MOMA app and French Word of the Day app. Oh and my iPhone 4. He is sleek and lovely and so handy. And by handy I mean there may be a budding love affair between my iPhone 4 and myself. He is everything a young phone ought to be: useful, musical, artistic and international. I can listen to This American Life one minute and then look up some slightly reliable information about the Bermuda Triangle on my Wiki app and then find a recipe for zucchini cake on Epicurious app and then text i'll be="" there="" in="" a=" It's pure magic people, pure magic. But the thing is, I haven't found just the right name for him. I have this compulsion. I don't believe it has a name but it is about names. I just have to name major objects in my life. Car? Named Ace. Cello? Darcey. MacBook? Mac Jacobs. Suitcase? Pierre. And so on. I've never named a phone before, but then again I've never had a phone worth naming. But for some reason I'm stumped on iPhone. We've lived together for about a week now (I can't imagine life without him anymore) but I've not been able to come up with a suitable name. Do they have the top iPhone Names 2010 book in library

2010-08-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

What are you reading this summer? I've been beavering away at all sorts of literature (and by literature I mean all the things I don't really have time for during the school year) and today I finished reading my latest quest (recommended to me by my mama and her reading group). I can't really stop thinking about it or talking about it, so I just had to share it. It's this novel right here:
Have you read it yet? No? Then all I have to say is do it. You. Will. Be. Changed. Maybe not in a drastic way, but it will make you think, and think hard. It takes place is Mississippi in the early to mid 1960s, it's told from the perspective of two black maids and a white girl (the novel is divided into sections, with each woman taking a section). And I think it's nothing short of brilliant. It is a personal and poignant look at segregation, prejudices and how wrong ideas can be passed from generation to generation and the fight to changes those ideas. But even with all these lofty sorts of themes, it is a humble and unassuming read. It is real and therefore so beautiful. Not much of a reader? (become one) Then listen to it on tape, cd, mp3 or whatever, because not only is it a wonderful read to yourself book, it's a wonderful read aloud novel. And the readers are fabulous. I sit and listen with Mama (she's behind me in the book, but I love it so much I want to listen to what I just read) and embroider and then before you know it, we're speaking with our best Southern accents all about what we just heard. If you read nothing else this summer (and I surely hope you do choose to crack the spine of another this season) read The Help. Tell me what you think about it.

2010-08-04T18:09:00.000-07:00

I won't even acknowledge the time that's lapsed since my last post (it's been much too much), but I needed some time to process and love and revel in my Paris time. And time to juice the Jamba and embroider and watch a bit of tv. Oh the tv. Here's the truth of the matter: there are some crap shows on the tube . . .but then again there are good ones . . .really, really good ones. I am of the Project Runway (PR, which started again last Thursday, I don't even think I need to say anything about how excited I've been about that), So You Think You Can Dance school of thought. You know, the idea that the show ought to have some kind of contest element but really features the creative process of brilliant, sometimes neurotic but always interesting characters who beg for me to become invested . . . and I get invested. Boy howdy, do I ever get invested.Well, a new show has come into my life. A new vice as it were and a new set of people who have no idea of who I am but who I love and whose future I really care about. Bravo TV has done it again and this time it's called Work of Art (or affectionately known as Our Art Show, here on Alexander's Tr.). [There's the whole art-making crew, along with the judges, host and Tim Gunn-esque figure. Don't you just want to watch them make art all day? I sure do.] Think PR but only with visual art. Squeal!! I lalalove it! And I'm basically in love as well. (as I write this, I shake my head at myself for putting so much of my emotional self into a tv program. But c'est la vie). Who/what am I in love with? Well I'm in love with the creative process, the art and the idea that the winner will have a show in the Brooklyn Museum of Art (what a great prize) but I'm mostly in love with a few people . . .or rather person. I suppose it's rather embarrassing to admit, but with so much neurotic adorableness about, who can blame me? There he is. Miles. Miles the adorable, obsessive compulsive artist just oozing with talent and funny sayings and just . . .well . . .look at him. He wears plaid and this grandpa cardigan. And. And. Well. Just look.

I know what you're thinking: Fat sack of aproned preciousness. Right? And don't I know it.

Sure he crazy, but the guy can take a nap because he feels overwhelmed and then wake up with a stroke of genius idea that he inevitably executes in the most meaningful way. Basically, he could be my best friend. Do they have one like him at BYU? But don't take my word for it. Watch it, love it. And I'll even let you love Miles . . .

2010-06-11T23:11:00.000-07:00

I had this whole witty schpeal about theatre and Marie Antoinette and how much I love both and how I squealed when I saw the little village for the first time (which had become a pilgrimage of sorts for me) and about how Marie had this thing about playing pretend and escapism and Rousseau. . .but the internet here at the Nice studio is less than reliable. It was all lost and now I must jet to catch the train that will take me to Paris that will take me home. So enjoy.

And just know how charming it is.

And how much I want to help it be a better museum space.

And just come on, it's darling and nuts. What a fantastic combination.

She used porcelain milk buckets. People lived here and worked the farm . . .she just would come and play the part of milkmaid whenever she felt like it (here, in the original post was a rather good joke about method acting. . . but it is lost). I just wanted to share this: the best bit of Versailles.

2010-06-11T07:42:00.000-07:00

I find there are certain places in the world that a body can be totally comfortable and at home in and one such place for me is a book shop. I feel very at ease and happy as a little clam when I'm surrounded by books and especially books that beg me to discover them. And when it happens to be one of the nine anglo bookshops in Paris, one that originally started as a library in the 1920s, where Hemingway often went to borrow books and money. Shakespeare and Company. How do I love thee? No but really. I could sit and read and write and read some more in this place. I'm thinking of creating a special Shakespeare and Company room in my future maison.
I mean come on people. Stop it. Words allude. I think when I saw this study area I might have sighed audibly, the sigh of a thousand short stories and maybe a novel to be written and hundreds of leatherbounds to be smelt and soaked in.

A hideout of books. A hide out of books! Oh heaven help me, a hideout of books.

And then there was this cranny made of cupboard doors. It was a little shelter a petit croin for writing hopes and poetries and sillinesses on a typrewriter. I sat down on the creaky little seat and grazed my fingers on the keys. I wonder how long it had been there, who had typed and then I knew my writer's heart wanted this petit croin de la monde pour toute ma vie.
Other people felt inspired by the faded persian carpet hanging on the back wall of the croin and the twinkle lights above and they left messages. French, English, German, Arabic.

So I couldn't resist.

For my favorite Company always.

Signed C. Cotten.

2010-06-11T07:05:00.000-07:00

Pere Lachaise is the largest cemetery in Paris. All sorts of famous, rich and not so famous nor quite so rich (but there has to be at least a little money put by because word on the street is it's not cheap to keep a place in this chez) people and whole families have come here for a final repose as it were. The result is a rather peaceful and strangely charming (maybe not the right mot, but it alludes me in both French and English) sort of neighborhood (all of the tombs are the above ground variety. Vous savez, the kind that look like houses/Grecian temples/Gothic Cathedrals). But as I strolled the cobblestone paths and climbed the hills of this neighborhood, I wondered at all the ways the living try to immortalize and honor the dead. I found a few:
Sometimes a man's life's work becomes sculpting the most comforting and beautiful image he can think of, to remind himself after his wife has died that he and she are not alone as they face the uncertainties that lay beyond.

Sometimes we show the essence of a person by immortalizing what they loved or did best.

Or we may give our favorite or even the writer we're just mildly attached to a kiss with a shade of lipstick called "Earnestly Read".
Perhaps we place a stone at the base of a memorial for something that cannot bear remembering but can never be forgotten. A beautiful symbol of experience and eternity.
Or you can be like me and after you've paid respects, you do the very natural, very human thing. You have a tranche de mailleoux among the memorials and graves. Here's to me and here's to you, you might say, raising the cake to those around you. Then enjoy the taste of chocolate, I'm sure they did.

2010-06-07T23:30:00.000-07:00

There are some places in the world that you can feel have been loved. Loved in a real and tangible way, so much so that they take on a life of their own. They have a distinct and rather giving personality. Or at least this was the case with Giverny, Monet's home and inspiration just about an hour's train ride from Paris. The moment you walk into the gardens, you can see why he wanted to paint this place over and over and over again. It was so easy to imagine him with his easel and paints working early in the morning and then walking up to the house to eat breakfast with his family in his yellow dining room or blue and white tiled kitchen. This was the perfect long weekend day trip.This was one of my favorite trees there. I sat on a bench under it's sprawling, flowering branches and soaked in the creative energy (maybe this sort of attitude came from being practically intoxicated by the sunshine and the fact that I didn't have to go to class for three whole days)
Although it may seem incongruous, the more I thought about these ladies in their kimonos the more I thought Monet would approve. It was like they were honoring the fact that he loved their culture so much that he filled his home with Japanese artwork and used it as inspiration for his compositions. Plus, they were just fun to watch from under my flowering tree, they'd shuffle about and talk to each other about flowers and whatnot.
What can I even say? I was walking a little shaded path towards le jardin d'eau and was given this enchanted view.
I'm not concerned, I'm just taking in the general perfection of the water lily pond. And I may have had a bit of star struckedness going on too. I mean this is a famous pond that I love without ever have actually seen it.
The. Pond. Makes you want to paint it, huh? But having little or no painterly ability, I stuck to writing and daydreaming about reading poetry (probably Walk Whitman's Leaves of Grass, mostly because it's one of the earthiest poems I know . . .that I enjoy too) on a quilt in the grass. The poetry is possible and the quilt is a bit difficult but doable, but the grass. . .the grass is an impossibility seeing as all the pelouse est interdit at Giverny.

