To-Do (t-minus 9 days)

My flight (and move) is imminent, and approaching faster than I thought it would. I have about 5 million lists going in my head that need to either become concrete ideas or just, frankly, go away. Visiting friends and family is eating up a good chunk of time that I suppose could be given to packing, but I'm of the opinion that if I apply myself I can pack in 2 days. Seeing the people I care about is more pressing. But still. Lists. Lots of lists.

Today:

+spreading out what I have put aside for packing already
+examining what I need and going to the mall to obtain those items (namely jeans)
+looking at my non-clothing items that I want to bring and (realistically) evaluating if I can bring them.

It's so odd. I've known that I was accepted into my program since Christmas and at the time it seemed like I'd never get over there. But now I'm down to the little tasks; getting toothpaste, socks. Saying goodbye.

And while I'm not saying goodbye to blogging, I am saying goodbye to this particular blog.


To keep up with my new and improved blog/life in London (and the process of making the journey) head over to Freshly Pressing, where you'll find photos of my new hang-outs, my experiences decorating a room the size of a closet ( I think), outfit posts, style profiles, recipes/restaurant reviews, and of course music and film reviews.


I hope to see you across the pond!

Recommendation

In preparation for my great jump across the pond, I've been buying/replacing/obtaining certain items of general importance. One of such certain items were my headphones (which were, in reality, my dad's headphones that I took without asking and he had no idea where they went . . . sorry, daddy).

In my internet research I came across Urbanears, a company based in Stockholm that makes several amazing options for every listener. They all come with a one-year replacement warranty, a fabric cord (yes!), a microphone and remote compatible with the iPhone or Blackberry, a straight plug also compatible with the iPhone/iPod/iPad, and all come in an array of wonderful Wonka/Candyland-esque colors.

After some soul-searching, I bought the Medis, a larger in-ear bud pair with an extra grip that alleged to really keep it in your ear. I waited with bated breath, tracking my shipment as it left Stockholm, ate a croissant in Paris while I was bombarded by good ol' Irene, and arrived well-sated on Monday.

The packaging my friends. The packaging.

I will leave the lovely insides as a surprise for those of you who are as enthralled with packaging as I am. It does not disappoint.  


 Alonzo (my iPod) in his new, raspberry-colo(u)red Urbanears Medis.


A note on the sound quality: Sweet, baby Jesus it is a concert in my ears. I have never experienced such a well-balanced, full sound in a pair of headphones, and I have gone through my fair share of headphones both inexpensive and otherwise. I can listen to the music at a much lower volume level and still be satisfied with my listening experience. I can hear my mother talking to me and respond without the dread "oh-my-god-why-is-my-voice-so-unnaturally-loud" affect.

 The shape is fantastic. It fits snugly in my ear and no matter how much I whip my hair back and forth my earbuds do not fall out.

I'm not going to lie, at $50 these are not inexpensive (particularly when you add shipping costs from Sweden).

But they're worth it. I swear. I really really do.*

 *I was not paid for this review post nor did I benefit from it in any way. But if they felt like sending me another pair of headphones as an expression of gratitude, I'll take a pair of Plattans, please, in Grass

Books/Reading

So, this week is my last week of work (I’m leaving to go to grad school), and I’m spending it training the girl that’s going to take over my position.

My job is awesome. I will never have another job like it as long as I live. Not only are my hours guaranteed (9 am to 3 pm, natch), and I love all the people, but for the most part I get paid to do what I would do during my day anyway.

See, I’m a bake shop girl. It’s this tiny little shop attached to a restaurant and I sell takeaway sandwiches and soups and salads along with delicious little cookies and muffins and scones and croissants. My boss is very laid-back and lets me write quotes and interesting facts and words of the day on the board and altogether doesn’t really bother me. So my entire personality has oozed its way into that little shop. It’s my shop, in a way. I know my regulars; we ask each other about our weekends, our days, what we’re reading, the events of the town. I’ve recommended oodles of books and recipes and movies and music for people (and their children). But this usually only occupies about 2 hours of my day, doling out soup and sandwiches to the wonderful (and sometimes eccentric) townspeople that come in and conversating about my Oscar Wilde/Theodore Roosevelt/Winston Churchill/Anais Nin quote.

The rest of my day is spent reading. Gloriously, gloriously reading. This winter/spring/summer I’ve devoured Patti Smith, The Hunger Games trilogy, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Deborah Harkness, Donna Tartt, A.S. Byatt, E.E. Cummings …  it’s been so wonderful to sit and read, to have the time to sit and read whatever I like.

The last few months have been occupied by my preliminary reading list for my school program. After walking the new girl through my day yesterday, today I took a step back; curled up in the back entrance stairs I kept an eye on her over my book and annotations.

