4.25.2009
4.15.2009
starbs post: it starts.
Starbucks and I are best buds. The baristas still don't know my name, but I'm confident that they will. Someday. Until then (and surely after), I'm blogging about my Starbs mornings. Yes, this will likely be a weekly post. Get excited.
Today I’m testing Casi Cielo—it sounds classy; “Pike Place,” the daily brew, does not. If I spot a new flavor scrawled in chalk over the coffee machines, I ask the barista to describe it. I nod, periodically turning down the corners of my mouth or raising an understanding eyebrow. So, what you’re saying is, this aromatic delicacy pleases your palette with flower and tree bark flavor sensations? I exude coffee-snob wisdom. Before tasting today’s choice flavor, I check the Starbucks website for the official blurb. Casi Cielo is “elegant.” The savory description reads like a Machiavellian persuasion; I’m sold. I steal a dainty sip and wonder where the “lemony flourish” is because I’m sensing more a “flourish of tar.”
I don’t even really like coffee—I pay $1.73 for the Starbucks feel. The clashing streams of chit-chat, up-and-coming musical genius, and collisions behind the counter meld together beautifully. Like chirpy birds and construction cranes, twittering and thundering before daybreak. Scents of over-baked muffins and fresh coffee shift ever-so subtly. Sunlight streams in and I sigh out my wish to stay forever. Apparently the ambiance makes me feel poetic. I always leave Starbucks happy. Light. Carefree. Like all is right. Like I should be skipping, frolicking. Or admiring a whisper-soft dandelion. I’m no longer a tired college student, but a hippie-child ready to embrace the pretty people around her.
Sly drug, that caffeine.
Today I’m testing Casi Cielo—it sounds classy; “Pike Place,” the daily brew, does not. If I spot a new flavor scrawled in chalk over the coffee machines, I ask the barista to describe it. I nod, periodically turning down the corners of my mouth or raising an understanding eyebrow. So, what you’re saying is, this aromatic delicacy pleases your palette with flower and tree bark flavor sensations? I exude coffee-snob wisdom. Before tasting today’s choice flavor, I check the Starbucks website for the official blurb. Casi Cielo is “elegant.” The savory description reads like a Machiavellian persuasion; I’m sold. I steal a dainty sip and wonder where the “lemony flourish” is because I’m sensing more a “flourish of tar.”
I don’t even really like coffee—I pay $1.73 for the Starbucks feel. The clashing streams of chit-chat, up-and-coming musical genius, and collisions behind the counter meld together beautifully. Like chirpy birds and construction cranes, twittering and thundering before daybreak. Scents of over-baked muffins and fresh coffee shift ever-so subtly. Sunlight streams in and I sigh out my wish to stay forever. Apparently the ambiance makes me feel poetic. I always leave Starbucks happy. Light. Carefree. Like all is right. Like I should be skipping, frolicking. Or admiring a whisper-soft dandelion. I’m no longer a tired college student, but a hippie-child ready to embrace the pretty people around her.
Sly drug, that caffeine.
4.11.2009
fly guy and roach girl.
Instead of buying toys for my dog, I lure flies into the house with flashlights, rave-style. If the weather’s nice, like today, I just leave the front door open and let flies come and go as they please. I’m an awfully nice host. Brody, however, is not.
Currently, Brody is trying to catch a very unlucky fly. He’s hip-hopping around like a spastic deer. Or a rodeo pony, bucking like mad. He’s chomping the air, but the fly escapes. Chomp, chomp. He’s got it! Wait, now he’s spitting it out. And now he’s trying to lick it up. To spit it back out again. To dance around it. To lick it up. Spit. Dance. Go, Brody, go!
I should probably stop this, but… It’s. Just. So. Amusing. This charming scene (is it not charming?) reminds me of my mother’s favorite story: “Pretty Princess and the Roach.”