2010-06-04T15:01:00.000-07:00

Paris is wonderful at many things and one is being attractive to artists and art. As a consequence of said attractiveness (which believe me is magnetic) Paris is absolutely brimming with art, it's everywhere. It's in the parks, on the metros, on buildings, shop windows, even the Parisians walk and act and dress like their lives and they themselves are works of art. But the art can also be found in museums. J'adore museums. I can't help it. When other people around me say they'll pull their hairs out one hair at a time if they have to go to another one, I'm ready to go hole up in some gallery or exhibit somewhere and just get lost. So let me just introduce you to one of my favorite museums. Can you guess (look at the picture)

You guessed right. The Rodin Museum (near Invalides and Napoleon's tomb, it's easiest to get there on line 1, just get off at Invalides). It is one of the most perfect museums: it's intimate and gives you a wonderful feeling of the artist (mostly because it's in this fabulous Rococo house that Rodin lived/worked in for a while) and the works are displayed in a wonderfully studio-esque sort of way. Besides, it has a beautiful garden, where some of his bronzes are displayed, or rather placed in a way that you feel like you've come upon a revelation as you walk down a path and look behind a tree.
Isn't the way the green light shines on this magical? And Rodin, dear man whom I love. The guy knew how to sculpt such raw and real emotion. And I became a believer from seeing these works face to face that Rodin could put all that emotion and story into his sculptures' hands. I became darn near obsessed. Sculpture might very well be one of the most engaging and mystical of the visual art forms for me. Isn't it lovely how the manmade bronze juxtaposes yet works in a strange but pleasing harmony with the organic leaves of the trees? Let me tell you that as I walked in this particular grove of trees studded with sculpture, I felt like I was in the best of enchanted forests, where I uncovered long forgotten and beautiful secrets.

Heaven help me, the hands oh the hands. Rodin. Bless. Just go ans see for yourself whether or not I exaggerate. I think you'll find I'm a reliable source (oh and after you've gone there, hop over to see how pretentious Napoleon is and then walk towards Ecole Militaire, grab some Amorino near Tribeca Italian and Cafe Marche and walk over to see the sun set behind the Tour Eiffel, you won't regret it).

2010-06-03T15:34:00.000-07:00

One day, we climbed on to a bus. 2 letters, 1 prince cookie (these brilliant sandwhich cookies that come in a tube) and 45 minutes later we were there. The clouds parted and the sun shown on the grand horseshoe staircase and it was . . . .
Fontainebleau yall!
Fontainebleau is a chateau not far from Paris that was mainly used as a hunting lodge for kings all the way starting from Francois 1e (he's the one that brought Davinci to France from Italy) all the way to the time Napoleon kept the pope prisoner here for not signing some document or other the diminutive despot wanted him to sign.

(ps. I have no idea why the text is deciding to do this weirdy underline thing) The best part was the mini lake with its faux ruin in the back of the chateau. You could rent little rowboats, called funyaks (I kid you not) A life of leisure, darling, is what I lead. Can't you tell? Daydreaming of grandness is not difficult on the back of a rowboat. So picturesque . . .even though the boat reminded me of playskool sandboxes. (ok this text thing is too weird, now it's decided to be normal). Isn't it an impressive yet somehow still charming as well as an oh so pleasing prospect? I almost like the back better than the front, perhaps it was because I saw the back from the perspective of a rowboat.

More people who don't know I'm photographing them. A fun fact about Fontainebleau is that people in the surrounding city like to have wedding photos taken there. Here's one such couple in the Jardin de Diane. Ah to be in love in the garden of the goddess of the hunt.

2010-05-31T14:58:00.000-07:00

I know it's been a while but that's what happens when you're in fabulous Paris and in the quirky 1920s artist town of Le Vesinet where the mistress of the house doesn't like the idea of "waves" in her house (I don't have internet where I live . . .or rather lived because tonight I'm at the most luxurious Etap Hotel in a small town near Omaha Beach. We've started our week tour of the western countryside of France and next week is Nice. Yes, my birthday will be in Nice. Chew on that for a second. I myself am still trying to digest it). Anyway, I won't talk about Normandie (no, that's not a typo . . .that's how the French spell it) just yet. But I will give you a few pictures highlighting my more recent Paris adventures (sniff . . .au revoir ma belle ville pour maintinent). I'm in love, I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!

2010-05-16T07:34:00.001-07:00

I can only share a bit, because I'm pretty sure I've already worn out my internet welcome at my director's apartment. I just had to share a bit of what I lalove about my most beloved ville (but there's more . . .I could go on for days about couples and art and the metro and food ah beautiful and glorious)This is in the Quartier Juif (Jewish neighborhood) he was calling down in Yiddish to a Jewish bakery kiddy corner to his apartment. I hope they were talking about Shabbas bread.
It's an ostrich (Je pense). . . with pearls on its legs (Je sais). I mean come on! How fantastic is that?
Coolest bookstore near Sainte Sulpice. Good book people inhabit this place, each speaking at least 2.5 languages.
Magnificent boulangerie, creates baguettes in the historical fashion. Sans yeast but avec stone ground flour.
Another thing I love in Paris are the windows. I'm endlessly fascinated by every kind of window. Stained glass, shuttered, broken, residential, palatial, storefront (I'm shameless, and I take pictures of window displays. Isn't that such a faux pas? I don't even care. Ok I do a bit, enough to try and be a bit discrete, but what can you do? I can't help myself).

2010-05-16T07:23:00.000-07:00

I especially am in love with daddies and their babies. Look at this precious interaction between papa et enfant, just got to the boulang?
French babies can even make Hellion Pigeons seem almost charming (which is saying something, because pigeons are Satan's birds that's why they try and annoy and gross you out right before you go into churches, they're trying to keep you away)
Just imagine this little girl humming a little nonsense song as she skipped down the street with her glace.
Beautiful people live in Paris . I don't know if you know that, but c'est vrai. And no people are more beautiful or engaging than French babies. I've started taking pictures of the gen I can't get enough of when I'm out and about the ville during the day. Mostly they're from the back, but I take what I can get. I just want to capture and keep the essence of chaque personne. The way they dress and walk and how intriguing they are and the fact that French was their first language. Everytime I hear a baby voice in French I think, geez this kid speaks better French than I do and that's his language. It's the same when I talk to the cat our host family is watching, he only knows French people-making-fools-of-themselves-for-animals speak. So I try to follow suite.

2010-05-10T02:09:00.000-07:00

I had a Maria moment when I walked into this grand ball room of the Opera Garnier (the opera house of the Acadamie Musique that inspired the Phantom of the Opera) and I had the urge to waltz about but I was also afraid Captain Vontrappe might come and scold me for going where I'm not supposed to be.

'

The overture before the overture. Even if it doesn't float your boat architecturally you'll be in awe. I was giddy just walking in, the anticipation and theatrical mood set by the building before you even enter the theatre proper. And the ballet we saw was tres magnifique. Everyone in Paris is beautiful and I'll be darned if the ballerines were not even more so. And for 10 euro I could lean over the side balcony and feel all 19th century starving student in love with art and Paris and fashion but in an intellectual way. Right? Classy but suffering for art? But kinda wishing that you were part of the rich but resenting them. I feel like that's a proper 19th century feeling.

2010-05-10T01:54:00.000-07:00

Art is everywhere and the Quartier Latin is no exception, this is just a cafe front on a tiny street. Makes me want to mange there! The Quartier Latin is the section where all the college kids used to argue with each other in Latin during the Moyen Age. Now it's artsy and bookish and absolutely perfect. At the end of my jour in teh Quartier Latin I wrote profound thoughts in my leather bound and ate quiche lorraine and chocolate cake from heaven by the Seine. A true intelectuelle, n'est pas?