When the pastry chef came up with a tray of oatmeal raisin cookies and saw me perched on the stairs, he chuckled to himself before depositing the tray in the anteroom.

“Nice job,” he said to me, then took a pause “not that this is anything different from what you usually do during the day.”

I grimaced at him, fanning through the 200 plus pages I had yet to reading in what was arguably the most significant book on my reading list.

“Yeah, but I still have to read allllllllll of this.”

My usually sarcastic and slightly curmudgeonly boss smiled at me.

“But you like to read. You love to read! It’s your passion! And you get to do it for the rest of your life! … . actually, do you need more light?”

“No,” I said, squinting up at him in the dim light, “this’ll do just fine.”

I love my job. I love the people I work with. As excited as I am to move on to what will surely be great things, I will deeply miss this little community I feel I’ve grown to be a part of.

Picture this: a rustic hunting lodge.

madewell

call me batshit, but I am vaguely in love with this sweater.

[EDIT: I totes already bought it. Impuullllse, you are my nemesis!]

[EDIT: well, impulse AND the fact that I had a bit of a gift card left and it's free shipping until Monday with the code YESPLEASE]

Gainsbourg. Gainsbourg. Gainsbourg!

(source: cgainsbourg via ONTD)

Dress to Impress

It should be said that while I don't consider myself a fashionista, or even a style blogger, (though outfit photos may increase soon, and by increase I mean appear) I do follow style and fashion. I read the magazines, the blogs, the websites, etc. But in my search to be stylish, I find myself bumping up against a problem.

An article on Refinery 29 (a site I very much enjoy) on layering came to my attention. I have never been able to layer properly, so I followed the link. It proved informative, but rather elementary honestly, because I think most people get the basic idea of layering. That's not actually the question. The question within the question (at least for me) is thusly:

how the hell do I layer without looking like the Stay-puft marshmellow man?

And how do I keep the layers from getting lumpy?!

Because here's the thing. I'm not really sure I've mentioned it before. I have boobs. Tits. Gazongas. It really doesn't matter how you say it, believe me, I've heard it all before. And on top of that, I'm top-heavy. My hips/stomach/legs are not really proportional to my chest size. Which can make life difficult.

full disclosure: yes this is from high school, but I look pretty much the same

A button-down shirt you say? Oh no. No no. If I want to wear it buttoned up at all, it gaps in a really unfortunate place that shows off my bra. Yes, JCrew, I am looking at you.

Which brings me to the conundrum:

I don't understand how major fashion publications can pretend to show regular folk how to do anything when they still insist on modeling the looks on just one body type. But at the same time, obviously  fashion experts can't address every body type because women look vastly different from one another. Having a sizable chest does not necessarily mean that you have hips that don't lie (I wish I did) or a bootylicious backside. It might just mean that you have a rack, skinny legs and no ass.

So it's really just experimentation and looking at style bloggers (the internet's gift to fashion, I think). And sort of hoping for the best.

I know it's been said before but the great thing about style right now is that it really seems like the rules don't really apply anymore (except good taste, but that's a bit arbitrary, don't you think?)

My God, this is a circular argument.

But my point is (I'm assuming it's in here somewhere) that I WILL be posting more outfit shots, if only in an attempt to pay more attention to what I'm wearing.

Welcome to Muppet Labs!

L to R: Pepe's Purple Passion, Wocka Wocka, Meep Meep Meep, Animalistic

(source)

I want Meep Meep Meep. Quite a bit. Or Wocka Wocka.

Winter is coming . . .

Yesterday was so cool it was almost crisp, and this morning had a tinge of fall in the air. As much as I'm going to miss seeing the leaves change colors here in beautiful Virginia, I'm more than thrilled that England is already in the lower 70s/upper 60s (fahrenheit, of course). Most of my time recently is spent coveting the new fall items coming out from my favorite stores and thinking to myself "I need this for school . . . yesss . . . school." What precisely am I coveting, you ask?

Anthropologie

Anthropologie

 I wish they had a view of this blazer from the side, to show of the fantastic pleating. When I put on this jacket, it felt like a London jacket. I haven't worn it out yet, but it feels like one of those effortless pieces that you throw on and feel more pulled together. And as a low-maintenance kind of woman I can always use a whole lot of that.

The trousers are one of those rare "It's a good thing I'm so short" moments. On me, these trousers brush the ground in flats and will be a little less cropped in heels. But they are so comfortable, the pleat is sewn in (no ironing, yay!!!) and they make my posterior look quite bodacious. And at $118, they're a steal no matter where they're from.

I have some old long sleeve shirts that would do fine, but I'd love to swap them out for some cozy (yet flattering) sweaters. I love this pale blue option from Jcrew, simple but with a nice simple detail at the shoulders.

But if I had to choose, I'd get this grey quilted sweatshirt (also JCrew, both photos from the website). It looks so comfortable, and I adore it.


