Number 4: "It was almost lifelike."

Location: Kokomo, IN (City of Firsts)
Date: Friday November 30
Event: Out of the Blue show feat. Elise Shrock
Venues: Sycamore Marketplace...
followed by the infamous Sycamore Grille...
the McDonalds on Sycamore...
and, of course, Camp Mitchell.

Chalk this one up to one of my more colorful hometown evenings with my parents, a gaggle of Purdue kids, several buckets of flavorful lagers, Diana's 2am organic brunch and cocktails, and shamelessly enthusiastic best friends.

[To set the stage for the evening, allow me to fast forward to 9am the next morning... when I woke up in my parent's house... in the guest bedroom... in a twin bed... with my brother's friend sharing the bed with me... and another of his friends in the other bed. Yes... classy.]

The evening began chez Shrock, a fashion show extraordinaire to the background television soundtrack of Amy Grant and her husband on Oprah. That's right... Amy Grant in all of her 'let's watch my schmoopy wedding montage and sing carols' glory. To her I say, "Congratulations, Ms. Grant. Your hair has improved since 1991... but we would all sleep a little better at night had we not endured the video of you on the porch of a log cabin in your rocking chair and his-and-hers velvet cloaks."

Apparently this is the ideal conservative religious marital fashion experience. One can only compare the bedazzled, country-fried "Mr. and Mrs. Federline" track suits and shudder. Equally.

By six o'clock the Von Shritzell ladies find themselves at the Marketplace facing down a giant pile of fried green beans, sweet potato fries, wings, and a steaming bowl of fresh mussels. Meal highlight: collecting bones, shells, and corresponding bits in large plastic pitcher fondly referred to as "The Gut Bucket." Said vessel gleefully photographed to preserve memory of its loveliness. It's the art of the everyday that truly brightens life.

The acoustic stylings of Jay and Dave opened the stage. Unfortunately a certain core of Lafayette patrons were not present for this due to a severe case of Being Lost In The Middle Of Nowhere. Things were a little tense upon their arrival due to the flaming daggers shooting out of a certain few sets of eyes toward the unfortunate (and hungover) driver. Pats and Eddy quickly attempt remedy by ordering drinks.

Fast forward to Out of the Blue's second set, a three song number featuring a local radio celebrity. Side Note: Etta James should always be followed by ad-libbed "If I had a Million Dollars." It was spectacular. Favorite verbal praise of performance: "I mean... they told me you were good... but you were, like, really good. Seriously."

I shan't attempt to describe the joy and merriment of getting down on the dance floor with our mothers, brothers, fiancees, and a certain middle aged gentleman who knew me well in childhood who told me directly that I had "grown up nicely."

Have since decided to ignore shady undertone of said compliment and pretend that my... err... physical development had anything to do with it. Because that is simply creepy and I won't allow breast-related asides to rain on my back-home-again-in-Indiana groove parade. Eeeeeeeeekkk.

Kudos to the gentlemen for volunteering to dance with us. Simply astounding what a few liquid dance lessons can do for the manliest of fratmospheres. Well done, boys. Well done.

Determined after closing several sky-rocketing bar tabs that the night should not end, our fraggle of a group proceeds one block west to another downtown drinkery. Although this place remains at the top of the alleged 'where to go for Kokomo nightlife' list, we managed to catch a completely deserted cavern of a bar and descended upon one of many empty tables... Truthfully I was relieved. The last thing most of us wished to encounter was a barrage of awkward meet-and-greets with former high school classmates and any variety of childhood acquaintances.

Although, even in my hazy/giggly/slurring state, I do recall finding the waiter to be most unfriendly. Considering that we were the only patrons (and therefore his evening's source of income) I find that a very unacceptable rudeness. Bad form, sir.

Cue Allison ordering tequila shots. [mistake]

Cue Allison drinking a kamikaze shot immediately after. [worse mistake]

Cue caravan to McDonalds. Pulling around the drive-thru in parallel, we leave our windows open to allow for conversation between my car and Wes's... which I don't actually have any clear memories of but I am certain involved several well-placed Sordid Lives quotes and a good deal of ridiculousness.

As passenger, I find myself suddenly affronted by one husky stack of 20-something redneck man leaning into my face and bellowing inquiries as to the nature of our interaction with the boys in Wes's car. "These guys botherin' you?" He had jumped out of his enormous black rumble of a pick-up truck with the itch to start a fight under the stale veneer of chivalry. Oh my redneck life.

Am pretty sure I did my best drunken-blonde-bat-of-the-eyelash-breathless-gasp, "What? Ohhhhh! noooooo! [giggle] That's my fiancee!"

[I must give thanks here for our heroic sober drivers, Wes and Eddy. Most deeply appreciated, especially in the circumstances. Sobriety in Kokomo is not an easy thing.]

We return home to Camp Mitchell and descend upon the kitchen like animals to the food trough. For reasons unknown, Mama Mitchell was still awake and whipping up cocktails and scrambled organic eggs with the gusto of an infomercial chef. Have been informed that I paired my snack wrap with a couple heady crown old fashioneds. [yet another terrible mistake]

We split into each and every room in the house, pulling out beds and blankets and couches like the drunk refugees that we are. In my now-blacked-out oblivion, I decide to forgo my own down-feathered cocoon of a bed upstairs for one in the guest bedroom. Am quite positive I invited myself and forced one of the boys to sleep with me. In a twin bed. In my mother's guest bedroom that she calls 'the pretty room' and my grandfather calls 'the dead ladies room' due to its set of heirloom furniture and many family photographs of now-deceased female relatives.

As I said, I do not recall this portion of the evening. I do recall, however, waking up and squinting at my wrist for the time. 9 am. Completely disoriented, I swivel my gaze around the room in exhausted stupor and wonder where the hell I am and how the hell I got there. Am wearing my black bar top and a pair of my youngest brother's athletic shorts. I turn over and come face to face with my brother's friend staring at me with a look that says, "I don't know what to do with you and cannot make up my mind how to politely address this awkward situation."

Allow me to clarify that this night was not one of aggressive romantic intentions on my part. To be quite honest, I. hate. sleeping. by. myself. This sentiment is exponentially magnified by massive consumption of alcohol and my general sense of decorum is thereafter discarded entirely.

Cue Diana entering with water glasses, a barely concealed smirk and roll of the eyes, and ibuprofen for all three of us. Drew soon follows with a shot of Mona Vie for me. [best hangover cure ever] Let it be said, this situation is most entertaining in view of my mother's staunch no-sleeping-together-in-my-house-unless-you're-married rules. Ah yes. Turns out I do have an inner sense of rebellion. Very Easy Rider. Take that, Mom.

Although... in all truthfulness... Eddy's shrugged summation,' You sleep where you fall,' is closer to the truth of my choice of bed.

Breakfast finds a few stragglers and I seated around the kitchen table pouring over the local newspaper and heralding the town's landmark tourist attractions, specifically Old Ben (the taxidermied remains of the largest steer I have ever seen in my entire life and subsequent proud town trophy. Additional bizarre fact: Old Ben's tail was stolen years ago and remains mysteriously absent to this day. I'm not kidding).

I miraculously managed to eat about a third of a banana and later some of Diana's world famous banana bread as well... followed by a 30 second shower and change of clothes.

I say my goodbyes and kiss my parents. I walk down the driveway to where E had parked my car the night before... only to find one dead-ass battery and a car that not only won't start, it won't even gurgle a complaint. As in silent. No. Juice.

I hobble back inside and plead for my father's help with a jump-start. It just so happens that we are a household with its own car-starter. Yes, auto troubles are so typical of our clan that my father felt the need to invest in a product specifically designed for dumbasses. Turns out it just wasn't man enough to get the engine started. I mean honestly, when E and I hit the skids, we really go for broke. Our motto? "Go big or go home." We therefore turn to the tried-and-true jumper cable method. 20 solid minutes of revved truck engine and linked motors later, my battery is still absolutely lifeless.