Einstein and Louie in the Quatier Latin, it's obviously where all the cool kids hang out. I hung out there and thought all sorts of Latin-ish, philosophical and scholarly there. Mostly I just went into the petit galleries and dreamt of the day I could work in one while wearing my plaid glasses. I could live in a flat near the Quartier and then spend my days supporting local artists. Doesn't that sound divin? And it would be a baby version of my dream of being a curator and it'd be better because it's edgier (even though I'm far from edgy) and more intimate (which I dig)
It's the sign of the oldest cafe in Paris. Racine wrote and argued intellectually there over tea . . .actually probably wine and cheap beer.
It's the most darling sign, let's just be honest. A hot air balloon? Probably circa 1800 something or other. I couldn't resist it. Reason 556 to love Paris: fabulous signs (signs are art too)

2010-05-10T01:45:00.000-07:00

My most beloved Chartres. Don't you adore the blue and let's just talk about the dips and ridges in the stone. So much character, so much faith and so much beauty. I couldn't get enough of the imperfections in the stone, especially near the glass. It felt so right that the thing that man created to glorify and imitate God was still imperfect. It made me love them and Chartres even better for trying.

2010-05-10T01:32:00.000-07:00

I fell in love with this man's boots, oh ok him as well on the tippy top of

the dome of Sacre Coeur, where I thought I might puke and die from peur.

Isn't the city jolie, even and maybe even especially with the haze/mist (we'll pretend it isn't smog). I was proud of myself for being brave enough to prend cettes images. It was just a surprise, I thought I was going down to the crypt, but I ended up ascending 300 winding stairs to the dome. Not a grave up there, but lots of professions of love and other such profundities scratched into the hundreds year old dirt on the interior of the dome.

2010-05-10T01:25:00.000-07:00

I have un moment before we start our group meeting to discuss Versailles. Yes, at long last my pilgrimage to the Petit Trianon will be complete and I might die from I don't even know what from . . .star struckness? Yes, the star has been dead for hundreds of years but what can I say? Je l'aime! But in the seconds before we start I'll show you a few petites choses from this week. I'm falling, yes I am falling but Paris keeps calling me back again.

2010-05-04T10:18:00.001-07:00

Chartres today. Oh our holy mother of pearl! It is la vraiment charment ville in all of the world. The cathedral is one of the most spectacular things I've ever seen in the whole of my life. They're cleaning it right now and the difference between the clean and the dirty is so intriguing (I'll put pictures up on Sunday). I fell in love. I sat in the chapel de Saint Sacrement and contimplated life and love and God and it was the most perfect Moyen Age moment. Besides, our Chartres expert was one of the most adorable and knowledgeable Brit transplants I could ever hope to meet. He knew so much. And I fell half in love with him as soon as I found out that he moved from London to Chartres because he loved the cathedral and want to study it and just be near. "Don't say you've seen Chartres. I've been here for 30 years and I'm still seeing it." I mean really? Don't you want to bottle that kind of curiosity and passion? I sure do and I'm first in line to buy as soon as someone invents it (including if I invent it). Then I died in a salon de the when I bought the most beautiful tart aux chocolate.
And I found out how much I despise huge groups of Americans and standing around in the metro. As much as I am fascinated by people in the metro, I hate looking like an American dumb dumb pants just standing about. Ah, but now I must away to a petit boulangerie to purchase my daily baguette!

2010-05-02T04:38:00.001-07:00

Mais oui, le tour Eiffel! I saw it and Paris must be my city because at once I was in awe that I was actually seeing the iconic symbol of France and it felt like the most perfect and natural thing in the whole entire world. See:

2010-05-02T04:12:00.000-07:00

Bonjour from Paris! It's day quatre in the voyage magnifique. I already feel like Paris and I are a pretty wonderful pair. I love the architecture and the history and the metro (ok, I adore the metro, partially because I get to practice my French manners . . .namely, my smile code mastery. I've gotten incredibly good at not smiling at strangers and making eye contact without the impulse to smile.) I lalalove watching les parisiens. They all look so good all the time. I feel like I've walked into art. It's not perfect but it's endlessly interesting and beautiful. Paris and I are going to be the best of friends, I've already felt anno

yance with loud English-speaking Americans, so I think I'm on the right track.

My first real up close Paris encounter was with the most fabulous block of graffiti I could ever have hoped to see in Europe.

On my second full day here, I went and saw Notre Dame, Le Conciergerie and Sainte Chapelle (as part of one of the guided walks for my class. they're

great because they give you a general part of the city to explore and then you go at it). I cried at least 5

times that day. First because I was so happy I was able to ignore all the people asking me if I speak En

glish. And then when I walked into Notre Dame and touched on

e of the huge pillars. If you go, you must do this. The stone speaks to you and it's like you feel the sweat, tears, pain as well as the faith and devotion that's gone into the building. Just look:

Anyway, perhaps it's a bit overdone or touristy but I don't care and I can't help it. If this doesn't give you a nice first taste of the city, I don't know what will. I'll travel log a bit more plus tard, parce que I'm off to spend the afternoon in the Louvre!

2010-04-26T16:12:00.000-07:00

Project Runway is the most wonderful contest show on all of televisiondom. I'm watching Nina Chat on the reunion show (which is always a dishy delicious tid bit of yumminess) and BAM! It hit me. Tomorrow at 5:13pm I will be an hour into a million and a half hour transantlantic flight to Paris. As in France. Holy moley. I could probably die, I'm a Paris-neurotic with a cray cray mix of emotions in my longing for France heart. I mean I went to the store to buy sunscreen and I sat in front of the fifty kinds of spf for more time than is necessary for any normal human being to stand in front of any aisle anywhere. All because I was thinking about the fact that I wouldn't just be slathering that business on my little Ginger shoulders under just any sun or on any beach but under the Mediterranean sun on a beach in Nice. As in France. As in the south of France. Don't worry, I finally chose Banana Boat spf 50 aloe vera (good thing that I still had enough wits about me not to choose Coppertone . . .a rash on the beach in the south of France . . .not pretty) and now with an absolutely brimming heart (still full from a semester of discovery, elementary and lovelies) I say:

Paris m'attend parce que je t'aime!

2010-03-21T18:38:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago The Cast and I made a wee pilgrimage to the Topaz Japanese-American internment camp site. Going there is always such an interesting, sobering and enlightening experience. (besides, whenever I go to the tiny section of Delta Utah's historical society where the Topaz Museum tries to be, the museophile in me gets all fired up about getting those wonderful people and this important story some ever-lovin space). Walking on that hallowed ground is alot like I imagine stepping back in time would be like. We were always searching for things people left behind and the smallest thing felt like a direct link to those resilient and beautiful people. Here's some of the treasures we found Of course with my fascination with notions (sewing notions, that is, yes I go crazy for buttons, ribbon, rick rack, zippers . . .I could go all day) I fell in love with this little shell button.
It's the heel of a shoe. I almost cried when I saw that.
I wonder if the kid whose eraser this was liked to draw, do you think he was aware of all the art being made in the camp?We weren't sure what this was, but it's some kind of glass or something that someone had thrown into the cast-iron wood-burning stove in their barrack.
I love going there and listening to the wind (there's always wind at Topaz) and imagining what they must have felt looking over the desert to the mountains. Everyone ought to go, it is the type of experience that you can only get in a place where people really suffered and somehow triumphed. We went on a really beautiful day and The Cast is really great at capturing wherever we go. Look at these and tell me you can't see the shadow of a barrack and hear the wind whispering stories of strength and compassion.Jes took this lovely picture of Anna and I, aren't those colors of the landscape breathtaking in such a quiet way? Nearly the whole Cast plus Brilliant Director searching, I love this because I feel like it's so indicative of each person's self, I feel like these are the ways we each discovered A Thousand Cranes as well. What dear people.

2010-03-21T18:02:00.000-07:00

I'm a cellist. A classically trained, plays concerti and symphonies, cellist who names her instruments after literary characters. Darcey is my one and only right now. I don't always tell people right away that I play the cello because then they start wanting you to put private concerts on and that's just pretentious (and there's one thing I try to avoid being if I can help it). I am most especially prone to keeping my musicality less than visible when I'm around people who write their own music, probably because . . .well heck, I'm not entirely sure, but I don't generally tell guitar players that I play the cello. It's not that I'm ashamed, I most certainly am not the cello is the sweet sweet instrument of love, sorrow, passion and peace. But somehow I let it slip to my very talented and quite known musical friends that I play the cello. And suddenly this girl who doesn't play when words are involved and never ever performs without music or memorized notes is playing gig (yes, it was just one, but when you're used to string quartets, a gig with a piano and a singer where other people play guitar and sing is a big fat deal) and recording music with her incredibly talented friends. Friday, after but a few minutes of rehearsal I laid down (I believe that's the technical recording term) a track with my darling friend Molly D. And it was fun. I recorded in a bathroom, it was one of the more hardcore things Darcey and I've done together.

Here she is at Guru's playing a song she wrote, that I lalalove:

She's fantastic, isn't she? You might be able to tell that there was in fact no cello . . .you'll just have to buy her album to hear it . . .and don't expect it to be with that song, because it won't be there. I felt like one of the cool kids and Darcey felt all liberated and legit because there are stickers and scratches on his case plus he made some really lovely sounds in that bathroom!