I've recently discovered (thanks, sibling) a great blog called The Other Emily.

She's a very stylish lady who's traveled the world with just one suitcase. And did this awesome sock bun tutorial (except my hair is so blasted long I don't need the sock).

Also, I bought my first pair of TOMS and I have to say, they are the most comfortable damn things I have ever put on my foot. foots. My only recommendation (also from my sister) is to order them at LEAST a half-size smaller than you usually would, because these suckers stretch like crazy. 


On tap for the rest of my time here:


-a playlist or two
-maybe another style icon post
-a few photos of the last few shenanigans I get up to state-side
-books books books
-whatever strikes my fancy

Re-Re-Repeat

Is this love?

This movie is kinda good. I'm just saying maybe you should see it.

My Moccasins

In case anyone is curious, this is the world as I experience it in my moccasins. Or shoes. Monday through Friday I wake up, roll out of bed to make a cup of tea and some toast (cinnamon toast, with raspberry jam, please) and stare at the television for approximately an hour. If I'm lucky I've dvr'd something I actually want to watch, like Eat Street, Unique Sweets, or the Daily Show, and I don't have to suffer through an hour of music I don't listen to on VH1 Jump Start Music, or worse, that infomercial for wen hair products. 



I go to work and sit behind a counter of delicious things. Delicious things that I can smell. Most of the time, I get through this just fine but other more stressful days, like the majority of this past week, make working in the bakery like working in the seventh circle of hell. Because people like me, who can't eat from stress then stress binge-eat, should not be placed in front of a platter of cupcakes. It's just not kind.

So most of the day is taken up by sitting with this here computer on my lap, its batteries burning lovely little stripe-y marks into my legs. Occasionally I read (though now that it's crunch time with school it should be more than occasionally, it should be every day and be my reading list).

This week was incredibly stressful because my school for next year finally saw fit to tell me, after I applied in April, that they could not offer me housing next year. Needless to say this threw my parents into a panic (and me as well). The idea of going overseas with no set place to live made the whole concept of studying abroad that much more unnerving. After scouring the internet for 2 days, trying to figure out based on internet sources what good areas of London are and what the best prices are (shout out to Alysia and yelp, they were a huge help), I am now the proud renter of a little room (and bathroom) in a student complex in a rather hip neighborhood. Allegedly. I'll be sharing a kitchen with 5 other students, which is intimidating because I don't have the best track record with good roommates (or tidy ones, and a tidy kitchen is a must).

 

And now it's essentially August. I only have work for another month, then it's a flurry of family visits, slapdash adventures, packing up everything I have, and boarding a plane for the unknown.  It's very real and it's very unknown. The regulars that come into my work all know about my grand travel plans, and they all say "that's so exciting" in a way that suggests that nobody ever does this. They sort of wonder at me, like I'm this odd child for wanting to leave everything behind to try a new culture, a new city. It makes me very a little alone, honestly. Even if I know that I'm not. That there are loads of people who travel all sorts of places and move all over the place. I just haven't met a lot of these people yet.

 

 

Notes on a Thursday--Summer Mix

It's so bizarre how quickly summer is vanishing into thin air--evaporating, rather like a puddle on a hot day (97 degrees right now, and rising!). I've done some of the things I've wanted to do, and some things I've missed out on, but no matter, no matter! Even though my mind is already churning with the excitement to come in autumn (moving to a new place, starting school again after a year away, autumn fashion (!!)) I still am jamming to my summer tunes. When the weather gets stifling hot I gravitate toward 60s/70s rock, while in winter is dominated by indie-rock and the transitional seasons get a very dreamy, contemplative feel to them. 

This summer is all about:

The Doobie Brothers- Listen to the Music
Jackson Browne- The Road
Fleetwood Mac- Everywhere
The Civil Wars- My Father's Father
Bonnie Raitt- Give it Up or Let me Go
Simon & Garfunkel- Cecilia
Black Joe Lewis & the Honeybears- Booty City
Kings of Leon- Pyro
Echo & the Bunnyman- Lips like Sugar
 Stevie Wonder- Superstition
Led Zeppelin- Gallows Pole
The Wailin' Jennys- Storm Comin'
Heart- Magic Man
Warpaint- Undertow
The Greencards- Su Prabhat
Stereogum x Team9- Riders Sleep Alone







Of course this seasonal listening thing isn't a hard and fast rule, but it does seem to follow that way. Does anyone else find their musical choices dictated by the season?

journalism/comedy . . .?

The Daily Show - Accountability in the U.K - David Cameron Kills it
Get More: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

Particularly in recent years, I love looking at clips of the Daily Show (or watching the whole thing, if I can). He puts a funny spin on what are essentially (because I will admit a liberal/democratic bias) the facts. And when you're laughing, you're not crying or thinking "oh my God, the country is going to pot." And it's nice to not feel that way sometimes.