One sunny afternoon, two-year-old Pretty Princess was playing in the front yard. Mom was sitting on the porch, reading. When Mom looked up, she saw Pretty Princess smelling the flowers. “Aww, she’s so adorable,” Mom thought. Then Pretty Princess raised her little hand up to her mouth. “Baby, what is that? What’s in your hand?” Mom went to check. “AHHHHHH! Spit that out! Oh my gosh ohmygoshOHMYGOSH! Why are you eating a ROACH?! Spit it out! AHHH!” Mom screamed as she ran back and forth. To Pretty Princess. To the porch. Pretty Princess. Porch. Finally, Mom got a grip and snatched the roach out of her daughter’s mouth. Pretty Princess laughed and laughed.
Yeah. That’s not a cute story, especially as “Pretty Princess” was me. I’ve since developed a serious roach-aversion, like a normal, non-bug-eating individual. Brody, on the other hand...well, he’s just going through his two-year-old “bug phase.”
Currently, Brody is trying to catch a very unlucky fly. He’s hip-hopping around like a spastic deer. Or a rodeo pony, bucking like mad. He’s chomping the air, but the fly escapes. Chomp, chomp. He’s got it! Wait, now he’s spitting it out. And now he’s trying to lick it up. To spit it back out again. To dance around it. To lick it up. Spit. Dance. Go, Brody, go!
I should probably stop this, but… It’s. Just. So. Amusing. This charming scene (is it not charming?) reminds me of my mother’s favorite story: “Pretty Princess and the Roach.”
One sunny afternoon, two-year-old Pretty Princess was playing in the front yard. Mom was sitting on the porch, reading. When Mom looked up, she saw Pretty Princess smelling the flowers. “Aww, she’s so adorable,” Mom thought. Then Pretty Princess raised her little hand up to her mouth. “Baby, what is that? What’s in your hand?” Mom went to check. “AHHHHHH! Spit that out! Oh my gosh ohmygoshOHMYGOSH! Why are you eating a ROACH?! Spit it out! AHHH!” Mom screamed as she ran back and forth. To Pretty Princess. To the porch. Pretty Princess. Porch. Finally, Mom got a grip and snatched the roach out of her daughter’s mouth. Pretty Princess laughed and laughed.
Yeah. That’s not a cute story, especially as “Pretty Princess” was me. I’ve since developed a serious roach-aversion, like a normal, non-bug-eating individual. Brody, on the other hand...well, he’s just going through his two-year-old “bug phase.”
4.03.2009
a room no longer mine.
From my tween years to my teen years, my room blossomed. Summer after sixth grade, my dad and I prettified the walls with a light green tint, in honor of my mint chocolate chip ice cream addiction. I added bright nail polish stains to the previously clean, cream carpet: Midnight Blue, Pink Lady, and Seashore Darling. The metallic beads dangling from my dresser, headboard, and window sills looked so hip. I taped crinkly red streamers above my TV for my fifteenth birthday, and they stayed there. Pictures of plastered dance team smiles, giddy girls with arms draped shoulder to shoulder, and Sonic French fry fights overlapped on my five photo boards. I sticky-tacked magazine cut-outs on the wall—my favorite: “Ah, to be blonde.” I devoted my closet doors to Seventeen’s hunky heartthrobs, such as the pretty O-Town boys and the ruggedly gorgeous Paul Walker. I mixed the old pieces-of-Mom with new pieces-of-me. Her charcoal sketch of a horse and porcelain dolls clashed with my *NSYNC poster and complete Beanie Baby cat collection. My room rocked spunky, teenage flair—I would never change it.
Or, so I thought.
I moved back home for the summer break after my first year of college. I tried to pretend that the room didn’t feel weird. This was still my room—this was home. But most of my things were in boxes, piled against the closet door. I unpacked my clothes, but no decorations. What was the point? Over the two summer months, I realized that I wasn’t actually staying in my room. It belonged to High School Sara, or at least it did—I took half of her stuff to the dorm. The other half, still up, was an expression of a girl I didn’t relate to anymore—she seemed so young, out-of-touch. I wasn’t the girl who had proudly personalized that bedroom.