2010-02-28T15:13:00.001-08:00

Although Provo can seem like a rather ho-hum place of Fat Katz and Panda Houses there are some dear little places that crop up and give me hope in the creative spirit of people in this town. This weekend Kirby, Jes and I went to The Cocoa Bean, it's a cupcake cafe. See:

It's a raspberry cheescake chocolate cupcake. Now if that doesn't make you happy, I don't know what will. The cupcakes are huge and perfect for sharing (not too expensive if you share, about $2 for a big cupcake) and they have daily flavors they make fresh. But don't take my word for it just listen to these raving and credible reviews:

2010-02-28T15:12:00.000-08:00

Well I did it. Something I haven't dramatically done in a long long time. I'll give you a little hinty-poo

That's right. I got myself a hair cut. And boy were my hairs cut! My darling friend Jes agreed to give me a trim, but then I did one of the more impulsive things in my life and decided just on the spot to let her go all out. And when I did this is what started to happen:

It was just one of the more fun things in my week to have her and Kirby play hairdresser and wingman, we listened to French music and they kept telling me how pretty I looked. Is there anything much better than that? Pas de tout! C'est la meilleure chose! Regarde:

Doesn't it look about as precious as you could get. It's my Paris haircut, because heaven knows I can't do anything in my life without relating it back to Paris. Here's another view (and I let you guess at what hour of the night this beauty was taken)

Doesn't it just look exactly like a Paris haircut. Imaginez. This is a haircut you can walk to the boulangerie with and feel like a local.

2010-02-21T19:28:00.000-08:00

(Well, I was hoping to have a whole new blog look to match my new adventure in 2010 . . .but this secret note is resistant to change. I guess I can't blame it, but oh I wish it would change. Anyway, I wanted to give my note a makeover because something new and exciting is happening and I want it to match. So pardon the disgruntled look on my face)
It's official! The day I've waited for all of my Ginger life is fast approaching. Yes, the day I get a stamp in my passport! Guess who's going to Paris in le printemps? Moi, mais oui! And I'm busting at the seams about it. Everywhere I do, I think: I wonder what it'll be like to do such an one activity in Paris. Every dollar I nearly spend I think: what could I buy in Paris with that (now, I know a dollar won't buy much, but at least the blessed Euro is more forgiving of my puny dollar than the pound). And you best believe that every shoe I covet and every dress I could die for I covet and die for because I imagine myself walking about Paris in them. So far I have a pair of red keds. I call them my Paris shoes, it helps keep it concrete for me. And I've already decided that dresses will be my wardrobe staple as I'm living la vie en rose. So stay tuned for this Ginger's Path to Paris, the first step is the toothless smile and pricey pocket passport. I couldn't be happier about the prospect of having an unattractive picture taken of me than I am right at this very nearly passport moment.

2009-10-25T16:03:00.000-07:00

Oh it is Autumn! I want to just bathe in the golds and reds that are all around this year. I'm not entirely sure what it is, but this year the colors are more vibrant and transcendent than any other Utah Fall I've experienced. The mountains are so festive and lovely and I have the distinct urge to go hiking (which might fade into the desire to go for a long country walk, of a more 19th century persuasion) and to buy real wood pencils, lined paper and sit in front of a fire scribbling away at a theme or vocabulary word chart. And then there's the fashion. Can we just talk about my latest obsession: textured/patterned tights. Oh for the dear sweet love! I've always been a hosiery girl myself, but I didn't understand real tights-love until I bought a pair of JCrew green lace-esque tights. They're so British Isles as to make me want to die and the color is delectable. But it doesn't stop there, what about the blue paisley pair or my red plaid tights?! I tell you what, you can change your day with a pair of fantastic tights and don't be bothered by the up and down stares you get on campus (they're just jealous in their hiking boots. Right? Right!) Plus, legs look good in tights, there is no better way to just appreciate the nice lines of a leg than to see those lines highlighted by tights. I'm just saying is all . . .go get a pair and prepare for your Autumnal transformation.

2008-12-04T19:52:00.000-08:00

One of the latest and greatest injustices of the world . . .television world . . . my world is that the single best program (both of comedy and drama) ever to hit the airwaves is stopped dead before the surfing is properly ended, I'm talking they're not even giving us a touch once alive again 60 seconds . . .I'm talking about my most beloved Pushing Daisies being touched twice, dead forever off the air by the heartless heartlessnesses at American Broadcasting Company, may they feel guilt for the rest of their lives for uprooting the sweetest flower in the desolate garden of modern tv programing. I watch the last remaining episodes, knowing that it is all terminal, soon I will have to bid farewell to my weekly visits to The Pie Hole that actually makes me, a pie fence sitter, want a piece, and to the hystericalness of Emerson Cod, the witty zingers of Olive Snook, Aunt Lily's eye patch, Chuck's inspiring wardrobe and most of all . . .sniff and sad sigh, to Ned, the single most precious human male to be created by tv writers. My only source of comfort, as small and insignificant as it may be, is that They are talking about making a movie. If this is the case, at least I can own a slice of the most real yet fanciful bit of lovely . . .if it is not, I shudder at the thought.
Oh woe to me, if only NBC, who believes in shows, had picked Pushing Daisies.

2008-11-16T18:49:00.000-08:00

I just finished a freshly and singly baked cookie with my delicate rose-painted bone china tea cup of milk. I love drinking milk from a tea cup, it makes me feel all Marie Antoinette-in-her-little-village esque, which I suppose is to say nostalgic and quaint with a touch of quirky refinement, don't ya know. And sin of all horrible sins, I'm listening to Kurt Bestor's album Noel. Forgive me the public confession, but I, Caitlin Cotten, a week and four days before Thanksgiving am listening to Christmas music. But I basically can't help it, or I can, but I'm choosing not to. Because I have not-so-innocently but with much joy and love broken the no Christmas music until Thanksgiving rule a week or so before Thanksgiving with this album for many moons. I always start with this one, it's like soft-core Christmas music, I won't listen to the hard-core stuff until afterwards. Besides, I love love love the thrill I get from hearing the first few bars of 'We Three Kings.' Chills and uncontainable grin. I get the same feeling when I see the mountain tops covered with snow and the beautiful orange and red water color of their bases. I adore this time of year, fall in full swing, the air thick with sweet-spicy aroma and prayers of gratitude. There is something about Autumn that just makes you want to give thanks. I get all jittery with anticipation at the thought of the Macey's Thanksgiving Day parade and being able to wear tights and sweater dresses and plaid plaid plaid. I simply can't get enough of the plaid this season. Oh so British, oh so fun and oh so adorable. Just do me a favor, step outside and take a big breath (through your nose) and inhale that delicious and delightful November air, you'll smell cold freshness, maybe some fire and just a hint of pumpkin pie. If only you could capture that smell and keep it for whenever you were particularly blue.
Oh and how do you like the note's makeover, it just so happens that fall is perfect time for a new look.

2008-10-10T14:26:00.000-07:00

Here's the thing of it: I really, really don't like it when people say something when they have nothing to say . . .but it's not like I don't have anything to say, I just don't know what to say. Re-entry into anything is difficult, so I'm using this as the re-entry:
For no particular reason or many particular reasons I stopped writing and now I've begun again, I add to the secret note.
Now I can write with no weirdness between us.

2008-05-01T18:57:00.000-07:00

Here's the thing of it: I'm home, home on the range in Oklahoma. And it would be my unending pleasure to recite the condensed version (and I'll categorize the events by place)
Provo: Mayhem and foolishness of packing, finals and good-bye breakfasts, which was at once tender and pull-your-hair-out/
Salt Lake City: Cotten girl time! Magazines, movies, shopping and laughing, laughing, laughing was the order of the three days we spent together.
Provo: More and more packing and yes, falling down the stairs. I can't make this stuff up, people, I fell down the stairs with a box of dishes and the most precious bird salt and pepper shakers and the box of my beautiful and fantastical Magic Bullet. I just missed a step and KABOOM . . .ow. And my RA came out and I said: I fell down the stairs and she said: well yeah. And that's that, quite frankly. And a whole herd of deer prancing across the street to the baseball fields.
On the road in Utah: lots of dead deer on the side of the road ( I counted 7 and then became depressed and had to stop). And a picture of "The Hole in The Rock."
Colorado: llamas, llamas, everywhere. The good people of rural Colorado love them a good llama. Don't ask me why.
New Mexico: Antelope . . .have you ever seen antelope?
Texas: cows and a stinky feed lot and the giant I-40 cross and an American Idol Happy Meal toy . . .buy one, experience it, there are almost no words to describe the hours parody-games played in Ace as we passed pasture after pasture .
Oklahoma: delicious sweeping plains, lots of wind and the sweet feeling of almost being to a private bathroom, lovely shower, glorious bed and (almost most importantly) to get out of poor Ace, who had a hole in his muffler and was beginning to drive us to lunacy.
Now it's onward ho to summer! And what a comfortable and lovely feeling!
Oh and I watched all of PR in one day and in one word: FIERCE (ps stay tuned for thoughts on that)

2008-04-19T16:57:00.000-07:00

I've finished ALL my finals in two days, I had breakfast from Scoreboard Grill with two of the most precious people I've met here and I've packed eight boxes of nearly all the stuff I'll be leaving behind, my momasita just came into town and it was a lovely Spring day until the dust began to be blown all about the valley. Enough said, yes?
Oh and I have only goldfish, saltines, green beans and Quakes in my cupboard.