Whenever Stewart goes on FOX news shows, he always is perfectly clear that he is a comedian first and a journalist/political activist second. He maintains that he's looking for the laugh. Or as my mom likes to say "finding the funny." Also known as my family's major coping mechanism. But if so many people go to his show for legitimate news, is it really still just a comedy show? Or does the line blur somewhere, creating this hybrid form of I don't know what. 


Stewart has also said that it's sad that people are getting their news from a show on Comedy Central, and that a vast number of people seem to think that the Daily Show makes more sense than any other news channel. But is it? I know that I understand humor better than straight talking; as an optimistic person (deep, deep down inside), I tend to shut down and am unable to focus when assaulted with a barrage of doom and gloom (or as my grandparents call the news, "murder and mayhem").

The Daily Show - Welcome Back to Morass - News of the World Schadenfreudegasm
Get More: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

Let me know when it's over.

I don't know about the rest of the world (specifically the American populace), but this whole debt crisis is giving me a knee-jerk reaction to pull all of my money out of the bank to stash in my closet or under my mattress.But I know that if we all do that, we will have this: 





I understand that, as my grandfather says, "It's [our] generation responsible for the world next. it's [our] turn next!"

But if the current Congress (everyone) could stop driving it into the ground, that'd be awesome.

It All Ends

photo by Annie Leibovitz, for Vanity Fair

Tonight at midnight, my childhood comes to close. I speak, of course, of the premiere of the final installment of the Harry Potter phenomenon. These books and films have been markers of my childhood; the anticipation, standing in line with my friends for their release, is something I can recall with perfect clarity for each film and book. 

Vanity Fair

I was eleven years old when I first read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. I first heard about the books at the Scholastic Book Fair (an event that I always looked forward to with bated breath), when the librarian wheeled up the TV and VCR to play a short video. The books sounded odd to me . . . a boy at wizard school. It sounded so mundane, like a picture story. Then my mom brought it home for me to read. It was something she just saw on the shelf and thought I might like. And when I picked it up and opened it to the first page, I became utterly enchanted. It would not be the last time I sat down to read a Harry Potter book and not resurface until I read every last page. 

Entertainment Weekly, via Angliophile meets Bibliophile

In all honesty I forget when and how my Mom and sister read the books, but before I knew it Mom had gone out to get a hardback copy while it was still in the first edition and suddenly the books were a phenomenon. When the first film was preparing for release, we bought the Vanity Fair magazine with the first pictures of the characters I had pictured in my head for so long. And it was just like I had imagined. 

Well. Hermione's hair could have been a bit bigger.

I've never really minded the adaptations Steve Kloves made from page to screen. I've always understood that what translates from the page to your imagination doesn't always work on screen. The films have been so lovely, and the actors have grown up so marvelously.

But what gets my goat (and has, for years) is the movie reviewers who clearly have not read the books (EDIT: I say, have not read the books because while I understand a book just not catching your fancy, but I cannot comprehend reading the entire series and still classifying them as children's literature). I remember after the release of the third film, sending off (or just writing it . . . I can't remember if I ever sent it) a very angry letter to Stephen Hunter of the Washington Post, who, had he read the books, would not have asked so many asinine questions in such a patronizing manner. Even the review today in the New York Times sets my teeth on edge and puts a bitter taste in my mouth. She seems, to me, to indicate that the films have bolstered the books, just silly children's stories, to something greater because the films are "blockbusters." 

(EDIT: my in-house copy editor [my sister] amicably disagrees with me, further proving that interpretation is everything. To go a touch more in depth about it, I find it very jarring when a good review ends on the note that anyone (even someone as magnificently talented as Alan Rickman) "elevated a child's tale of good and evil into a story of human struggle."  Not only does it put a patronizing tone onto an otherwise good review, but the books have always been a story of human struggle. They contain so much more than good and evil. Of course, on a somewhat unrelated note I also take issue with film critics increasing belief that movie-goers need a plethora of explosions and violence to deem it a blockbuster. But that's a debate for another time).

Furthermore, she focuses on the acting talent of the adults and their strengths. She indicated that the children are great in their roles because they have grown up on screen and we are used to them. I find them all to be incredibly nuanced, and each have created some incredible cinematic moments particularly in the last 3 films.
 

Vanity Fair

The Harry Potter books, as all fans know, have never been children's books. Not really. As Rowling herself pointed out, her story begins with a double homicide even if it is off-page. These books have taught me so much about life, about how to be tolerant . . . honestly I can't enumerate all the things that they have taught me. They've just permeated my life.