Not anymore.
One morning, I rolled up her boy band poster and bagged her Beanie Babies, but left Mom’s dolls—they weren’t mine to move. Pitched her pink-vested sing-and-dance hamster into a bag with metallic bead necklaces to give to the young neighbor girls. I boxed her Tigers paraphernalia and tacked a small Horned Frogs flag above the mirror. I turned slowly in the center of the room, like a music-box figurine. And there was the Super Secret Friendship Box, sitting on Mom’s antique dresser.
I sat on the floor, ruffling through the mementos, collected since 1990. These were still mine. Best friends forever. Nine photo booth strips, dating back to the days before make-up. The zany facial expressions, the signature smirks, made me smile. I lifted three pairs of “Best Friend” key-chains from the bottom of the box—crowned frogs, a halved heart, and fuzzy bunnies. We’d matched everything growing up, key-chains to Disney Princess t-shirts. I flipped through photos of us “modeling” in Mom’s old-lady flannel nightgowns; lounging on the floor, flipping through a copy of Seventeen together; at the vanity mirror, curling ringlets for prom. I looked through the pictures again, three times. Liz would’ve loved going through this with me, but she was on a backpacking trip with her family. I’d be at school again before she returned.
I carefully replaced the lid and tucked the box behind tangled black and gold homecoming mums in the closet. A remote peeked out from under the bed and I reached for it. The room had no TV; I had taken it to my dorm.
[Edited 6.20.09]
Or, so I thought.
I moved back home for the summer break after my first year of college. I tried to pretend that the room didn’t feel weird. This was still my room—this was home. But most of my things were in boxes, piled against the closet door. I unpacked my clothes, but no decorations. What was the point? Over the two summer months, I realized that I wasn’t actually staying in my room. It belonged to High School Sara, or at least it did—I took half of her stuff to the dorm. The other half, still up, was an expression of a girl I didn’t relate to anymore—she seemed so young, out-of-touch. I wasn’t the girl who had proudly personalized that bedroom.
Not anymore.
One morning, I rolled up her boy band poster and bagged her Beanie Babies, but left Mom’s dolls—they weren’t mine to move. Pitched her pink-vested sing-and-dance hamster into a bag with metallic bead necklaces to give to the young neighbor girls. I boxed her Tigers paraphernalia and tacked a small Horned Frogs flag above the mirror. I turned slowly in the center of the room, like a music-box figurine. And there was the Super Secret Friendship Box, sitting on Mom’s antique dresser.
I sat on the floor, ruffling through the mementos, collected since 1990. These were still mine. Best friends forever. Nine photo booth strips, dating back to the days before make-up. The zany facial expressions, the signature smirks, made me smile. I lifted three pairs of “Best Friend” key-chains from the bottom of the box—crowned frogs, a halved heart, and fuzzy bunnies. We’d matched everything growing up, key-chains to Disney Princess t-shirts. I flipped through photos of us “modeling” in Mom’s old-lady flannel nightgowns; lounging on the floor, flipping through a copy of Seventeen together; at the vanity mirror, curling ringlets for prom. I looked through the pictures again, three times. Liz would’ve loved going through this with me, but she was on a backpacking trip with her family. I’d be at school again before she returned.
I carefully replaced the lid and tucked the box behind tangled black and gold homecoming mums in the closet. A remote peeked out from under the bed and I reached for it. The room had no TV; I had taken it to my dorm.
[Edited 6.20.09]
and that will be my room.