Mind you, it is a Saturday (the second busiest of the holiday shopping season) and I am due to be at work.

Thankfully Dad roots around in the basement workshop and discovers the God of All Jumper Cables. These things were seriously the thickness of Paul Bunyan's wrists and had the aura of brawny man's man oozing out of their sinister copper jaws.

Well, those actually worked after a while and I managed to peal out of the neighborhood and make it to work only 15 minutes behind schedule. Of course by this point my fourth hangover of the year has me in its evil clutches and I am stuck in the anxiety nightmare of a whirlwind retail cyclone. Oh, and my bosses' boss spends the afternoon at the store. I swear this woman has a sixth sense for when I will overindulge and purposely schedules her visits exactly one day later.

Yikes.

Also...

Drew: Hey Wes, do you think you'll still be going out when I'm old enough to drink?
Wes: [pause] Does a bear shit in the woods?

Rod: Is hooni-juana really illegal?

Me: I just don't know what he wants from me!
Miranda: Well... have you asked him?

K: It's The New Yorker... it's existential.

Matt: I think you just need to molest him. Get it over with.

So you like me, huh? - Broken English

____________________________________

and this never leaves my thoughts:

I would know that
before this life closes,
a soulmate to share my roses -
I would make a spell
with long grey beard hairs
and powdered rosemary and rue,
with the jacket of a tux
for a tall man
with broad shoulders,
who loves to dance;
with one blue contact lens
for his bluest eyes;
with honey in a jar
for his love of me;
with salt in a dish
for his love of sex and skin;
with crushed rose petals
for out bed;
with tubes of cerulean blue
and vermilion and rose madder
for his artist's eye;
with a dented Land Rover fender
for his love of travel;
with a poem by Blake
for his love of innocence
revealed by experience;
with soft rain
and a bare head;
with hand-in-hand dreams on Mondays
and the land of fuck
on Sundays;
with mangoes, papayas
and limes,
and a house towering
above the sea.
- Erica Jong

quotecyclopedia, November edition

E: Hey Allison, you ever notice how we're really only at our best... when we're horizontal?

Why are we in such a rush to move from confused to Confucius? Do we search for 'lessons' to lessen the pain? - Sex and the City

Kisses are a better fate than wisdom. - e e cummings

E: For the record, we are now going to refer to it as the crunk-try club.

Karson: ... and that guy in the grey vest? [head shake]

C: She looked like... Marie Antoinette. And not in a good way.

E: oh my god, you watched the showgirls vip edition without me?? i hate that i fall asleep so early.

Ok, you're not exactly what I call 'eye candy'... you're more like... 'eye patch candy.' - Will & Grace

Ana: I heard it... on the street.

LaTrelle: You eat with that mouth?
LaVonda: Mostly!
- Sordid Lives

UNDER PRESSURE. - David Bowie

Peter: Walked into bdubs kokomo... walked out. Drinking at chilis. This town rocks.

David: Man, there's nothing quite like Night Before Thanksgiving Bar Night With All The Local Rednecks In Your Hometown. Ah, I've missed it.

This bumper... was pulled off... by the bus... OF SELENAS! - Selena

and it's ALL coming BACK to me nowwwwwwwwwwww... - Celine Dion

Let's see...

my whiskey cocktail is half-full... and it's not my first of the night.

there is a dead buck in the bed of the truck in the garage in my house. surprisingly that is not the lyrics to some backwoods redneck summer campfire song, it's just the reality of life chez mitchell.

if one were to take this as a slice of life of the mitchell family, one would actually believe that things were wonderful... because tonight? they were... they are.

watching scrubs rerun with peter right now. love it.

I built my own fire tonight, it's still smoldering in a sexy-hot-chocolate-ski-lodge-naked-under-a-blanket kind of way. for the record, no one here is presently naked.

I have no responsibilities for a full 24 hours aside from doing my laundry and creating a kick-ass thanksgiving feast-a-palooza. this year we are experimenting with turkey brining... don't know what that is? me neither... but it sounds promising. it too is relaxing in the garage with the dead deer. we here in the midwest are, after all, equal-opportunity carnivores.

good things:
scotch
whiskey
leftovers
frank caliendo
fender guitars
digital cameras
grapefruit
my dog, Mags
real fireplaces
feather beds
embarassing photo ops
massages - I could really use one
being home... in every sense of the word
not caring that I haven't slept... for days
waking up with people I love, regardless
knowing that I'm about to sleep... soundly (thank you, crown royal)

autumn clouds

I feel myself dangerously veering off the edge of my usual sense of self, at risk of somehow making that fatal mistake, that unforgettable hurtful remark, that unneccesarily heartless sneer at someone undeserving... I'm like some cliche 'mean' character who snaps at everyone and mistreats her loved ones despite being, on the whole, a very lovable person. [think Lifetime movie] It's like my next scene should be where some trusted mentor takes me aside for the pep talk and lays out the details of how my downward spiral affects others.

where is this angst coming from? this is not like me.

I'm worn down, worn out, and beginning to feel the november stress accumulate in my veins like a stored drug that I've grown to tolerate in high doses.

Please let tomorrow see the clouds lift and something sparkle in these blustery days.

priceless

online conversation with a friend has produced this gem of a quote:

my friend: i was like "i can't sleep." and he said "me neither."
so then i asked "well, want to do it and see if we pass out afterwards??"

hmmm. perhaps a new trick against the perennial insomnia that plagues my nights? oh I love it.

The Mouth of Hell

Have managed only three hangovers* in 2007, a triumphant leap beyond previous years when that number was more likely per week. My binge-drinking years were not pretty... since then I've discovered that I'm a cheap date (take that as you will), more often prefer to drive myself around (thus remaining sober in the process) and provide my own getaway car, and I really don't like expensive bar tabs.

That having been said, however...

Today was the Colts/Chiefs game, a landmark event that brings friends into town and usually heralds large dinner parties and or bar crawls. This was not today's agenda, however, as I not only didn't see any of my Chiefs fan visitors but quite frankly didn't see the any of the game itself.

What was I doing, one might wonder, on this terrific Sunday afternoon?

Sleeping. Nursing off 2007 Hangover #3. I got sick. I drank milk. I clutched my temples and cursed vodka and martinis. I groaned aloud. I petered around my apartment after my 3 hour nap at a decidedly slow pace and thought about cleaning... but didn't. I brushed my teeth but decided showering required too much stamina. Smelly barwear was thrown into a heap in the corner and there it remains, marinating in the aura of last night's extravagance and bad decisions... like bringing everyone home with me and drinking more. Not smart, Allison.

At this point I'm just praying to regain strength and motivation before work tomorrow.

It was a great Saturday night, though. A great Saturday night.



*Side Note: Each hangover has involved a certain Ms. Edina. Coincidence? I think not.

To-Go List

I spend most of my time traveling "in-between..."

between homes. between jobs. between friends. between cities.

This is not to say I'm transient in the sense of skipping across relationships and locations like a stone skimming over water, no... Merely that I quite honestly live behind the steering wheel of my automobile, am rarely home for any sincere length of time, and I adore the chase and change of life on the move.

Am compiling a list of destinations for the upcoming months, an ever-growing agenda of friends to visit, events to attend, places to wander. I find myself promising excursions and promptly blending dates into a mental slushie, but nonetheless look forward to road trips, airlines, and the joy of sleeping on sofas and air mattresses.