I don't get angry at people who dislike Potter, for whatever reason. I pity them. As someone said, somewhere on the internet (I can't find it anywhere, of course, but I must give credit to them, whoever they are), I feel sorry that these characters have not lived and breathed with them. The Harry Potter universe is alive, inside my head, and it is as real to me as my friends that live far away. I have cried with them, I have laughed with them, and I have mourned deeply with them. I have thrown these books down in a fit of despair at 4 am, only to pick them up again to find out what happens next. 

Vanity Fair

And when I say I'm not emotionally ready for this, I am kidding for them most part. But believe you me, I will be in tears when I see it tonight. And tomorrow. And the next day. 

I want to go to there (and other great catch-phrases)

I'm currently reading Tina Fey's Bossypants, and semi-recently watched Amy Poehler's Harvard commencement speech (see Fig. 1). It is becoming increasingly clear that these are indeed two epically classy ladies, and that they are in fact the heroes I never knew I had. And yes, I'm aware that I got my invitation to this here party about 5 years late.



If I could find more than two good clips that aren't montages, I would post an overkill of Tina Fey/Amy Poehler weekend updates, because it was epic. But I can't. So just pause and think about it, for a minute.

Tumbling

I've recently gotten into the whole Tumblr thing . . . not for myself because I know I write more than I post pictures, but I still enjoy looking at them. I'm loving Anglophile meets Bibliophile . . . it's like every post came out of my head, only I didn't know that the photos existed. It's so well curated, and incredibly cerebral without being stuffy. 

the latest post . . .

 

scanning life through the picture windows

Does anyone else find it ironic that our noises of celebration on July 4th . . . the boom and crack of fireworks, unseen off in the distance but heard with deep and chest-thrumming clarity . . . are sounds that would (and did) strike fear in the hearts colonial patriots?

Just an errant thought I had standing in my yard, listening to the fireworks at the community park and the shrieks of the little girl across the street, shouting out the colors of some whizzbang her father bought her. The fireflies flashed out their own pyrotechnics, all of them flying to fast or too high for my fingers to close around them. The rain earlier made the grass soft against my feet, two blue-white smudges against the washed out verdancy.

I could see them. The lights from the other houses usually blocked out by foliage from my vantage point, our back porch. I wondered, what the inhabitants might be doing and who they might be. Were the children I went to high school with inside, with their parents? Or had they moved on to greater adventures. The mere thought of them had been enough to give me pause at the screen door, before pushing out down the rough wooden stairs over the rough brick and onto the cool grass.

I wanted to turn a cartwheel, in the deepening pink of the sky and the warm summer air. To run in the grass like a child . . . behavior I honestly didn't really partake in as a child. But I feared someone looking out, identifying me by my long white legs (and the fact that I'm the only young person that lives in the house) and wonder what I was doing, out in the yard by myself. Wandering around in a way that I hadn't done in years. I knew this was utterly ridiculous; it was doubtful that anyone was watching me and even if they were, what did it really matter? 

I'm moving to a new country, to an unknown place. Life is too short to be frightened of stupid things that don't matter.

So I turned two.

John Divola, Dogs Chasing my Car in the Desert series, 1996-200 via suicideblonde

 

Happy "We Committed Tyranny and Won" day

Call me Crazy

but these will be mine:

source: thaitied

And of course I want this.

source: shoppingblog.com

To add to the awesome skull scarf I got for my birthday (viva la ebay!!)

Catch-22 (shopping + limited packing)

So I finally (finally!) feel comfortable to actually type these words and send them out into the inter-void. This fall I'll be moving to London to attempt attend graduate school (Freudian slip). Until now, I've had this crazy fear that something would happen, that would hold me back and make me unable to go . . . which then leads to that horrible "I know I SAID this was happening, but . . . " conversation/post. But my funding packet is in, and I'm a visa approval and a plane flight away from crossing off quite a few life goals (and, you know, the actual year of grad school that will hopefully result in a masters degree). 

I've studied in England before, for 6 months. Packing for that was reasonably simple because I knew it was just for 6 months and not to bring everything. But this doesn't feel like a quick trip. This feels like something so much more momentous than that. 

The cool thing is that this sense of finality (and the daunting task of fitting my WHOLE life into 2 suitcases and a carry-on) makes you absolutely ruthless. This Saturday I did a room-purge, which is honestly one of my favorite ways to spend a Saturday for some bizarre reason. I just love to de-clutter things . . . to feel like I am NOW more efficient, more stream-lined. That I've literally cut the crap (and by crap I mean stuff . . . not feces, obviously). I love looking at the mountain of things that will be donated to the GoodWill, and the growing trashbag of clothes and other items that cannot be donated for whatever reason. It's so interesting to look at what you hold on to, why it meant something to you (and realizing that it doesn't mean anything to you now). I feel like there is something so refreshing about looking at a practically empty closet . . . like a blank page waiting to be written on. 