The front bedroom use to be Grandma’s. She’d visit from Florida once every four or five years—for a week, at most. Besides that, no one spent time in there. Ever. The door might open for the occasional wrapping paper hunt, or blanket search, but that was it. I didn’t understand why we kept Grandma’s room empty. Mom even closed the vent, making the stale air only breathable to dust-bunnies. The room was nearly twice the size of the one I shared with Jon, and we had too much personality as kids to “play nice” together in our cramped space. Jon liked N64’s Banjo-Kazooie and Cruis'n USA; I liked board games and girl-talk. I craved my own space, boy-free—the front bedroom would be perfect. Grandma certainly wouldn’t mind sharing with her sweet granddaughter for a few days once a decade.
When I turned twelve, my mom thought I was responsible enough to not color on the walls or rub silly-putty into the carpet. Once a week, I could play in Grandma’s room. Only on the floor. And no snacks allowed. Especially not crumbly Little Debbie Zebra Cakes.
That first afternoon, I stayed for hours. Mom trusted me to be on my “best behavior,” so I sat Indian-style on the floor, reading. I couldn’t focus, so I looked around, memorizing the room. The blank walls to fill with anything I wanted, like my Backstreet Boys poster, or maybe I’d get a movie poster of She’s All That! I’d tape them behind the headboard. That’d be perfect. I’d hang my glass pony from the light chain, my clothes in my own closet. I smiled at the closed door and listened. No unfunny jokes on Cartoon Network. No soap-opera-style Batman figurine fights. And, of course, no little brother. I loved the stillness. Everything about that room appealed to me. It was so...grown-up. The orange-and-grey floral bedspread and matching curtains were so ugly; I wondered if I’d start liking patterns like that, too. I loved the vanity table—even Mom’s room didn’t have one. And the queen-size bed—huge! I closed my eyes and fluttered my legs against the fluffy carpet, trying to hold back a pixie-like happy-dance. Oh, how I wanted that room!
For my thirteenth birthday, I got my ears pierced and slept in my new room. Not our room. My room. I’d been asking for months. Begging. Pleading. After much bribery, including “I love you, Mom” pressed-flower bookmarks and endless promises of my responsible maturity, Mom relented. To complete the best-birthday-ever, Mom let my BFFL spend the night. Liz and I pressed our noses against the vanity mirror as we imaginatively applied Mom’s leftover ‘80s make-up; the glittery gold lipstick sparkled like Tinkerbelle’s fairy dust. During games of M.A.S.H., we both married Jonathan Taylor Thomas and drove expensive Buicks. Mom brought us bag after bag of popcorn; she was gracious enough to revoke the no-snacks rule.
We giggled under that ugly bedspread until The Parent Trap lulled us to sleep—to sleep in my room.
[Edited 6.20.09]
When I turned twelve, my mom thought I was responsible enough to not color on the walls or rub silly-putty into the carpet. Once a week, I could play in Grandma’s room. Only on the floor. And no snacks allowed. Especially not crumbly Little Debbie Zebra Cakes.
That first afternoon, I stayed for hours. Mom trusted me to be on my “best behavior,” so I sat Indian-style on the floor, reading. I couldn’t focus, so I looked around, memorizing the room. The blank walls to fill with anything I wanted, like my Backstreet Boys poster, or maybe I’d get a movie poster of She’s All That! I’d tape them behind the headboard. That’d be perfect. I’d hang my glass pony from the light chain, my clothes in my own closet. I smiled at the closed door and listened. No unfunny jokes on Cartoon Network. No soap-opera-style Batman figurine fights. And, of course, no little brother. I loved the stillness. Everything about that room appealed to me. It was so...grown-up. The orange-and-grey floral bedspread and matching curtains were so ugly; I wondered if I’d start liking patterns like that, too. I loved the vanity table—even Mom’s room didn’t have one. And the queen-size bed—huge! I closed my eyes and fluttered my legs against the fluffy carpet, trying to hold back a pixie-like happy-dance. Oh, how I wanted that room!