Early Spring shall hopefully find me...
NYC
DC
Chicago
Milwaukee
Boston

Easily grasped distances, mostly Midwest/East Coast. Am feeling the flutter of giddiness at the thought... because it has been such a beautiful autumn, travel-wise. I long for more.

what dreams may come

this is a moment held perilously aloft in fantasy for years, a lifetime to be truthful. I cannot in any possible way portray the truth of this second, this slice of my life. I am stunned silent, suspended mid-emotion and quite frankly... happy.

yes, I said it. I'm happy aka content aka You Wish You Were Me. It's real. It's out there. It exists and for this one (probably quite brief and transient) moment I am actually happy.

really happy.

H-A-P-P-Y for those of you who know me if even slightly well enough to understand.


for justifiable reasons [known to a confidential few, a very slight few],I'm overflowing with the ripple effect love... I love you, I love you, I love you.

I ask only for this blissful glimpse, this delight... this is what they were talking about...

this is it, this is really it. Please give me strength and fortitude of character to follow this path. It must be true.

It must be.

Marathons, Monuments, and Mattresses: Indy takes on D.C.

One of the greatest weekends in memory: Washington D.C. with Jules, Lauren, Abs, and Jen (and company)...

While I am still attempting to catch up on sleep and desperately hoping that I can soon recover my voice, I am afloat on the high of a weekend of nothing but good things. Yep, take that as a Martha Stewart reference... because it was.

Also, let it be noted that this weekend (Sunday, specifically) was witness to the birth of a new WLU slogan... the brilliance, genius, and true inspiration of one Ms. Julie Arnold:

"WE LOVE US
SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO."

Expect tshirts, billboards, drunken text messages, a few handmade sharpie tattoos, and perhaps even the revival of the political button... we're definitely taking this one global.

Homecomingpalooza... the aftermath

1. my laptop has gone to complete shit and finally refuses to turn on... AT ALL. motherfucker.
2. several new bruises. origin unknown.
3. I wanna borrow that top.
4. my feet still ache from imitating a marathon runner in stiletto heels on Saturday night in downtown Bloomington... and shortening my skirt to barely-ass-grazing-length to extend leg stride... which is a fantastic way to meet middle-aged, pleated-Dockers-wearing, stumbling-down-drunk, I-think-I'm-still-as-sexually-viable-as-I-was-in-college, I'll-hit-on-you-by-mentioning-that-my-daughter-is-your-age-too male alumni... oh and one older gent actually asked for a ride to Indy. Classy, sir. If I might suggest next time you omit the detail that your wife doesn't know where you went for the weekend. It doesn't arouse much sympathy and certainly weakens your potential hook-up factor. Just saying.
5. have taken to wearing my glasses as part of general protest against putting effort into my appearance. now remember why I don't like wearing glasses: they get so damn dirty, you know... constantly. who has time for that? plus I miss sunglasses. Sayonara, Team Dorothy Parker.
6. laundry.
7. continued disgust at all things involving, featuring, approaching or concerning Nancy Grace.
8. NPR pledge drive week means I'm listening to XM.
9. new addition to house furnishings now increases my seating capacity from 6 to 15. This is good news as the long-awaited Boob-Tube-a-Palooza is now officially on the horizon. Start preparing costumes.
10. purchase of the week: $6 hardcover Cole Porter songbook. So in love, indeed.
11. 'What has two thumbs and doesn't give a crap? Bob Kelso.' [Scrubs is the greatest thing to hit the insomniac television lineup in years.]
12. YEAH COLTS.
13. Washington D.C. in t-minus 3 days.

journey's end

Home from watching the wolverines trounce the shit out of the boilermakers. It was all kinds of ugly and depressing, and I didn't even attend Purdue... and quite frankly I have been known to support Michigan, you know, a lot... but there is still something in me that feels the need to defend a poor little cluster of 19 yr old boys in tights who (while shamefully losing) are being screamed at and taunted by 110,000 screaming Michigan fans. Really. It wasn't pretty.

Like my grandfather's best man at his wedding famously reminded everyone (not at the wedding but on multiple other occasions), "Remember, it's just a group of undergrads playing a game in the grass on a Saturday afternoon."

Lake Michigan is beautiful, tranquil, and awash with some of the most soothing landscapes imaginable. Mostly I just wanted to sit alone and read Anne Morrow Lindbergh and chew on a pencil and take long, contemplative walks along the beach.

So, you know, I went to the Big House for my dose of serenity and inner calm.

I have just woken up from a solid 5 hour nap, am still at home, and am stuck in that post-nap lethargic limbo of not feeling awake but hating myself for desiring more sleep... I guess I had a lot to catch up on from these past several weeks.

Oh, and I really wish we had some apple butter. That would be great.

Spent the entirety of the road trip listening to Tony Dungee read his memoir. Several thoughts:
1. His voice is absolute magic... it is velvety and calm and well-articulated and always filled with that mild thunder of conviction and strength. I wish I could install a permanent version to read to me nightly as I struggle to sleep. I would listen to him read the phone book, microwave oven manuals, advanced physics formulas, binary code, whatever... and it would be beautiful.
2. I am becoming rather well versed in football names, figures, plays, and team locations. This is a good start and has given me a miniature sense of hope that I may one day become one of those really cool girls who isn't such a complete sports-trivia dumbass.
3. Everything in his life, as detailed in the book, manages to become glory and education made manifest. Something to work on.
4. Becoming extraordinary in Coach Dungee's mind is simply being the best at what is ordinary. A simple philosophy and perhaps the best new approach for one overly-analytical-o'erarching-dreamer-lost-soul-wanderer such as myself. Like we always learned in high school - 'keep it simple, stupid.' Also something to work on.

Fuck

Today:

1. Lafayette - car finally spiffed up and soon to be liberated from lifelong muteness and given his first horn. woot woot.
2. Shopping with Diana... including the "Sportsman's Warehouse," a testosterone mecca with the apparent motto of "You either shoot it, stuff it, or marry it." Shudder.
3. "Cirque Dream" at Clowes Hall with Diana, etc. Basically it's a cirque show with a jungle theme... or as I like to think of it, contortionist jungle teletubbies on crack. I had an anxiety attack, Diana was beside herself with delight. Fucking serious, I feel like someone beat me with a steel pipe (physically and emotionally). damn shit damn damn damn damn.
4. one gloriously large and strong Old Fashioned... I do love coming home to the Mitchell liquor cabinet... crown royal as far as the eye can see... and I so desperately (desperately) needed a drink.
5. no sleep for the past few nights + uber-strong cocktail = sleep of the innocent tonight. is going to be magnificent.
6. drive to michigan tomorrow. when I feel actually like myself (free of residual stress and kentucky bourbon) and definitely going to tally up the number of hours/miles spent in a car during these 4 days... because shit, it's a lot.
7. call me tomorrow.

town crier

Currently find myself in a situation not unlike that of my high school years: sitting in the basement of my childhood home delaying the inevitable insomnia by diddling away the evening hours while my family slumbers two floors above.

I was admiring the stars from my backyard and drinking in the fresh breezes of autumn, now (it seems) at last upon us... it is so peaceful here, so green and spacious, and the country air is sweet with the promise of harvest and drifting leaves... my absolute favorite time of year. It's nice to be able to sit alone and appreciate the serenity of the blue-green darkness, bask in the 'silence' of the nocturnal creatures, "so loud, so loud the million cricket's choir..."

my thoughts are compressing with recent events, the speed with which life can change... for better or worse. these next few months look to be laden with heaviness, speckled with trials... we have seen and survived worse, I know. I know. And this too shall pass.

But for now perhaps it is easier to sit in the starlight and just be... the acceptance will come, it will come, it will come... "if I fall, let it be from a high place..."

Plateau?

I feel like I'm riding the tail end of a bright and sparkling comet, hair blowing in the space-wind (there is such a thing, right?) and face alive with the future ahead of me and the recent triumphs of the past few weeks behind in the stars...