Now books are a whole other story, mind you. A floor to ceiling bookshelf crammed full of books and I could only pull out 3 to be donated, or re-distributed through my house. I am a literati pack-rat, I guess.

But as I was saying, the prospect of those few scant feet in your suitcase makes you reeeeallly think about what you actually wear and not how you wish you dress. It makes you think about quality over quantity. So without further ado, here is my wishlist for quality of quantity clothing.


-The EmersonMade tuxedo blazer (I don't think I need to explain myself on this one)

 

 

source: EmersonMade

But I will if you insist! It's England, land of ever-changing weather. A light jacket is necessary to keep up. This is casual enough with jeans, but can be dressy with a skirt/dress/pants, etc. It's not a tweed, so it's not like "I'm trying to be English!" because I'm not, but it's not a blatant "I'm an American" statement. The cream color may be worrisome, but not in London, where it is ok, nay, encouraged! to be a little rumpled and dirty.

-Current/Elliott jeans

source: bluefly

In a perfect world where I had millions of dollars, I would be a denim junky. I mean, I sort of am. They're essentially all I wear, particularly since my job allows me to wear pretty much whatever I want. I have a pair of Lucky brand Charlie Flares, which I love and would recommend to anyone, and a VERY slouchy (and honestly ill-fitting) pair of Downtown Skinnys from J.Crew. But I promised myself that if I hit a certain goal than I would buy a pair of NICE designer jeans. And I still haven't done that. And when denim-gurus Current/Elliott jeans are on sale at Bluefly for over 50% off . . . . it would be criminal not to get them, right? right. (p.s. check out their awesome houses and personal denim collections at The Coveteur)

Now, I know I also need a LBD (that doesn't actually have to be black [in fact, I think black is a little too stark on me], but you get the idea) and some grey wool trousers, but I don't have anything that I'm coveting for those items. 

But I think both of these are totally doable . . . right, Mom? right. (?)

Today Feels like

this.




my funding packet is in.
I've got 2 blueberry scones in my bag.
a good book.
ashtanga tonight.

and after a week of thinking "I'd really like to try a banh mi," what does my boss (a chef) make but banh mis? And gives me one to try?

I'm still doing the dance of deliciousness. I'd show a picture, but . . . I ate it too fast.

I'm not emotionally ready for this.

I will have a coronary in the theater.

Notes on a Tuesday

So, it's been quite a bit since I've posted anything substantially music-related. But this past few days was a barrage of concert-going, so . . . there you go.

This past Thursday I saw Mumford and Sons at Merriweather Post Pavilion. For those of you who don't live in the area, it was stinking hot that day. Like, a good bit over 100 degrees farenheit hot. I closed up shop at work as quickly as humanly possible, grabbing the shorts I'd stashed under my counter and running to the staff restroom to change (gingerly standing atop my shoes as I made the switch from jeans to shorts). I was wearing the thinnest tank top I could manage (it raised a few eyebrows, I won't lie) and power-walked the few blocks to my car. 

I leapt inside, turned the music full-go, rolled down my windows, and cruised the open road to Columbia, Maryland, meeting up with my friend for some mexican food (shrimp enchiladaaaaas) before braving the parking lot.

We grabbed our $9.50 beer (it was a tall glass of Shock Top, so I can almost say it was worth it) and picked our spot on the lawn. Off slightly to the left, on the high ground. Spreading out the blanket we sipped our beers while sweat dripped down our backs, enjoying the commune-atmosphere that lawn seats always seem to promote. I checked my phone periodically to keep tabs on a friend who was supposed to meet us with her sisters.

And then the rains came. And we're talking biblical level rains. Thunder and huge cracks of lightening that would have been terrifying had the rain not felt so refreshing on my hot skin (and the back of my brain recognized that I was not the tallest person on this open field, and that the idiots with the umbrellas would probably get hit before me). That little field became our Woodstock, as we laughed and danced and hollered in defiance, rebelling against our natural instinct to seek shelter from the storm. 

The opening bands, Matthew and the Atlas and the Low Anthem were both wonderful, and rather appropriate for the rainy weather. By the end of the opening sets the rain had stopped, and even more people (clearly waiting it out in the cars) appeared, packing it in as best we could. Of course, my phone was toast but so goes technology and rain, I suppose.

Mumford and Sons took the stage, the thrill on their faces evident. They said that Merriweather Post was the largest venue they'd played (until later that weekend at Bonnaroo, I suppose). Their smiles were boyish and huge, stretching across their faces in obvious delight as 20,000 people sung their lyrics back to them, lyrics that clearly struck a chord (forgive the pun) with each of us. They played every song we knew, and four new songs that we didn't that seemed to keep the best of Mumford and Sons that we know, evolving into something even better, with lyrics that hit home just right.