2008-04-11T11:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had the strangest sensation. I was sitting in the rehearsal for my cello recital and I was listening along with 12 other cellists and 1 pianist to a beginner play Minuet No. 2 and I was looking at the boy next to me, the girl across the room, the pianist and my teacher and I thought: wow we all look so different, it's amazing how diverse our genetics are. Um. . . hello?! Do you ever just sit and think: fascinating aren't they, those genes, all those dominant and recessive alleles. Yeah, me either. . .well at least not usually. I can't even tell you why that came to mind, I mean it is pretty awe-inspiring that in with just a few variation here and there, the building blocks that make us all relative make us different. Crazy . . .crazier that it came to mind. I'm not even in a science class this semester or anything. Oh well, I'm sure something triggered me to think that . . .jut don't ask me to tell you what.
And today I left my umbrella in the Nelke, don't you just hate leaving things behind? I sure do hope it's still there after class today . . .I like that umbrella very much and an umbrella is an excessively handy thing to have about.
Oh and it is very cloudy today, but I don't mind too much because I am wearing bright aqua tights and my hair is looking especially Gingerific today.

2008-04-07T20:53:00.000-07:00

Goodbye March, goodbye sunshine, hello April and hello snow. I spent the weekend in Salt Lake, really Sugar House (if you're thinking: mmm sounds sweet and tasty, you are neither the first nor the last person to have had this thought cross your mind) and it was glorious, phantasmagoric even (but that's a lie, because it was not, in fact ghost-like . . .but ever since I learned that word from Poe's Fall of the House of Usher, I can't help but indulge myself in the incorrect use of it every now and again). But Erin and I did what we do best: talked, looked at magazines, talked, shopped, talked and watched movies oh yes and talked. I love going to visit her because the weekend is completely school-free, dorm-free, roommate whom you've never lived with before this year-free and last but certainly never least and never ever to be underestimated in its power: Provo-free.
This particular weekend was especially magnificent because 1. it was Conference Weekend and 2. we watched a movie I love but never get to see. I basically hate stupid-humor movies, you know stuff that's the redunka-stupid roll your eyes and become excessively frustrated type. But there is one movie that has always warmed my heart that is in this category, I didn't even have to ease myself into liking it (as with A Christmas Story, which I do love now) I liked the first moment I saw it and that movie and I am only slightly embarassed to say is Bubble Boy. I nearly pee every time I watch, I basically can't help myself. It's so redunk, but simultaneously precious and dare I say a bit tender. I'm not even ashamed to say one of the reasons I lalalove this movie is the fact that Jake is Bubble Boy and the way he says: I'd rather spend one minute holding you, instead of a lifetime wishing I could (or something to that effect . . .you get the point) and it's pretty well hysterical. So there you go I am willing to freely admit it: My name is Caitlin and I LOVE BUBBLE BOY!!! And I don't really even want to be rehabilitated, so there.
Oh and there are only 2 more weeks of classes/finals and only 11 more days until my Mommy comes to fetch me, what joy is mine!

2008-03-09T12:47:00.000-07:00

Here is something I have learned: people live by rules. I know you think um, duh, the law, school rules etc. But I mean that people live by a strict set of personal rules they make for themselves sans the what other people tell them to do. Oh outside sources influence these rules, but they don't dictate them, I suppose you could call them habits, but I think they go beyond habit. And I'm not talking about morals either, these are the quirky things we make ourselves live by because we think it's what makes a good life or what a pretty life looks like in our heads or because we're all a little bit crazy (as well as racist, which this piece is not,in fact about). . .I'm not judging this process, heck I even do it, I just think it's amusing. So next time someone tells you that they hate rules and think they're dumb, you can just smile at them because 1. that's a rule 2. all people set some kind of boundary for themselves. Let me just tell you about some:
My roommate has a rule that she can't eat the same thing twice in one day. It's nearly an impossibility, so when other people do it she has an issue over it (and she tries to hide it . . .but when you live with someone for almost eight months it gets hard to miss what they're really thinking, but maybe that's just me). Today my other roomie told her to have peanut butter toast, but she can't because she had it for breakfast, I'm pretty sure she physically can't. A rule she lives by.
A girl upstairs hates celebrating her birthday, she says it's fake and she hates getting gifts because she never gets what she wants. She doesn't like the attention, she lives by a rule: to keep the spotlight off of herself.
My darling friend has a strict code of conduct when it comes to color and especially color pairing. No black with brown (this would be The Big No-no) no navy with black (because you'll look like a bruise) no white bottoms (skirts, pants, and dresses) when it is cold/snowy/wintertime. Nothing too psycho or neon paired together, because you'll look obnoxious and heinous (which really is true, isn't it?). This rule is directly related to her dressing rules (if people have no other rules, they most definitely have these, most lists are extensive and have very complex and subtle 'but' clauses and appendices lettered A-Q, these are the most fascinating of all personal codes of conduct to me).
I guess one of mine is that I wear socks to bed when I spend the night at a hotel. I never ever sleep with socks any other time, but I basically have to in a hotel . . .ok if I'm going to be completely candid, sigh, I don't (generally) go barefoot at all in hotels, except (albeit reluctantly) in the shower. But wearing the socks to bed is beyond legit, and not . . .really not, it's not a raional thought, but it's how I feel. So here: I have a fear that I'll be particularly active in the night, make the bottom sheet come loose and then I'll feel the hotel mattress . . .ICKY. There's is just something about that idea that makes me just get the ever-lovin' heebie-jeebies. So there you go, a wierd thing I live by, quite staunchly, I think if none of the above illustrated the point I was trying to get out in the universe, my rule did it.
Oh and I have a set of three precious and perfect little ringlets bouncing directly next to my right ear.

2008-03-05T09:32:00.000-08:00

Do you ever see someone and think: wow we'd be a good match. I mean he's typing on your mac book, you have a Mac Jacobs. He's sitting in the HFAC, looking equal parts artsy and studious, hello . . .you too. And he's wearing these well-fitted jeans a really great pale blue shirt with a coral tie and a vest with converse and you are looking equally adorable in your boho dress, leggings and fetish necklace. That happens to you? Yeah . . .I can't imagine anyone being so stalkerish, perhaps you ought to get a hobby, or actually work on that homework you have sitting in front of you.
Oh and I bought yogurt-covered raisins at Wal-Fart yesterday.

2008-03-03T09:20:00.001-08:00

Greetings to you on the Monday Morning. I have already misspelled my name Cailtin about 4 times in the past 20 minutes so it's already panning out to be a real winner. Here's the thing that can make an icky day: forgetting to but gum in your backpack
ickier: forgetting your nalgene at the homestead ickiest: forgetting both the gum and the nalgene at the homestead. Now try and beat that, you're parched and you have stinky breath, it's a killer. But never fear, none of the above have happened on this Monday Morning. Except I did forget my 5 fire cinnnamon gum in my desk drawer. I can just see it sitting in there, right next to the huge stack of MAPS, my ELF chapstick and the package of M&Ms Mimoku gave to me of a Saturday. Nevertheless, there is sunshine in my soul today because I ate oatmeal this morning and I remembered to bring nalgene full of cool Britta-filtered water. No sea monkeys for me, thank you very much. My eyelids are very droopy, it is a hard thing to go to sleep and then prematurely wake up and then go back to sleep and then run around all night long trying to get all of the necessaries into your tornado shelter that you think will protect you from an impending earthquake.
Oh and I wore my hair all the way down for the first time ever yesterday and I don't know if it'll ever happen again.

2008-02-27T20:34:00.000-08:00

Wednesday, better known as Thursday Eve (oh it's not better known by that title? It's just me that uses that term? It's whateva, just humor me). Thursday is an interesting day, a bit poopy and a bit glorious, there you go. I'm listening to Simon and Garfunkel, there are few men in this world that can sooth the soul quite like these two can and make you think that the '70s was probably the single coolest decade ever. However much they make me think this, I'm not entirely convinced that it is a truth. To be sure, the '70s were very influencial, pretty darn groovy and dare I say it: rockin' but there are so many other times that are equally as inspiring and interesting. Probably minusing the middle ages, ancient Rome/Greece and maybe even the Renaissance and a titch the '80s (but I can't totally hate on them . . .even though there's plenty to hate on . . .come on, I was born in the '80s, hence something good happened during that decade for me). I pretty much am fascinated by every time period and especially the fashions and the cultures and I guess everything but the politics. I can't much sink my teeth into politics, no matter the time.
Ok earlier I was really hot, so I put on my Spring/Summer matching pajamas with the blue stripes. Now I'm cold and it's time for a costume change: flannels with the hippie Russian nesting dolls. Oh dear me.
Oh and I've shaved my legs four times in the passed two weeks . . .let's just pause for a moment here, people.