Except this feeling is so fragile, so sensitive... a house of cards (to switch metaphors) leveled by the slightest touch. Such is my life that I know to expect not only the unexpected but also the bitch-slap of reality and daily trifles.

To quote Elise, "I've hit a plateau." I could perhaps be headed toward greater heights, merely settling for a moment to enjoy the view, or I could be seated atop what is to become the peak of the mountain, about to slip, tumble, or descend with caution, who knows?

I suppose this is just classic anxiety kicking in or maybe some deeply-ingrained WASP sense of guilt for having been so happy and blessed of late... my friends are incomparably wonderful, my family has even reached some sort of stasis, my days have been filled with events and memories and I feel loved and appreciated...

So what could possibly be coming around the corner to tear it down? Is it completely terrible that I'm so terrified? I'm just not accustomed to long spans of general happiness... or really any span of general bliss... the past decade of my life has been certainly positive in many ways but oh so incredibly dark, "so dark, so dark and deep... the secrets that you keep..." [apologies for the Les Mis. reference]

It's just that... my life is a lovely and precious thing at the moment, certainly far from 'perfect' or 'ideal' or 'well-planned' but remarkable in the way everything is seeming to appear... even the weather is better and brighter than it has been in years... aside from the fact that it's mid-October and the record-shattering heat is a most alarming environmental issue... but it's sunlit and embracingly warm. One of my neighbors* (one I actually don't know and don't think I've ever seen in my life before) decided to take a little siesta in a chaise lounge outdoors this afternoon... wearing nothing more than a speedo!! SPEEDO! As in man bikini!

*For the record, he was at least quite attractive... and kudos to a fellow uninhibited spirit... but this is certainly uncharacteristic of Indiana autumn behavior. IE: Von Maur has already transformed itself into Santa-Snowflake-Holly-Jolly-Christmas-Land and there are roadside stands selling pumpkins.

Anyway, perhaps this is just life as it should be always?

From Blossoms

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

- Li-Young Lee

la chouffe

1. I love brunch at Hoaglin's. Best hangover relief ever... and some damn good coffee.

2. Wedding-stravaganza Saturday has begun and I have T-minus 46 minutes to pull myself together, pack anything I might need for tonight, the wedding, a bar, a sleepover, work at 7 am tomorrow (am quite delighted, really), and the Colts game afterwards. Sometimes I wonder why I pay rent at all and don't just start living out of my car.

3. It is 90 degrees outside... and it's mid-October. But global warming is still a conspiracy theory concocted by a set of crazy left-wing fundamentalists, right?

4. I just had the greatest shower imaginable... hurrah for rinsing all that bar-scum down the drain and scrubbing off last night's slutty leftover makeup... sweet blessed relief.

5. No sleep last night and no sleep tonight pretty much guarantee a forecast of Mitch the Bitch appearing in full glory tomorrow. Those damn Colts better win.

Gen XYZ

In order to keep up with our lives, we have taken to sending intricately and painstakingly detailed emails to each other daily. We not only describe daily events but have also taken to including full verbatim excerpts of our own text message conversations. Is this pathetic, we often wonder? Survey says: nah. We'd do the same damn thing in person if we didn't live an hour apart so we are merely taking advantage of this glorious technology-filled era we live in.

Example, excerpt from this morning's email of last night's Retro Rewind:

Had a blast with Wes at the V... natch. We got there around 10:40 or so and the dance floor was... empty. Except for us (duh). Hilarious - a whole lotta awkward kids hanging around the perimeter waiting for somebody else to be ballsy enough to start the party. Pshhhh. Wes and Patsy promptly took full advantage of our time in the spotlight. You would have loved it - it was like the luau all over again (only this time instead of a table full of SMUMs and SMUBS - that's right, Smug Married Undesirable BITCHES - it was just a bunch of 22 yr olds hovering around without purpose). LOVE IT. Now that I'm thinking about it... perhaps we should just change it to SMUB... really, the 'B' could stand for either BITCHES or BASTARDS quite interchangeably. I think I'm on to something here. Unisex insult. Go Team AbFab! - P

I must admit, some of our most brilliant life wisdom has resulted:

Wouldn't it be nice if it worked in a way that we could just call up
someone and say "Hi, I'm really interested in you" in both a "I find
you interesting and intelligent" and "i really want to get into your
pants" kind of way. "Would you like to go out and have interesting
conversation and top off the night by sleeping (this may or may not
mean sex) with me?" Things would be so easy.....if only. - E

This brings up a point I have been discussing with Julie of late. Jules was saying how she wished somehow the world could reinstate the Victorian practice of 'stating one's intentions.' As in announcing that one would like to begin courting... for the record, I love that word, "courting." Puts such a refreshingly elegant spin on what we now commonly refer to as "hooking up" or (ugh) "hanging out." No messy decoding of body language or online profiles or ambiguous remarks, just a good solid "I LIKE YOU, LET'S GO OUT" kind of thing.

This is in keeping with our motto or rather description of self, romantically speaking: "forward but old-fashioned." As in I have no hesitation about initiating romantic exchanges of any level - communication, invite, asking for phone numbers, seduction scenes, what have you... but despite my bit of Gloria Steinem sparkle, I often wish someone else would do the job for me. Sometimes it can be the most wonderful thing to actually be pursued and wanted without all the effort, tu sais?

The Parallel Lives of Patsy and Edina

As usual, Pats and Eddie are living in twin universes, one in Indianapolis and one in the City of Firsts. Thankfully, things are going well for both of us on some counts.

Most recent email excerpt from the fabulous Elise Shrock:

score for the AbFabs.

Pats and Eddie: 2 Skinny fake bitches of the world: -2

The scores are looking good, as we are ahead.

1 2 3 4 FIRST DOWN

I feel as though I have traveled the Indiana interstate incessantly for 5 days and am soon to arrive upon the start of another such week of travel, trailing brake lights, and destinations unknown... this whirlwind of journeying back and forth between my ever-growing circle of families and evolving friendships certainly has taken its toll upon me physically over the past two days and I've slept as soundly as one who has never known the loneliness of restless nights... too soundly, it turns out, as I hauled myself a breakneck speed to work this morning (late, oh so desperately late).

This is the life I lead, one in limbo between my multitude of obligations and my desires. I feel like a moth drawn to the flame of family and was so gratified by the weekend and its exchanges, so purely joyful for the sake of it, basking in the glory of high-spirited games and get-togethers, the ambrosia of love that is created in such a closely connected group, my original set...

Many of us had not been together since the memorial service (and Hawaii before that), and therefore to see everyone at the game on such a miraculously beautiful afternoon was a very sweet privilege... you can see the change, certainly, but mostly it is a sensed loss, an unspoken collective missing of someone as everyone settles around this newly diminished family structure. I was so glad we made it to that end of the campus at last. Such wonderful family.

And today itself was the occasion for not one but THREE best friend high-fives. THAT is progress.

...

In theory I was an existentialist, a creator of meaning and value, but in reality of course I was a seeker. I couldn't help trying to read the world like a book of signs: the cadet, the receding lights of the train, the American women, the beaming face of the man with the umbrella and now the circus posters. Who would catch me as I somersaulted through space?

- Robert Hellenga, The Sixteen Pleasures

my thoughts, in three parts

I.

I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential of a man rather than with the man himself, and then I have hung on to the relationship for a long time (sometimes far too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I have been a victim of my own optimism. (285)

II.

"Everyone gets like this, at the beginning of love. Wanting too much happiness, too much pleasure, until you make yourself sick. Even to Wayan this happens at beginning of love story. Lose balance."
"I'm embarrassed," I say.
"Don't," she said. Then she added in perfect English (and perfect Balinese logic), "To lose balance sometimes for love is part of living a balanced life." (298)

III.