They saluted those of us that stayed through the storm and danced in the rain and hail, but honestly they made it worth it. Worth my phone dying and worth the massive traffic jam to leave and head home.* Because not only was it amazing music it was an amazing experience.  

If I could post every song, I would, but for now, here's their amazingly kickass performance of "Dust Bowl Dance"



Then yesterday I saw the Decemberists, minus the amazing Jenny Conlee who is currently fighting off breast cancer (you can go on their website to buy Team Jenny t-shirts, with all proceeds going to Susan G. Komen for the Cure). They were amazing, as per usual, playing the vast majority of The King is Dead with a few off of The Crane Wife and Picaresque. They did three songs from the Hazards of Love, which I was nervous about hearing without the full album/original ladies to back them, but it was still awesome. Sara Watkins, who is standing in as a fiddle for Conlee's accordian, seemed slightly hesitant (though I can't even begin to imagine how difficult it must be to sing harmony and play fiddle simultaneously), but did well and seemed to mesh well with the Decemberists.

I can never get over how comfortable Colin Meloy seems onstage. If he's nervous he does a darn good job hiding it. He jokes and talks like he's just talking to a room of 10 people, never mind the hundreds behind us. And did some pretty epic guitar-picking/moshing/crowd-surfing during "Chimbley Sweep" (one of my new favorite Decemberists songs)

 




All in all, I've had a good couple of days, musically. Pretty blissed out about it all, honestly.

video sources: Eels121 and smallroundbluecell, respectively

*though, if they really felt the need to reimburse me my blackberry, I wouldn't be totally opposed.

Not-so-Impulsive Impulse buy

One of the best things about online shopping is the ability to put something in your cart and not buy it right away. You can check back in on it, look at the subtotal cost, and hem and haw and stew over it. For days. 

"Do I really need this?" I ask myself. More often than not the answer is no and I abandon my covetous thoughts for frivolous things like green snakeskin cowboy boots that I would never (honestly) wear, or that vintage dress that may or may not fit but either way is non-returnable.

But just every so often, I realize that I cannot live without it. Like yesterday, when the fabulous blog I am Greedy Girl posted about etsy seller ayo femi and her jewelry. For over a week I'd been looking at the bracelet in my etsy cart thinking "I really want these . . . ?"

But then, the picture of the EXACT bracelet that I wanted (color and all!) on this deservedly highly-trafficked blog rocketed me into action.

both images from ayofemijewelry on etsy

And I am now the proud owner of two (TWO!) of said bracelets. 



And as much as I need to save right now . . . to adapt orphan Annie "when you really want it, you really want it." 

The Jukebox

From the Bookshelves

source: The Book Book

" 'One's real life is, so often, the life that one does not lead',"I added as I turned toward the taxi, but he only blinked, that nervous, sly smile again twitching through his face.


"so long, my dear, mmmm, safe flight."


On the drive to the airport, Dad barely said a word. he rested his head against the taxi window, mournfully staring out at the passing streets--such an unusual pose for him, I covertly took the disposable camera out of my bag, and while the taxi driver muttered at people dashing across the intersection in front of us, I took his picture, the last photo on the roll.


They say when people didn't know you were taking their picture, they appeared as they really were in life. And yet Dad didn't know I was taking his picture and he appeared as he never was--quiet, forlorn, somehow lost (Visual Aid 18.0).

"As far as one journeys, as much as a man sees, from the turrets of the Taf Mahal to the Siberian wilds, he may eventually come to an unfortunate conclusion--usually while he's lying in bed, staring at the thatched ceiling of some substandard accommodation in Indocinea," writes Swithin in his last book, the posthumously published Whereabouts, 1917 (1918). "It is impossible to rid himself of the relentless, cloying fever commonly known as Home. After seventy-three years of anguish I have found a cure, however. You must go home again, grit your teeth and however arduous the exercise, determine, without embellishment, your exact coordinates at Home, your longitudes and latitudes. Only then, will you stop looking back and see the spectacular view in front of you."

--Special Topics in Calamity Physics, Marisha Pessl

A mystery of two sorts . . . the discovery of adolescence and its dreaded relationships with our peers and the mystery of the adults that surround us. Both quandaries are puzzled out by the wonderful Blue Van Meer, one of the better adolescent female characters I've read in a good while.

1988 vs. 2010

Intrigued.

Foxes, swift of foot

Ohmygod. New Fleet Foxes album. Helplessness Blues. So good. Just do it.



source: theslowmotionmusic



(Also: Dead Man's Bones . . . where the HELL have I been?!?!)




source: DeadMan'sBonesBand

Morning Covers- Forever Young

source: imnotfamous


Brandi Carlile released an album on April 29, a live album. It is amazing, and Paste caught up with her an a pretty great interview that you can see here.

