note from an Irishman

I just received the following message via facebook from my dear long lost friend John McCarty (I say "long lost" because since meeting him now half a decade ago, he has left Minnesota to pursue his doctorate in choral conducting somewhere near the Atlantic... Virginia? North Carolina? South Carolina? I forget. It's all the same place). I'm reposting it because it's simply too amusing not to share with friends- because if I took Mr. McCarty's advice and learned this aria of Wagnerian proportions (pun intended) and did in fact sing it each and every time I entered or departed a room, you, my friends on this (west) side of the Mississippi, would need some sort of explanation before having me committed.


So as not to confuse you (or even further amuse you): Gassett, Dahlly, Brownie and my brother and sisters are all but one non-musicians.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dearest Gaphknea-

I hope all is well in Minnesota. I just wanted to pass along an idea that I think would make the world a better place. I believe that if you would sing the attached aria each and every time you entered or left a room that the world's problems would be solved.
All you would have to do is teach Gassett, Dahlly, Brownie, and your brother and sisters how to play some instruments.

Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,
John McCarty

hot mess

We never grow up. Really. I think about those times when, as a child, I might have received a new toy, coloring book, or a pair of sparkly jellies (as in jelly shoes, for those not old enough to remember the jelly shoe craze of the late 80s- before the jelly shoe craze of the mid 90s- now apparently making a comeback again). I could not wait to start playing with it/coloring in it/putting them on and admiring my glittery footwear in the mirror (no doubt while wearing my favorite blue princess dress-up gown topped off with a sequined tiara - not unlike the one pictured here). My mother and grandmother would try to explain to me the virtue of patience, but I didn't care. Nothing else mattered above playing with and showing off my latest cool thing (at least cool to me, anyway), despite the horrific amount of sweat and shriveled skin and dirt and grass clippings that accrued in my jellies, or all the poorly half-colored pages in the coloring book that I couldn't bring yourself to finish because the parts already colored were quite bad, as they were done in great haste.

Fast forward 20ish years.

A few weeks ago, when I had first purchased my new bike, I was very eager to get out and ride it. I had grand plans of riding it about town, doing everything from commuting to work, making quick trips to pick up things like holy basil from the Vietnamese deli or African wine from the liquor store, lazily making my way to a garden park to soak up the late evening sunshine and possibly snap a few photos with my still-new-to-me 50mm camera lens. A hipster-inspired fantasy, now that I think about it. I inquired with my mum as to the status of her bike rack, hoping to borrow it in order to transport my bike to Glenwood, where I'd also be able to go on leisurely rides around the picturesque Lake Minnewaska. I bought a bike basket and even briefly fantasized about ordering streamers from amazon.com Ah, yes... delusions of grandeur they were, perhaps. 

And so it came to be that within a day or two of making the big purchase (thanks to a few funeral and wedding stipends that all fell within a week or so), I decided to ride my bike to work- despite it being my usual day off, I had a few things I wanted to take care of before heading out of town for the evening. The forecast for the afternoon included rain, but I thought I could safely make it to work without being doused. A dark, overcast sky had been threatening precipitation all day, but so far nothing had happened. I figured my odds of making it to work in a dry state were very good. I embarked.

Before I got to the first stoplight on my route, the rain started. Slow and light at first. I thought to myself, "I can handle this. I only have to go about 10 more blocks." As I waited for the light to turn green, the rain increased. "Oh, okay. I can still handle this. I will just dry off as I am in my office responding to emails." A few minutes later, I reached my destination. Shelter from the rain!

This was only to be, of course, if I had a way to get into the office. I dug around for the set of work keys in my purse. They were not inside. I checked my pockets. No keys. Then I remembered that I left them in the cup holder of my car. Great.

By this time, the rain had increased to a drenching level. I could feel water running down my scalp. Fantastic. The only thing left to do was to now ride back home in the rain. On my way back, I was stopped at a light. I noticed a few people looking at me with a mixture of pity and surprise. I thought perhaps it was because I was out and about in pouring rain on my bike. I shrugged it off. Wet is wet, I figured- and once you're wet, you can't get any wetter. At least we were experiencing a warm rain, and it all just brought back memories of "chasing the rain" back on the farm with my sisters when we were kids (sorry, Brother- if you're reading this, you missed out on that because you were still a wee baby).