...and I wonder if I am capable of being somebody's sun, somebody's everything. Am I centered enough now to be the center of somebody else's life? (311)

moment of truth

Mom: "So I was at the Great Banquet* and you were at a gay bar."
Me: "Yeah... but doesn't that explain our entire relationship in a nutshell?"



*religious retreat

Deep Thoughts by Elise Shrock

I have the most fabulous friend ever.

Elise Shrock (Butler) wrote at 6:41am on August 31st, 2007

Um. It is 6:34 a.m. I am at work, and it is way to early to stomach those dresses. I just happened to take a gander through these pics during a music break and let me just say: My hawaiian dress is STILL sealed in the bag that I put it in the next morning at Allison's house. I know that is a gross thing to admit but I'm so very, very, scared of going near it for fear of the White Castle stench creeping out. My mom and I decided that we should probably burn it. Seriously, it's the only way to take care of the problem and way more fun than just throwing it away. It's kind of like at church camp when they tell you to write your sins on a paper and then throw them in the fire to give them up. Well, those dresses are the paper and White Castle was the sin.

Music Mill

A spontanteous evening of music and drinks and eerily connected acquaintances and friends.

Highlights:
1. Met Josh Kelley. He's lovely. And one of very few people I can wholehearted say looks delicious in ripped/faded jeans.
2. Did not wake up in any random musician dressing rooms or ask for autographs in inappropriate anatomical areas. Makes for a nice change.
3. 2 people I absolutely adore were also present... and knew each other (crazy!)... and were as lovely and beautiful as always. (small small world this is)
4. Pat McGee is still so cute I could eat him with a spoon. Yes, Jen Kraus, he's still adorable.
5. Lauren's drunk dancing is, like... so hot right now. Thank god we're all so fantastically uninhibited and I can count on my friends to be not only non-judgmental but also equally outgoing/outrageous/fearless.
6. For the first time in my entire life, I actually gave out a phone number at a concert... that belongs to MY FATHER. That's right... I was totally pulling a PR job on my dad as a surgeon and gave his office info to this fantastic guy we met with a wrist injury.... but really, isn't is a compliment that he asked me for it? I can't really be so terrible if people are (soberly) considering my professional recommendation of my pops as a valid and worthwhile thing, right??

Mmmmm... I love us.

frustration

I really wish I could find the December 25, 2000 New Yorker. Specifically page 96.

_____________

Old Roses

• Hear Donald Hall Read 'Old Roses'

White roses, tiny and old, flare among thorns
by the barn door.
For a hundred years
under the June elm, under the gaze
of seven generations,
they lived briefly
like this, in the month of roses,
by the fields
stout with corn, or with clover and timothy
making thick hay,
grown over, now,
with milkweed, sumac, paintbrush.
Old
roses survive
winter drifts, the melt in April, August
parch,
and men and women
who sniffed roses in spring and called them pretty
as we call them now,
walking beside the barn
on a day that perishes.

- Donald Hall

1967 Envy

Watched Belle de Jour today with the incomparable Catherine Deneuve. A very noir film - a twist of sophisticate in a sexually bizarre cocktail of fantasy and bedroom eyes a la 1967.

God do I want her hair.

Had just watched the Colts game by myself (and ironed, incidentally) and was feeling a bit too Midwestern for my own good. Solution? Vintage French cinema.

Was admittedly shaken by the fantasy rape sequences - the film introduces Catherine's character in a scene where she is (turns out) imagining her own humiliation and gang rape in the Parisian woods. Small wonder the film was seen as 'controversial' and shelved for 35 years.

Fascinating, though, isn't it? 40 years later and the piece still holds power, even for someone like me who spent her entire childhood dismissing shock from her emotional arsenal of reactions... Oooohhh and she looks so ravishingly stunning in every scene, even when she has sunk into her most desperate moments and her hair is bed-russled and heaped atop her miserable head. She wins my Style Icon of the Month and henceforth I shall attempt some semblance of her poise and elegance.

If only someone would send me the Yves Saint-Laurent wardrobe she wore.

weekend update

1. Thursday: game night/reality television debate + fox and hound + late night breakfast conference with Julie.

2. Friday: psycho neurotic cleaning fest. highlights including hand-washing of each and every goddamn piece of cookery/flatwear/drinking vessel in the house and dropping the cutting board on my foot (hair in curlers at the time). red wine consumed. in subsequent effort to compensate, overdress and primp a la Miss America. Continue with Julie to Rathskellar, run into friends, drink Big Gulp size pilsner, admire general terror of surrounding urban male population (read: no one talked to us... no one). Proceed to MacNiven's and kick off Cranberry/Vodka Fest 2K7. Run into friends. Consume multiple cocktails. Befriend strangers, some worthy, some not so. Divulge phone numbers. Joined by friends later in the evening, by which time I am most deliciously and ridiculously inebriated. (Dishwashing fiasco long forgotten). Make several embarrassing comments to be later retold to me the next day by Julie. Eventually walk home with Julie. Somehow set off smoke alarm whilst attempting drunk popcorn snack. [smoke alarm now resting dormant on kitchen table]. Crash in bed.

3. Saturday: wake up next to Julie with smashing hangover. Send texts while Julie snoozes, mostly to complain of hangover.
- Classic response from Elise 1: "Changing for a wedding we are obviously late for in a truck stop somewhere along a highway in ohio while mom's menopause is at its peak! And missing you!"
- Classic response to response from Elise 2: [photo included of Elise in car spritzing perfume] "French shower... check. Car shave... check. Trying to make this mess of last night's bar hair look acceptable... damn near impossible."
Spend entire mid-day recovering on couch. By 4 pm finally manage to shower and refresh before running errands. Buy more groceries at Target than my poor 'rexic kitchen has ever seen. Also enthusiastically replenish laundry detergent supply and cleaning products. Hurrah for Downy April Fresh. Home for evening despite invites to several bar soirees (most of which are discovered far late into the night).

4. Sunday: Colts game. [Sorry 'boutcha Houston]. Had planned on group spectator event yet lacked motivation to track anyone down or leave the flat. Sorry everyone. Instead, simultaneously cheer at television while ironing dress shirts and finishing laundry. Manage to escape incident burn-free despite aggravating fumble/interceptions which inevitably occurred during crucial ironing-of-the-collar moments. Begin Phase One of seasonal wardrobe switch by storing most useless summer pieces and unveiling autumn sweaters. Mmmmmm... and Clean Sheet Day.

doppelganger

If I were brunette and more conservatively religious, I could perhaps be confused with this Allison Mitchell.

Alas, I am not, although I hope that she does feel better soon.

One of the multitude of discoveries made by googling oneself. Turns out my name is far short of 'unique' but a few notches above 'run-of-the-mill.' nonetheless, there are me's out there scampering all over this wide planet whilst waving my own familiar moniker as if it were solely theirs.

Little do they know, those other Allison Mitchells, that while they're coaching their parenting seminars and raising organic livestock and managing the world's finance, somewhere in the heart of the nation is someone like me.

p.s. I love this song:
Silence everyday for two weeks
and I know you cry when you think I’m asleep.
You’re so distant, can’t you turn to me?
Am I different?
How should I be?
I love to get a little bit crazy maybe.
I love to get a little bit dirty. Sue me.
Why is it that everytime I’m near you, you’re gonna desert me?
Speak up if you’ve got something to say.
If not I’ll just act as if we’re okay.
I don’t think that we should waste one more night.
Let’s solve this so I can turn down the lights.

Patsy and Edina, Labor Day 2007

Freshly coined vocab:

"SMUM" - smug married undesirable man
"SMUF" - smug married undesirable father
"run-did" - running candid (photo)

Patsy: "Chris is, like, the greatest father ever."
Edina: "Yeah."
Patsy: "And he's, like.... ripped."
Edina: "Yeah... he's a dilf."
Patsy: "Yeah."
Edina: "And I'm about to apply deodorant right in front of him. That's right you big dilfster, come and get it!"

yes.