For my thirteenth birthday, I got my ears pierced and slept in my new room. Not our room. My room. I’d been asking for months. Begging. Pleading. After much bribery, including “I love you, Mom” pressed-flower bookmarks and endless promises of my responsible maturity, Mom relented. To complete the best-birthday-ever, Mom let my BFFL spend the night. Liz and I pressed our noses against the vanity mirror as we imaginatively applied Mom’s leftover ‘80s make-up; the glittery gold lipstick sparkled like Tinkerbelle’s fairy dust. During games of M.A.S.H., we both married Jonathan Taylor Thomas and drove expensive Buicks. Mom brought us bag after bag of popcorn; she was gracious enough to revoke the no-snacks rule.
We giggled under that ugly bedspread until The Parent Trap lulled us to sleep—to sleep in my room.
[Edited 6.20.09]
4.01.2009
don't drip on me, denny's.
Denny’s is arguably the least cool restaurant in existence. As a truly devoted customer, I can say this without reservation. Denny’s, though dear to my heart, is an awful, awful restaurant. While studying two nights ago, the ceiling dripped on me.
My fellow Denny's regular noticed first. “Uhh, scoot to your left.”
“What? Why do—SICK! What is that? Is it on me?!” I frantically bounced around in the booth. “Why do we come here again?”
“For the great service.” New Guy, who we’re still working on training, likes to look at our empty glasses and pushed-aside plates, ask if we need anything, and walk away empty-handed. We miss our old waiter, “SayWhat” (yes, his nametag really says that). He was equally oblivious to our clean-table needs, but he was a real ham. And, he knew our names. And our table.
“For the hip tunes, which are never distracting.” Kelly. MJ. Backstreet. Petty. Kanye. J-Timberlake. Frequent roller-rink throwbacks. Techo remixes. Even real talent, like Hannah Montana.
“For the health food.” An acquired taste. I’d recommend the Plain White Shake (cheesecake mashed into vanilla deliciousness), or Strips ‘n’ Sticks (greasifried chicken and mozzarella). When camping out at Denny's for our typical 3-5 hour sessions, everything tends to taste oh-so much better.
"For the popularity—this place is hoppin'." We're often the only people not paid to be there.
...Well, Denny’s, see you again tonight! Kindly lend me your fluorescent ambiance. Big test tomorrow. And 3 papers (or is it 4?). If I may, for my grand entrance, I’d like to request Britney’s “Womanizer.” You say I’m crazy. I got yo’ crazy. I’m confident that this will happen—both the song and, by the end of the night/morning, the sentiment.
My fellow Denny's regular noticed first. “Uhh, scoot to your left.”
“What? Why do—SICK! What is that? Is it on me?!” I frantically bounced around in the booth. “Why do we come here again?”
“For the great service.” New Guy, who we’re still working on training, likes to look at our empty glasses and pushed-aside plates, ask if we need anything, and walk away empty-handed. We miss our old waiter, “SayWhat” (yes, his nametag really says that). He was equally oblivious to our clean-table needs, but he was a real ham. And, he knew our names. And our table.
“For the hip tunes, which are never distracting.” Kelly. MJ. Backstreet. Petty. Kanye. J-Timberlake. Frequent roller-rink throwbacks. Techo remixes. Even real talent, like Hannah Montana.
“For the health food.” An acquired taste. I’d recommend the Plain White Shake (cheesecake mashed into vanilla deliciousness), or Strips ‘n’ Sticks (greasifried chicken and mozzarella). When camping out at Denny's for our typical 3-5 hour sessions, everything tends to taste oh-so much better.
"For the popularity—this place is hoppin'." We're often the only people not paid to be there.
...Well, Denny’s, see you again tonight! Kindly lend me your fluorescent ambiance. Big test tomorrow. And 3 papers (or is it 4?). If I may, for my grand entrance, I’d like to request Britney’s “Womanizer.” You say I’m crazy. I got yo’ crazy. I’m confident that this will happen—both the song and, by the end of the night/morning, the sentiment.
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