2008-02-15T12:43:00.000-08:00

It's the day after the day of love, as my roommate refers to it. How are we holding up? Are we a bit blue, or perchance a bit green from the unholy amounts of delicious chocolate and not-so-delicious conversation hearts that we've eaten? I personally made cupcakes, chocolate because everyone knows that's the only kind worth eating (especially if you're using a mix . . .)with pink and white heart sprinkles. Basically it's what one might refer to as quote-unquote: festive. Besides the fact that I felt domestic making them, even if it was a mix. I tried to make the frosting do this oh-so appetizing and oh-so chic twirly thing on the top of the cupcake . . .success eluded me for the most part. As did sightings of unattractive stuffed animals . . . partly refreshing and partly disappointing. What's a Valentine's day without cheesey cheap pink polyester playthings? I tell you now: nearly nothing. But here's what I don't love: calling Valentine's Day V-Day. MEOW!!! Not so much, I say, not so much. That's what we might call an uncomfortable word. Unlike James Marsden in 27 Dresses, but there is next to no time to talk about him, although I could go on and on about our date last night. But alack and alas class calls and I must go study Piaget's pre-operational stage of cognitive development.

2008-01-25T12:17:00.000-08:00

Oh the internet is being painfully slow . . .so much so that I had to quit safari and use firefox and so much for it being swift like unto fire or a fox, or even a fox on fire, more like the speed of a really, really slow glacier, or an ancient ancestor of the fox frozen in this glacier. I don't love not using safari, mostly on account of the fact that I like how the toolbar looks, it's much more aesthetically pleasing, don't ya know?
There is one thing that happens here and that is snow, or threaten to snow. So I guess that's two things. Nevertheless I have accepted this and I even enjoy it a bit . . .except when the snow blows into my eyes and pummels my poor eardrums. This is when I say: snow, you are just playing dirty.
Here is what I like to do: look at moccasins on ebay. I'm not sure what my new-found fascination is with this particular type of historical footwear. Maybe because it reminds me of summer. And why should they? Who knows, maybe for the same reason Cat Stevens along with Simon and Garfunkel do . . .pretty well inexplicable, yes?
Here's what I don't like: The Dumpster and cleaning checks, but mostly The Dumpster . . .or maybe cleaning checks, it just depends on what day you catch me on. But you can generally count on my dislike of these two things and bananas . . .that is a constant in my life. I'm a fairly predictable human being in that way.
Last night Dad texted me that in Brazil they often ask dinner guests if they would like to hop into the shower before the meal. At first you think: strangeness, as well as: rudeness! But I've been seriously pondering this and I conclude that this is a custom I could really get behind. Now I don't mind being dirty (let's talk about how I would never set so much as toe near the showers during camp . . .I wouldn't even change clothes, except undieswear and pjs) but I also value cleanliness. It would kinda be like washing your hands before dinner (which people don't even wash their hands after going to the bathroom, so washing before a meal is just asking way too laboourious task). So my thought process is as follows: if you encourage people to take a quick shower before dinner, they won't. But they will wash their hands, and perhaps their faces . . .but probably their faces. They'll be like: teehee the host will never know I didn't actually wash my entire self, I'll just run the shower and then wash my hands. Voila! you've just used people's inate laziness or (more optomistic) dislike for using other people's showers to your advantage! You don't have to worry about Freddy touching all the rolls, because his hands have been washed. It's brilliant, I know, you don't have to tell me two times.
Oh and it's sad when transition lenses don't fully transition once inside a building of normal lighting.

2008-01-21T11:13:00.000-08:00

Sometimes a girl feels loved by her school, like when she gets a Monday legitly off of school. For example, my campus honors Martin Luther King Jr. Day . . .and President's day, but no other bank holidays are important enough. Let's not even talk about Spring break (what is this foreign concept . . .oh you meant a break from school spanning a week usually used to alleviate cabin fever before the home stretch of the semester. Outrageous . . .this idea is most definitely for softies, which we are not). The one solace I have is that I'll be home for almost a month before the other peons who got a month for Christmas and a break for Spring are still being schooled. Ah no matter . . . today is a blessed day a day of great rejoicing, homework-doing and frivolity.
Oh and it snowed buckets and buckets last night.

2008-01-18T09:13:00.001-08:00

(first off I misspelled 'whether' in my last post as 'wether' I'm slightly ashamed at missing that poor little h that separates a person that can spell and one that was a spelling bee drop-out, which, consequently, I am. It's out . . .I didn't even want to be in the spelling-bee so I spelt my name when the teacher asked me to spell 'mutton' I knew how to spell it, I just didn't. the funny thing is that some kids thought I had gotten the word right . . .ah the rising generation).
Real issue of business: it's incredibly cold and I'll let you have three guesses as to what is falling from the sky in a peaceful, yet somewhat hateful way. If it's taken you this long to guess, you've obviously been living somewhere hot and secluded for a very, very, very long time. Welcome to winter semester, where it always snows but it's never Christmas. I think the snow is so pretty and this is one of the problems with it: you can't completely despise something so beautiful, so I don't. Besides, sometimes I feel Scadinavian and this game of make believe slightly helps to buffer the ickiness and general dread I feel when it starts to snow . . .again.
I woke up this morning, very early . . .before dawn even considered cracking, after a night full of disturbing dreams. It was one of those play/movie dreams I have where my life turns into a play or I'm just in actor in the play and I know it's a play but I can't see the audience. Last night's was the former. It was a party that I was at and there was a man with two sets of eyes stacked one right under the other. He only opened his bottom eyes right before he Sweeneyed someone . . .you know, slit their throat with a razor blade. The wierd thing is that as scary as he was (and believe me he was plenty scary) you could tell that most of his face was put on by makeup . . .and yet I was terrified of him. I think this is linked to the fact that our Sondheim musicals class is finally having a Sweeney Todd night and I pretty much had an irrational and fairly poopy day yesterdtay. I had to wake up to watch Mr. Smith Goes to Washington for one of my classes . . .let me say that when you're up until midnight finishing the worst paper of your life, your laundry refuses to dry and half your clothes are completely wrinkled and the kitchen is in disarray, your suitemate loses her phone in the overhead light of her bedroom and then are expected to wake up for a 6:45 am showing of a movie . . .let's just say that tolerance for some of the over-acting (mostly on the part of the actresses) runs low and I couldn't sensor what I said . . .it was as if I had never gone to sleep. I am proud to say that I caught the humor even in the strange early-morning time warp that became the JSB auditorium.
Oh and I refuse to fall victim to procrastination ever again . . .I pretty well hate my life when I do.

2008-01-13T15:44:00.000-08:00

It's the end of the first (or the beginning of the second, depending on how you look at your week: wether it starts or ends with Sunday) week of round of Caitlin's Freshman BYU year. Good news is all my classes are at a respectable or above-average insteresting-ness level. But often times workload correlates directly with interesting-ness, which I'm fine with (heck, I'm at school, what else am I going to do besides school work . . .not a whole lot comes immediately to mind, at least during the days).
But here's how the real story goes: yesterday I came in from being in the library for no small increment of time (which is always a productive thing for me: Saturday library time is always excessively handy for me, I get to gettin' really easily [especially after a nice workout] and I can go for a long time . . .anyway, this is not the story you've come to hear). I walked into the apartment, trying to think of what I would do with my time in the apartment before the appointed hour of a dance I was going to attend. My thoughts were unceremoniously interrupted by the stench that hit my news. There are almost no words . . .the first that comes to mind is MEOW!!! and then: 'what the crap-crap is that?!' Let me try and describe to you the unsavory aroma that bombarded my olfactory glands. I have pondered this long and hard and this is what I've come up with: really, really, really fake cheese (like the kind on popcorn or really cheap cheddar snack mix, or the stuff in boxed mac and cheese) deep fried in a vat of nastey oil (the fried smell was more of a feeling, the idea that this synthetic cheddar had been fried) with just a subtle overtone of carmel (this was a come-and-go feature of this smell). Now this sounds like a strange, unreal smell to you . . .but I wouldn't lie to you . . .cross my heart: honest to blog (oh I adore Juno!!) this is what the whole apartment building smelt like. Upstairs, downstairs, in our icky back hall (that p.s. looks like someone was either murdered or had some life-threatening or at least some reputation-threatening [perhaps peeing right in the middle of the square of carpet repeatedly, because 10 feet either way to a bathroom is just too far to go] in that 4 square-foot space). I couldn't escape it. My stomach was empty from my studying-fest, so actual puking was strictly out of the question (besides the fact I hate the act) I was resorted to dry-heaving, covering my nose, swooning, whining and drenching our apartment in various preventative air-freshners (these actions were in various mixes of occurence, not in any specific order and not necessarily nor unnecessarily in the afore recited order). In short, I cannot imagine what someone was making to produce such a stench and it's a bit like a bad car accident or the bloody parts on house: you want to see it , but it's gross . . .so you don't . . . .but then again, you really do. I'm afraid it's some sort of old and beloved family recipe that makes the girl feel as if she's home again, whereas I felt like I had reached a whole new, unimagined level of Dante's Inferno.
Oh and I worked out 6 times this week AND went to a 4 hour dance, where I only stopped dancing 3 times.