Genius words from Kevin, as stolen from (I am actually ashamed to admit) facebook:

I love the words menagerie, treat, cavalcade, tricked.

I choose quality over quantity in nearly every aspect of my life.

I hate Nickelback.

If you can't stand the madness, get out of my life.

Keep your laws off my body, and your religion out of my government and chances are we will get along fine.

I hate people that think they are famous/fabulous. You better be able to back that up. Don't get invited to VIP events? Not fabulous. Picture not in a magazine? Not famous. STOP ACTING LIKE IT.

If you want to be my friend, you can't wear sunglasses at night/in bars/clubs/etc.

This world needs more people of our caliber, Kiegs. Love you.

Shitstorm

Tag this along my string of bad luck experiences:

My car was broken into. While they did not steal anything of major importance (you know, the car itself), the burglars did make off with the entirety of my cd collection, my XM radio set (damnit!!!), my cell phone charger cord, and one travel size bottle of CVS brand lemon hand sanitizer. Yes, I am aware of how random that sounds. Bastards.

Also, my neighbors upstairs are having a problem with their AC unit, which is leaking through the ceiling and dripping onto my stairway/banister. Drip. Drip. Drip. And apparently there is nothing maintenance can do with this heat, claiming it is just one of those things everyone is dealing with. Mmmmhmm. Sure. Drip. Drip. I have soaked through 2 towels already in the past 2 hours. Drip. Drip.

Chalk all of this up to the fact that my car, Dorian (after Dorian Gray), is without doubt the victim and receipient of all of my bad karma.

Yet another reason why I do not, in general, enjoy birthdays.

Oh, and this is how I really feel:

LaTrelle: "BECAUSE I THINK MY HEAD IS GONNA EXPLODE ANY MINUTE IF ANY MORE SHIT HITS THE FAN TODAY!"
Ty: "Did you just say 'shit'?"
LaTrelle: "I did. I did! And I said 'damn' today too. And 'hell.' And 'bitch.' And 'dookie.' And you know what? I feel like sayin' more. Damn! Hell! Bitch! Shit! Dookie! DAMN! HELL! BITCH! SHIT! TITTYYYYYYYYYY!"

Mitchell

Awesomely Bad

A most exciting and adventurous day here in Indianapolis. Dragged my sad and exhausted ass to work at 8 am with my full "fuck you, Monday morning!" look, no makeup, and funky hair. Turns out today (unbeknownst to moi) our head boss lady was showing up. Great. So I spend 2 hours madly cleaning our store to make it presentable... yes I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor a la Cinderella. Hot. No really.

I was scheduled until one o'clock and had been planning my day around the marvelous nap that would occur at approx 1:42 when I got home. Then I look at the day's schedule and I've somehow been scheduled until 5... even though nobody bothered to a) get my permission to change my hours or b) tell me. Cool, I'm broke anyway, no big deal.

Did I mention that I hand-scrubbed the goddamn floor?

Ok, so we've had nothing but torrential downpours ever since last night. Our mall (the oh-so-classy Castleton Square mall) is under construction and apparently the roof has just been resealed above our store. Which has been super, really. For a week or so we were living under a giant clear plastic tent to protect us from falling 'debris' during the process. Which is not only asthetically pleasing and a great sales perk but also super-reassuring.

No worries, everything is finally finished - so we were told - and some random member of the construction crew stopped by early in the day to make sure that we weren't having any leak issues with the storms. Which I thought was kindof nice, considering.

1:30 pm arrives. My boss and the head boss lady have both skedaddled for some lunch and I am hanging out near the entrance of the store doing my usual Miss America impression ("Good afternoon, ladies! How are you?!? Let me know if you need anything today blah blah blah vomit vomit vomit") when suddenly directly above a giant table of jeans the rain starts to stream in from above in a small but forceful little stream.

I go into my best Action Sally mode and start whisking all of those god-forsaken pairs of denim and khaki jackets onto a nearby counter. You really should have seen it, I was, like, awesome about it. We're talking Speedy Mc-Lightening-bolt. Except within approx. 38 seconds of the initial rain intrusion the goddamn ceiling LITERALLY opens up with a hole a foot wide and suddenly I'm standing in the middle of Niagra Fucking Falls.

So the whole lot of us starts running around shouting orders and dragging racks of clothes away from the blast site and making frantic phone calls to mall maintenance, our bosses (still missing and not answering their cell phones), our bosses' bosses, Jesus, Superman, Hogwarts, and the entire X-Men brigade. We kick out all of our customers, which admittedly was fucking brilliant and wickedly satisfying and shut down the store. Everything was flooded and we basically looked like the refugees you see canoing down Main Street in their drowned towns after hurricanes and tornadoes and whatever.

We finally re-opened 4 hours later, post clean-up and damage control. Oh AND our entire bathroom also broke AND (it really does get better!) exploded unthinkable sewer-spit all over the corner of our stockroom.

It was really a splendid day at the ATL.

Just wanted to brag in case any of you were thinking about bitching about going back to work today or whatever.

I win.

And it took me an entire hour to drive home when it usually takes 25 min or less. So I had that going for me, which was nice.

haha. I know. Don't even fucking say it... "Somebody's got a case of the Mondays!"

Nuggets of Brilliance

Must also share the two best pick-up lines of the summer, both encountered within 24 hours of each other:

1. delivered to me by a man of less than 4 feet: "Do you have any room on your lap?"

2. Chona: "Hey Ben, you want some of this... [dramatic pause]... steak sauce?"

In the spirit of Letterman, in no particular order

1. give me a few drinks and I think I'm the greatest dancer since Paula Abdul.
2. I am not Paula Abdul.
3. Lying awake having just realized that I was filmed during my latest boogey session at this weekend's wedding reception... dear god it is not going to be flattering, I promise you.
4. interesting observation noted during today's post-wedding brunch (aka Group Hangover Meal #1): "You know, everyone was dancing with their drinks in hand last night. I mean usually you put your drink on the table or something and go back and forth from the dance floor... but everybody was dancing with alcohol in their hands last night! I have never seen that in my life!"
5. things get super exciting when you are double-fisting bottles of beer because they have threatened last call and you're working your "Ice Ice Baby" magic with the mother-of-the-bride.
6. I am going straight to hell and cannot believe I have not yet been wrathfully smited. (smited? spelling?) I am not the person to sit next to during a wedding if you are looking for reverence, appropriateness, or romantic/emotional Hallmark moments.
7. Home Shopping Network. Jewelry special: rings.
8. Drove all the way home with the wedding gift still in the trunk of my car. damnit.
9. Going back to topics #1-3, I think I may have recreated The Carlton Dance last night... and by that I mean drunkenly attempted Fresh Prince tribute choreography that probably most closely resembled an epileptic fit. Sweet Lord please do not let that be what the videographer captured.
10. went home to celebrate mama's birthday, Mitchell Mexican Fiesta style, complete with pinata and mariachi singers. Desperately wanted to take pinata into the backyard and blow it up with several rounds of ammunition, execution style... because that's just the Mitchell way. why be satisfied with a blindfold and a baseball bat??

Death at a Funeral

Martha: "Simon?"

Simon: "Simon!"

Martha: "Simon?"

Simon: "Simon!"

Martha: "Si?"

Simon: ".... Mon!"

greatest film in years.

prepare yourself, the Brits are back.

Oh grasses of sleep, bitterly sweet grasses of oblivion...

Find myself awake, having tossed aside efforts at sleep since waking at 4:30. Made myself a cheese and pickle sandwich, an old favorite that harkens back to junior high packed lunches and reminds me of the Jenny Joseph poem that has unfortunately spawned an entire sub-culture of tacky red and purple hat societies.