Funny/True

source: The Rules of Ladies

Unless, of course, he likes chihuahuas/wants to. In which case have at . . . but it's probably pretty accurate.

Speechless.

Begs the Question

Yesterday a dear friend of mine happened to be driving through town, and we decided to catch a film together. We saw Robert Redford's new movie 'The Conspirator,' the story of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and more specifically, the trial and execution of Mary Surratt. The film is spectacular, both thought-provoking and visually stunning with incredible cinematography. I love that it at least appears as though Redford used mostly natural light, and allowed the firelight from the candles and torches to blur and distort the way they naturally would on film. Also, the script was so nuanced and wonderful. Its speech was era-appropriate, more formalized than our speech is today, but not distracting or "antiquated." The actors all did a marvelous job with it; it was nice to see a good story told with good acting, simply and excellently--no explosions or car chases required.



But a line in the film made me wonder: is the assassination of Abraham Lincoln still the single greatest tragic and traumatic event in American history? Do we consider it separate from such horrific events as Pearl Harbor and September 11th because they are foreign nations/organizations attacking the U.S. Government? Or do we consider John Wilkes Booth and his conspirators a foreign organization because they affiliated themselves with the Confederate States of America?

It's so easy to distance ourselves from historical events. Untold horrors that emotionally and physically scarred our ancestors become words on a pages, mere statistics and pie charts. Good historians and, yes, good filmmakers work hard to remind us that these events were as real and as shocking to those living through them as ours are to us. America had been torn in half, with whole families slaughtered and farms destroyed.  Southern cities, in particular Richmond and Atlanta, were razed to the ground. An entire race had suddenly, wonderfully, been set free from legal bondage . . . but with little preparation for it, no real homes, and an unimaginable sense of uncertainty because surely they realized that emancipation on a piece of paper signed by one man does nothing to change the hearts of men. Soldiers returned home with what body parts they had left to them, having seen unspeakable horrors, people attempted to rebuild. And then the guiding light of the nation, that rallied the Union together, sought justice, and pieced together what was broken, was ripped away from a nation in one night. A nation that needed something positive to cling to. 

The assassination of Abraham Lincoln sent an already reeling nation into turmoil, and the film captures this so perfectly. This is the sort of tone and handling a historical event should have on film. 


**I can't embed the videos but anyone interested should check out the film's page on Youtube. It has some very interesting featurettes.

From the Bookshelves to Cinema

The Help, by Kathryn Stockett

get excited, people.

video from Clevvermovies

Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise

Other than loving the song, the title is rather apt right now.

I'm making some pretty major decisions right now. One's that will without a doubt affect the rest of my life, in one way or another. And that's a heady realization, my friends. But it will be good. I think.

Anyway, I got back from England on Friday (a day later than intended, thanks to a canceled flight*) and as much as I enjoy my job(s) and enjoy being at home with my family, I already miss it horribly. 

I'm aware that England is not without its own set of problems, but they have a lifestyle that I find so appealing. First, I can walk anywhere in Oxford or London. On my last full day in London I walked from Kensington to the West End. Granted, it took me two hours and is not how I would recommend traveling to work, school, whatever. But I certainly saw the city, and passed by a great many interesting things. I just wish I were more comfortable about whipping out my little point-and-shoot to capture it (and that I were more satisfied with the results when I do). 

Oxford is always wonderful, particularly when I share it with my wonderful friend that I stayed with. She's in Oxford getting her master's in Modern Chinese Studies, and is very brilliant. Also, joy of joys, she just discovered that she's been accepted to another program and will be staying another year! Oh, the opportunities!

I spent a lot of my time in Oxford the same way I did when I studied there. Reading, annotating, only this time with copious amounts of toast and tea (Eliot would be so proud). But we made sure to eat at our favorite spots, try some new ones, and visit my favorite places otherwise known as bookstores.

But going back to that whole "first" thing (which indicates a serial, don't you know), the food is fresh and organic whether you like it or not. Cooking at my friend's home meant fresh chicken fajitas, fried rice, glazed salmon and breakfasts of fried eggs on toast with salami and gouda cheese. It's enough to make a girl cry, I tell you (especially when she pulled out the homemade strawberry meringues!) 

And tea . . . I love that England (some, I know not all) take the time for tea. An hour to just sit, or just talk, or just read, and enjoy a moment to yourself in your workday or studyday . . . there's nothing quite like steam rising out of a nice big mug, or that wonderful caramel-colored swirl of milk right before you give your black tea its final stir. Particularly paired with a good book.

Good friends, good food, good architecture, good art, good books, good travel . . . .

*they said it was mechanical issues, in which case I say, please, cancel away. I'd rather spend another day in Oxford than drop out of the sky.

photos are my own, please e-mail me before reposting