2008-01-09T17:31:00.001-08:00

So here's the thing: I think I am experiencing a mild case of beginning-of-the-semester-depression. Nothing huge or clinical . . .no, just a bit ho-hum to have left my favorite place on earth (home) and some of my favorite people on earth. Not to mention that all my lovely friends are still on holiday, while I trudge to my early class on the other side of campus in 10 inches of snow. I'm not casting any dispersions on my campus, snow or even the huge icey patch that was once my shortcut to the crosswalk, I just am a little degradatated at getting back in the saddle again. I love going to class, I even hazard to say that all my classes are going to be enjoyable and interesting this semester, but I don't want to start taking tests and having papers due. But I guess . . .no I know that it comes with the territory, every rose has its thorns, as they say.
My current condition might also have a little something to do with the writer's strike that drags on and on and on and on . . .it might be indirectly affecting me. Heaven knows I'll go psychopants if this little tiff as it were gets in the way of new episodes of Pushing Daisies airing. Anyway, senseless prattle. Pardon me, I think this is what happens to a body when he or she reads about research methods for 2 hours.

2007-12-04T17:31:00.000-08:00

One wearing flip flops in the snow:
Stupid.
Redunk-a-dunk
Stupid
(aka: what are you thinking? And if you slip and fall on your fanny, break your favorite pair of SUMMER footwear, bruise your pride and develop a case of frostbite on your manicured toes . . .don't curse the ice, nor me [for giving a tiny chuckle] nor anyone on the weather team of News Channel 2, look at your feet, they're bare and it's 30 degrees outside. You chose it . . .now I guess is the time to think about the mistake ; after you're flat on your bum in the ice and slush)

2007-11-30T09:05:00.000-08:00

So I've heard people say that you learn something new everyday, and thus far in my life I 've found this fact to be true. For example: today I learned that I only have 21 days until I go home, home, home!!! I am at high risk for not being able to wait. I'm so excited and relieved to be going home so soon and the cherry on top is that'll be Christmas when I get there. And I'll be having a party, so I can see all my lovely friends and make sure they still have all their fingers, toes, brain cells (hopefully a few more of those have been put to use through the college experience) and basically are doing as well as they tell me they are. And I can sit on my couch with my broho and I can sleep in my bed and I can play with the cutest baby in the whole entire universe.
It's cold and there's snow on my mountain. It's so festive looking, like she's putting on her lacey white party dress. The effect is even more striking because it's cloudy today, so the mountain looks different, more beautiful and more mysterious. Which, let's just be honest, we all love an element of mystery in our lives. Maybe a little something we can't really explain but are trying too, or maybe we don't even want to try and explain it. If we put it into actual words, then the magic will be broken. It's like the feeling that I get when I see a lit-up Christmas tree at night, or a room full of candles (ps I always have to double check on my dictionary widget to see if I'm spelling 'candle' correctly . . .I always second guess it, thinking that maybe today the rules of spelling and grammar have changed and you spell 'candle' 'candel'. Thus far, this has never been the case). The feeling is centered in your heart and (oddly enough) your stomach. It's a wonderful feeling, the feeling of a holiday, anticipation and joy. I hope you've felt it too.

2007-11-25T13:49:00.000-08:00

Happy Post-Thanksgiving and happy beginning of the Christmas Season! I'm going to do a cliche and tired thing that happens every year around this time. In just a moment I will go on and on about how I can't believe that November is almost over, that Thanksgiving has come and gone and that now it's legal to wear red and green, attend a party whose invitation states: 'dress festively' and most importantly, listen to Christmas music all day every day (without being scolded for overlooking an important and underappreciated holiday). So here we go. It's all gone by so quickly as a whole and yet so slowly as parts (I've only been here at the Y for about 3 months and yet it feels like years since I've slept in my bed, sat on my couch to watch a flick with my Brother Bear Jeff, seen my nephew do his fishy face, gone to Allaus for reasonably priced gelato, or sewn for hours with my mom in her drawing room). Where has the year gotten itself? Where did 2007 go?
Well part of it was devoted to Thanksgiving. And I honored the tradition that makes that holiday tick every year for me: I watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (affectionately known as the Macy's Day parade). I don't know but I love, love, love that parade. I didn't get to listen to it (I was at Erin's gym and you have to have a radio to listen to the tv) and I had to do the opposite of what Thanksgiving festivities are centered on (I worked out . . .antithesis of eating obscene, yet glorious amounts of turkey, stuffing, pie and the whipped cream that goes on top of the pie). And I missed the Broadway clips part . . .but by dingy I got to see Tom the Turkey and the M&M float and the whole gang. Happy Holidays to me!! I even got the sense of the playful, witty, yet staged banter of Al and Matt, via closed captioning. The only thing that was really missing was the BC Clark anniversary sale jingle (note the festive use of the word 'jingle') Apparently there is no BC Clark's here, it's an exclusively Okie thing . . .well they sure would get tons of business here, especially since they have a sale right before Christmas, which is a popular time of year to get engaged/married here (because it is between semesters and won't distract you from you educational goals . . .right)
Erin and I went to Uncle Harry and Aunt Lori's place for dinner. It was lovely. Thank goodness for male relatives. They don't have issues if you hug them . Which I did. Alot. I was starved for male contact, and Brian and Brett were kind enough to hug me several times throughout the evening. I'll just throw this in here to go with the holiday: I'm so grateful for my family and I'm thankful for hugs and Cox's honey on fresh bread.
I love this time of year so much, the smells (poppy seed bread, mint chocolate everythng, Christmas potpouri, cinnamon rolls, evergreens and the crisp winter air) the sounds (Amy, Kenny, Bing, Kenny, James, Josh, Linda, Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Forgotten Carols, Cathy, Tasha etc . . .all my dear Christmas album friends) and sights (the trees, lights, candles, party clothes, manger scenes, smiling kids, red, green and silver.) And I can't ignore what else this season brings, that fills me with delight: the ushering in of one of the most wonderful times of the year (the other is in about July). And that is the free-for-all feeding frenzy of good movies that come out November and December. This weekend I saw two such films, Enchanted ( oh so funny and cheesey and precious. Every girl who has ever watched a Disney princess movie, wished life were a musical or just liked to look at Patrick Dempsey ought to go see this unabashed family film/chick flick. I couldn't stop laughing . . .it parodies what it's based on without being stupid or too overt about it) along with Lars and the Real Girl (I actually have no words for it . . .but I can try with a few adjectives: dear, sweet, tender, adorable, heart wrenching, precious, the preciousness and fills you with the fire of life and the wish to act like they do. Bravo to the whole cast, the writers and basically anyone who had anythig to do with the production of this film. I laughed, I cried and as soon as the movie was over I wanted to watch it again and at random times things would remind me of scenes from it and send a warm feeling through my heart.)
Oh and it's only 25 days until I come home!!!

2007-10-26T09:14:00.000-07:00

Some days are days of icky, irrational ticked-off-ness and general melancholy. A state that the Man in the Chair would call: blue. Those days make you feel like your life is going the opposite direction of what you want and what you want exactly alludes you. You are an un-pleaseable and unhappy creature on days like this, where you feel resentment towards everyone, you rediscover how much the overuse of the lacey cami/undershirt bothers you (oh wait . . .that's everyday . . .people, they're undershirts, as in they go under things, as in don't wear them like a regular shirt, because the shape does nothing for you, except pull and awkwardly in not attractive lace. Don't get me wrong, I love lace . . .just not the ugly hanging off those shirts) and you wish it would rain to match the storm that rages inside you. And you feel like everyone is fulfilling their dreams, while you feel stuck in a huge mud hole, called your existance and you second guess yourself on every little move you make and you become mad with envy. You despise and are insanely jealous of the day, of the world, because everyone in it seems to be together, no one but you is alone.

Today is not an example of such a day.