I fear what will become of me should old age grasp me in its tethers. Frailty, loneliness, and helpless dependence upon others have never been appealing, not now and least of all in the potential twilight of my life. I see how the elderly are regarded, neglected, and scorned... what chance have we - the eager young generations stomping in our stalls - of changing anything by the time we hit the social security years?

The ripple effect, I remind myself... small acts of kindness and the ability to gradually cause hope and change.

I disappoint myself with my lack of service these past few months. There is so much to be done, so much I could do. Even if in tiny increments.

I have never liked birthdays. Mine quickly approaches and perhaps is the reason for this uprising wave of anxiety. It seems as though birthdays are inevitably a disappointment... the one day dedicated supposedly to the glorification of nothing less than one's own existence is bound to fall short of expectation. I find I prefer smaller celebrations, intimate circles to surround and hold each other dearly in a shared and cherished faith in one another, a love made sacred by virtue of mistakes and forgivenesses and the acknowledgment of truth and human ineptitude. We are all failures, ultimately, in some form or another, and therefore beautifully united.

Which reminds me, I have a letter to mail.

_________________________________

My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear,
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst,
for it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence long;
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once - or yield to song.

Lord Byron

worth 1000 words?

my weekend:

1. Wanker Sisters

[yes, she is sporting the 'Tom Selleck tribute' mustache and sequined anatomical bodysuit... hot.]

2. First ever White Castle experience. I hope never to return. Ever.

page 723

splendid accomplishments today:

1. read Harry Potter, one sitting, as intended. wasn't asleep anyway so figured, 'why the hell not?' and started it at one in the morning. finished by 7 and off to work by 8.
2. at work by 8.
3. cried while reading Harry Potter... a lot.
4. work
5. eye doctor appointment in Kokomo for fresh contacts and a new best friend... we talked for an hour and 15 minutes... it's hot outside... we do that.
6. approved for speeding ticket deferral program. massive relief.
7. continued reign in the Land of Awesome.

mmmmmm...

rare confession: today I love my life.

the kind of day you wish you could splice and put on some sort of glass mircroscope plate and look at in the future as if to say, yeah... that's how it was... and it was great.

home and content and feeling accomplished and happy and proud to be myself and giddy with the knowledge of unconditional love and beyond that the joy of being so damn happy with people like my brother and my friends... and yes, I spent over 4 hours in the kitchen and wore an apron and heels and created a beautiful evening event and dinner to be reckoned with... and it was good.

really.

a good day.

Jesus: Ten Million, Satan: Two

a great weekend:
1. the lake is practically bath-water. mmmm. delicious.

2. beer. 'lots of beer.'

3. golf scramble and the kick-ass spread to follow.

4. Bill Clinton impersonations from a man I can only remember calling 'Father O'Brien.'

5. Feeling like Granny Allison on the boat during 'Truth or Dare' and 'Never Have I Ever.'

6. Losing 'Never Have I Ever', like pronto.

7. Elise and I in matching dresses. Unplanned as usual but unsurprising nonetheless. And yes, we looked fabulous.

8. Wedding Crashers.

9. XM radio (woooo Janis Joplin - 'Sixties on Six!')

10. World's greatest purchase: beach hats for everyone.

11. Navigating the boat home in the rain, circa midnight, because nobody else knew where 'home' actually was.

12. Von Shritchell splendor.

to-MAY-to, to-MAH-to

At home after a dinner to-do with the parents and friends. Psych is playing in the background somewhere upstairs. My mother is analyzing her latest knitting project. My brother is at the lake with the girls and Drew is hanging out at a friend's house and probably participating in what I can only hope is a handful of worthy high school summer mischief.

So here I am and my mind is locked upon one specific subject: tomatoes.... several of which took starring roles in what was truly a lovely evening meal. For the record, tomatoes are probably my favorite local summer harvest. Vivid scarlet clusters explode from every novice gardener's plot for the entirety of our few delicious months of midwestern summer splendor. And damnit they make for real good eatin'... and fryin', especially the green ones.

Confession: I love anything I can salt, just can't help myself. Especially grapefruit. Mmmm. Why the hell you would put sugar on such a magnificent product, I simply cannot say. I'm sure my arteries are as stiff as steel piping. And I hate ketchup. It's nasty, goopy, and proven to contain rats and rodents and flies and spiders. Let's face it, the ketchup factory is where sub-par tomatoes go to die. Ewww and what could be more disgusting than people who use it as gravy-substitute to drown the likes of peas and cooked carrots? Disgusting. Grow up and just hold your nose like civilized people.

Regardless, have been pondering the old debate over the classificaion of tomatoes as fruit or vegatable. In terms of straight-up-now-tell-me* scientific fact, they are the ripened ovaries of a tomato plant and therefore a fruit. However, because they are used as a sauce base and usually spiced and salted, this is a difficult concept for the likes of elementary school children grasping the why's and wherefore's of life, the one-fish-two-fish-red-fish-blue-fish curriculum that arranges itself in a neat grid of time tables and shoeboxes and stone soup and sunflower seedlings growing in styrofoam cups. And paper mache - that was always the start of an awesome project.

At any rate, I have concluded that tomatoes are the drag queens of the fruit world. And that is precisely why I love them the most.

*Paula Abdul reference... because that was my first cd ever. And she's awesome. Especially in that terrific music video where she dances with a cartoon cat. (opposites attract?) That was totally slammin', like, seriously.

night thoughts

a sleepless night has avenged itself upon me yet again. so interesting this wave of elusive unconsciousness wreathed in dreams that we willingly succumb to so meekly each night... and how we can long for it when time, circumstance, fear, or emotion prevents us from falling into the beguiling snares of Queen Mab.

alas, such is the nature of things.
_________________________________________

Nothing is Lost

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

- Noel Coward

vraiment

riding the wave of contentment that only the liberation of an evening with a dear friend can provide. so good just to... talk. (thanks, reef). reminds me of just how much work there is to do, for I have promises to keep...

and miles to go before I sleep...
and miles to go before I sleep...

___________________________________

Seeker of Truth

seeker of truth

follow no path
all paths lead where

truth is here

e e cummings

Apocalypse Now

It's the end of an era.

RIP Wall Street Journal.

at the ballet

it wasn't paradise
it wasn't paradise
it wasn't paradise
but
it
was
home.

Barack Obama touched my shirt...

... and skirt.

I may not have been the person wearing them, but remain starstruck nonetheless.

**This incident is further proof of the excellence that is Elise Shrock. Reason #5589 why she is awesome:

Me: [5 min girly ranting/screeching]
Elise: "Barack touched your shirt."
Me: [further delight at high decibel level]
Elise: "And your skirt."
Me: "What?? Oh my god I was hoping you'd say that!"
Elise: "Yeah, I made sure that I brushed up against him so both articles of clothing made contact."

Now that's friendship.*

*Also a great excuse to create a physical moment with the man described as being 'the most handsome man alive in person... Allison, pictures just don't do the man any justice."

yes.

There are moments when wellness escapes us,
moments when pain and suffering
are not dim possibilities
but all too agonizing realities.
At such moments we must open ourselves to healing.

Much we can do for ourselves;
and what we can do
we must do –
healing,
no less than illness,
is participatory.

But even when we do all we can do
there is,
often,
still much left to be done.
And so we turn as well to our healers
seeking their skill to aid in our struggle for wellness.

But even when they do all they can do
there is,
often,
still much left to be done.
And so we turn to Life,
to the vast Power of Being that animates the universe
as the ocean animates the wave,
seeking to let go of that which blocks our healing.

May those
whose lives are gripped in the palm of suffering
open
even now
to the Wonder of Life.
May they left go of the hurt
and Meet the True Self beyond pain,
the Uncarved Block
that is our joyous Unity with Holiness.