It is the kind of day that you glorify being part of creation, and everything beautiful and good comes to you and happens to you and everything lovely and perfect is put in your way because you deserve it. The world is magnificent for you. And every song you hear is the perfect song for the moment and your hair looks good (even if it was touch-and-go this morning) and you wear turquoise for you to see and you don't care if anyone notices because it's fun to have a secret, a pretty little secret in the form of a pile of bangles. All the people in your life are more than you could ever hope for or want, and you love, love, love them and you remember what endears them to you. There's nothing special about this day, except that it is a day . . .and you get one more of them. It's the whole "because the world is round it turns me on . . ." there doesn't need to be a reason, it just is. There's something lovely in having a reading room to yourself, looking out the window to a mountain, listening to the Beatles and writing.

Oh and I'm leaving Provo for the night.

2007-10-21T14:44:00.001-07:00

The facts are these: there are things in my life that keep it all rolling along, keep the sanity of Caitlin Cotten in tact, keeps the MEOW at bay and breaks the monotony that can be the endless round of physical science studying and health lecture readings.
One would be watching TV via Mac Jacobs (from whom I am writing this). Who thought of it? I could hug them, kiss them on the cheek and then take them to Legends for onion rings, a burger and some Creamery chocolate milk (oh the sweet abrogia of the Gods . . .here at BYU). Especially ABC, those folks really planned with the college student (more specifically me) in mind. Every Tuesday we watch Bachelor (which I do for a giggle) and every Thursday (which could possibly be my favorite night of the week) we watch Pushing Daisies. I actually have no words. . . except: PRECIOUSNESS!!! Everything about it is precious and clever and witty and darling and perfect. I love it so much. Ned (the main guy, who can bring things back to life with his touch) is the very definition of adorable, and so is Chuck (the girl he brought back to life) and Ned's sidekick and Olive and everyone!! I love all the characters. And the costuming and the setting and the writing . . . .oh my goodness. This last week I could hardly stand how fun and wonderful it was. My perfect show . . .basically the antithesis of House, except they are both loved by me and they both make me think about what's going on and what is going to happen next? And here's another thing that would endear anyone to Pushing Daisies, the reader for the Harry Potter books also narrates the show. So there, a dear friend every Potter fan knows and loves.
Next thing would be gym time (oh the rowing machine turns jenky MEOW into holy wow!), then Target/grocery shopping time (it's so sad that the cracker aisle sends someone into a frenzy of solitary and singular joy) and then new magazines. It's a well known fact that I (like all the women in my immediate family) am a graphiholic and can't get me enough of the magazine racks at Target . . .and don't even get me started on Barns and Noble . . .I almost have a siezure from the dancing plethora of beautiful new reading material of it. Oh and packages, packages are the bits of home that I long for all the time. I love the postman, I love the US postal service and I love me a flat rate box that says: 'Caitlin Cotten, this is a container stuffed with all the joy, happiness, bliss and being taken care of you can fit, for one constant and consistant low price.' And of course this dear little secret note . . .which will be written on more now, because I understand how to go about life . . . whereas I wasn't entirely sure of it before.

2007-10-02T21:23:00.000-07:00

So here it is and here we are and it's October and the first midterms are beginning and my place of bed and bread is in an uproar. Do you want mayhem? We've mayhem. Do you want foolishness? We've that in spades (right . . .it's spades not hearts or clubs?). These are the words that cause this upheaval in our otherwise peaceful existance: an American Heritage test. That's all I've to say about that . . .honestly.

A while ago I went to a (an?) Hari Krishna festival at this beautiful temple on a hill in the middle of . . . well just before a little place of dwelling known as Salem Utah, right by a llama farm. The place had an aura of insence and curry and fire. There were two parrot-like birds who claimed residency in the downstairs of the temple and the grey and red one would let out a high-pitched squeak every 15.56 seconds (which reminded me of the ringtone teachers supposably can't hear . . .my goal is to always be able to hear that ringtone) causing Erin to declare it a banshee bird. Did that parrot even know what it was doing? I hope it doesn't realize it's a banshee bird. We took our shoes off and stepped on the cool tile floor and for a second it was serene and peaceful and then you looked up at the pandemonium that unfolded before your eyes in the form of the gift shop: stuffed clean full of people, candle sticks, statuettes of elephants, tiny tables, tshirts, bangles (on sale . . .5 for $2!), post cards and of course racks and racks and racks of wearables. The beautiful saturated colors of saris blurred past your eyes as people climbed over each other to grab their favorite pattern and preferred size. We ventured in and I wondered it they put things in such close quarters to make you feel a small smidgen of what a real market day might feel (minus the outside, the dust, the beggars, the dancing plethora of language and humanity and basically the fact that it wasn't India). I bought a white tunic (which probably won't surprise anyone since I have a strange affinity/fetish for white shirting) that crosses in the front and ties. . .the best thing is is that I didn't have to search through the kabillions of racks for it . . .it just sat there on outer pole of one of the men's shirts rack patiently awaiting a Ginger girl to take it home. When something speaks to you in this maner I am a firm believer that you must head the call, because who knows what will happen to you or what you will make happen in that perfect perchase? Perhaps those things would occur without it . . .but isn't so much more fun to have the perchase as not (but this is only if YOU LOVE it . . .no one else can hear it for you . . .unless you faintly hear it and then they amplify the article's cries for you. This is why it is wise to shop with someone you trust.) We watched a pageant and then burned Ravanna in effigy all the while dancing and singing our joy at his demise. So there you go . . .a confirmation of something that I've always known in my heart: Gingers can be Indian too (or anything else they want to be for that matter)

2007-09-05T10:54:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a girl named Caitlin who loved her school very much and whose favorite color in the world was blue. Everyday she would arise and say: 'I love my school and I love blue . . .but . . .' But indeed. Caitlin adored the mountains and was practically in love with the library (especially the antique-feeling music/dance reading room) she found her suitemates to be charming and her aquaintances in the room just below them to be engaging. She had formed an attachment to the smallish basement piano room and found living with a girl who has perfect pitch to be excessively advantageous. She had developed a taste for morning walks and had even started to be on speaking terms with Blackboard. The total lack of humidity did wonders for her Ginger curls and she was drinking kabillions of gallons of water everyday, which helped with overall health, fortitude, not to mention her skin. She found meeting new people a nercitng (nervous and exciting) experience and daily strived to become better at it. Nothwithstanding all the afore mentioned lovelies there was always a tiny but for Caitlin (in more ways than one). There were things that dumbfounded poor Caitlin about the place she was growing to love so dearly. One was that no matter what time one should go to the library and sit at a computer in the 'No Shh Zone' there would always be an angry baby. Now Caitlin understood the idea that you could say words or chit chat on the phone or sing an aria or cry real salt tears to your heart's content in this 'No Shh Zone' but it never ceased to amaze her that always there would be a displeased baby somewhere nearby. This made her think that the library is not a positive place for babies and could eventually lead to a dislike of places that store books and then to a general mislike of all books, which is probably why today's youth do not read as much as they ought to . . .they were all taken to the 'No Shh Zone' in the Harold B. Lee library as infants and screamed to the top of their tiny lungs, no matter what wiles their internet-surfing parents tried, and now they are scarred towards books, libraries and the 'No Shh Zone'. And because of the tangent the author just indulged in, you, poor reader, will be unable to find out what else Caitlin found dumbfounding . . .for the writer cannot recall what it was for she is still comtemplating angry babies and the illiteracy of America's young people. Not to mention that she needs to read about the scientific method for the nine-hundred eighty-six thousandth time in her ife.

2007-07-27T18:26:00.000-07:00

I'm smocking a dress. I ate ribbon cake today under a wrought iron strawberry chandelier. I love Mozart and the Whale. And I finished Harry Potter, which provided a good cry. The world is beautiful, isn't it?

Anticipation

2007-07-19T15:29:00.000-07:00

I love the anticipation of starting a new book, knowing that a world of people I'm going to fall in love with and wish in a strange and pathetic way were real. I feel the same way when the overture starts in the theatre and the lights go dim just before a movie starts. Oh the grand and wonderful possibilities of it all, you just might be disappointed but more likely you'll embark on a journey you won't soon forget and end up happy or wistful maybe even heart broken but you will be satisfied like when you are hot and sweaty and finally enter the gelato shop for a small mint and chocolate (mmm refreshing). I thrive on the anticipation of Christmastime and the idea of what might be in my stocking (everyone that really knows me can attest to my savoring of the moment on Christmas morning . . . it takes me forever to open my gifts because I love that tingling feeling of not quite knowing what's in the package right before the gratification of opening it).I had that feeling the first time I looked out the bus window in the Lincoln Tunnel and knew that NYC was just waiting for me on the other side and we were going to be fast and life-long friends. Don't you feel the same way right now? There's a tingling and glowing and shimmering of probablies, maybes and perhaps. How lovely, it's like a sunset or a really well-fitting dress it makes you feel just as good as the two afore mentionedobjects do.