May they discover through pain and torment
the strength to live with grace and humor.
May they discover through doubt and anguish
the strength to live with dignity and holiness.
May they discover through suffering and fear
the strength to move toward healing.

Rabbi Rami N. Shapiro

parker! zoe! melvil!

oh my god just discovered that Broken English is back out in theatres and will be released on dvd next month, just one day before my birthday.

oh my god oh my god oh my god. i really needed that kind of fantastic news today... oh my god so excited. now must debate whether or not to pre-order via amazon...

Crude, Crass, and Briliant

I may never mature past the intellectual humour level of a 14 yr old boy. Don't worry about it, it's fine.

"Hi, my name is Jimmy* and I'm the president of Gays for Bush!"
"Hey wait a minute, since when did gays support Bush?"
"Since he surrounded himself with Dick and Colin!"

(Reason 4322 Why I Love MXC)

oh my god. so fantastic.
*oh, and 'jimmy' was dive-bombing in the mud pit in his Sunday best short-shorts. HOT.

Two Other Gems from Today's Conv with Elise:

1. Elise: "You know how we both love Harry Potter so much sometimes we wish we were wizards?"

2. Me: "Well... we're both just really spontaneous, very 'fly by the seat of our g-strings' kind of girls, you know?"

[Patsy and Edina for Life.]

Alexander, c'est moi.

Salsa dancing and Bossa Nova lessons?

A splendid weekend chock-full of delightful adventures... none of which I have the time to currently detail. But I will forget about them if I don't mention something/make a list before my trip...

**forthcoming (and hopefully collaborative) topics include:
- Civil War re-enactors
- the Bible... and the unbeatable socks/sandals combo
- Penelope Cruz
- white wine chez IMA film screening... and one very unhappy security guard ('protection officer?' jyl?) named 'Dave'
- McDonalds
- cigar shop, the great Tony Bennet, and Reason 783 why Elise and I will always be most successful with older men
- noted exception to previous statement: High School Musical tickets aka "Coo Coo ca-choo, Mrs. Robinson"
- red wine, red lipstick, vulgarity at said performance
- Ab Fab: the Transformation Continues
- Jewish Men Who Rock
- Patio gardening
- cigarette holder vs. cigarette case debate
- shoes
- being pegged as residents of specifically unflattering Indiana towns
- the splendor that is local newspapers, craigslist personals, and Italian food

leaving for the week. still doing laundry and enduring lectures about packing 'comfortable shoes' and 'casual clothes'... sadly, I have no fanny pack or flannel (sleeveless, since it's summer of course) but I shall make do. xoxo

Let Freedom Ring

Reasons why my friends are great and July 4th is more than just a holiday:

1. One of my best friends is marrying the Fruit Pizza King. He chops, he bakes, he decorates by theme using blueberries and strawberry slices. Today's edition featured an American flag.

2. Said FPK and crew proved the theory that men never mature past the emotional age of 13, lighting firecrackers in their bare hands, attempting bribery for someone to launch one from a more inappropriate anatomical entity, picking aggressive man-fights over bean-bag tournaments, and eating popsicles. And we all know how much I love popsicles.

3. Snuggling.

4. Hot dogs.

5. Getting off work by 7.

6. Feeling sorry for Marsh employees, particularly the girl cashier who despondently informed me (after I pulled out the small-talk classic, "So... how late you workin' tonight?"... and no it was not a pick-up attempt) that "We don't close until Thanksgiving"... AND SHE WASN'T EXAGGERATING. This particular Marsh is in fact open 24 hrs/day from now until Turkey Day. (Bummer, I say.)

7. Not getting a speeding ticket since Sunday. Goddamnit.

8. Not working tomorrow... and secretly cackling at every other poor sucker who is. mwahaha. I shall be planting my garden, tiddling around my house in scuzzy t/boxers/flip flops, reading, playing piano... and it's Clean Sheet Day, the best day of the week.

9. Gossip. It's evil, the root of all social discord, and completely wicked, but oh sometimes it's just so good to be bad.

10. "Party Favorites" music channel on digital cable or whatever that was... picture a mix of every wedding/mitzvah classic, blend in some Prince/Madonna/Gin Blossoms/"Proud to be an American", and you've got yourself a bbq soundtrack.

Grasshopper

The paradise of summer lingers in the air as delicately as the honeysuckle scent on my skin or as gently as my bed linens caress my sunned legs, sweet and soft and warm like the promise of a distant and misunderstood happiness. The solstice has come and passed, leaving behind a trail of ever-fading daylight hours, bright summer minutes burning themselves out in what will soon seem a desperate grasp of light known as Indian summer, a time when afternoons are as slow and heavy as Mississippi mud.

Light shines from my nightstand as if to illuminate the air laced with a faint scent of flowers, intoxicating in the exotic femininity of jasmine blossoms and honeysuckle. Scattered across the bed is a stack of books, as usual, and the requisite black extra fine point liquid ink pens that always accompany them.

I can't seem to get one tiny line of an old Dixie Chicks (strangely) song out of my head: "The moon is full, my arms are empty..." The melody seems to play in a constant repeat, much like a music box or carnival ride.

My thoughts are likewise scattered, looping in and out of each other like the classic atomic diagram, a whirl of ideas and hastily hidden dreams. I still find it so hard to describe them or create some sort of tangible existence for them, a defined set of wants, desires, hopes... these elude me to the most frustrating end.

One finds what one seeks when it is meant to be sought, I keep reminding myself. Wisdom, understanding, and the enlightenment of the soul are elusive mistresses, though amorous.

Another thing plagues me. (No pun intended). Had a terrifying incident during my drive to work today involving an open window and a giant electric-green grasshopper/locust. In short, one alighted on my head while I was stopped in the shade of a leafy tree garden on Allisonville Road. Having minutely sensed the rapid flutter of wings, an almost imperceptible hum drowned beneath the Cure, I caught sight of the creature (on my head. my head.) in the rear-view mirror. Suffice it to say my reaction is best compared with an epileptic fit as I screamed and shook my head frantically until the poor insect flew out the opposite window. It remained, legs eerily bending (one can easily see why grasshoppers are compared to musicians, for indeed it appeared to be playing as one would a cello, that strange natural symphony), on my side rear-view mirror until I parked at work, slammed the door as cautiously as possible, and jumped aside as it landed on a neighboring blue Astro-van.

Try as I might, I cannot conclude any sort of satisfying lesson or interpretation of this event, symbolically or otherwise. Besides the obvious Kung Fu reference, of course. Searching for grasshopper mythology has been rather unsuccessful, though I have managed to collect the following

GRASSHOPPER: A symbol of the unbeliever, symbolizes the conversion of pagan nations to Christianity.
Grasshopper Noble

In Plato's Phaedrus, Socrates says that locusts were once human. When the Muses first brought song into the world, the beauty so captivated some people that they forgot to eat and drink until they died. The Muses turned those unfortunate souls into locusts— singing their entire lives.

I rather like the story of the Muses. Perhaps I am likewise doomed... though a lifetime of music is not so seemingly 'unfortunate,' especially in this world of chaos and cacophony and mayhem... how better to express joys and triumphs and melancholy and anguish and delight than with song?

Nonetheless, a disturbing incident.

I gathered what I've christened my 'starter set' of plants and blooms for the back steps. I simply cannot live without some remote imitation of a garden and the harsh industrial terracotta of the back stairs and bricks and pipes and concrete is utterly withering after so many months. I shall thus take a gamble on several geraniums and herbs and vincas and impatiens and lavender, etc. Daisies too. Tiny ones.

Mary Mary quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells
And pretty maids all in a row.
____________________________________

On the Grasshopper and the Cricket

The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's -- he takes the lead
In summer luxury -- he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

John Keats