When I arrived home, I immediately went to the bathroom to get out of my wet clothes and hang them up to dry. What I saw in the mirror was comically astonishing. Truth be told, I was one hot and wet mess. Mascara was running down in two dark streaks on my cheeks. My hair somehow managed to be both frizzy and plastered to my head at the same time. My shirt was practically translucent and there were one too many buttons unbuttoned (I'm guessing as a result of my purse strap working the button out of its hole). Those oglers in cars were getting an eyeful more than they bargained for when seeing me roll by. Yes, hot mess indeed. And closely resembling a wet rat.

The moral of the story is this, friends: 

   1) If there is rain in the weather forecast, drive your car rather than ride your bike. 

   2) If you insist on riding your bike, take steps to ensure that you can enter the building when you reach your destination. 

   3) Check on the location of keys you will need before departing for your destination.

   4) When you plan to use non-waterproof mascara, plan for the possibility of water causing it to run.
   5) New toys, no matter their usefulness, aren't always the best thing to use at the time you want to use them.

Pictured: not me, but a woman in a similar predicament.

   

   

it's not you, it's me

Dear high heeled/platform shoes and boots/ies,

The changing of seasons from winter to spring (and quite abrupt, at that) has caused me to reevaluate our relationship. Perhaps it is the lengthening daylight hours, or the sudden spike in outdoor temperature; perhaps it is the carefree atmosphere of patio drinking- of the jovial clinking of condensation-covered beer glasses over trivial conversation, the scent of grass clippings in the air, the sounds of sweet birdsong and country music stations through the open windows of cars driving by, or perhaps it's the promise of small town summer festivals and lazy days spent dripping sweat in the July humidity yet to come. Perhaps it is all of these blissful imaginings, but most of all,  my reintroduction to summer sandals and flats brought me to come to an epiphany on where we stand with each other (no pun intended.)

You see, my darling beautiful stilettos and precious pumps, being with ballet flats and colorfully beaded and braided thongs isn't so much new and exciting, but comfortable and warm and sweet and easy, like a worn-in oak rocking chair, or a Schwinn cruiser bike, or a Sunday morning egg bake brunch, or the way I feel when I drink whiskey. Of course, you and I have had our wonderful times, too, and I can't deny that you make me feel tall and strong and practically Xena-warrior princess-like and sexy and sassy all at once. We've traversed through snow, mud, on luscious green lawns and slippery slick ice together, and even made it up and down some rather precarious stairways. 

Yet, fabulous footwear, I am undeniably and innately clumsy. My mother recently confessed to me that she was embarrassed to go to my 8th grade volleyball games- I'd run around the court (making it painfully obvious that I was out of my element) and laugh when I made a mistake (which was more often than not). Further evidence of my lack of grace on any athletic court/field was that I didn't understand in 1997 why I fouled out of games during my short-lived junior high basketball career, and nearly fifteen years later, I still don't. I am the bearer of several burn marks on my hands and upper arms from hot pots and pans. I have a big lump remaining on my shin from a tumble I took down some steps more than six months ago (while wearing you, "Trace," in lavendar from ShoeDazzle). 

The physical trauma of our relationship has mostly healed, my dear toppling skyscrapers, but I experience phantom pains now when glancing at you in my closet when determining what my outfit shall be each day as I dress. I even sense empathy pains in my ankles and in the balls of my feet when perusing the online People mag gallery of "last night's look" and spot the most exquisite of designer creations on the feet of celebs. Something must be done, so I am doing it. 

It's not you, it's me. Truly, I say to you, soaring-soled friends of mine, the time has come for us to go on a break. Fret not, for this shan't be permanent. We are the Ross and Rachel of humans and their shoes- constantly turning and dipping and sashaying away from one another until our own special gravity brings us back to where we belong. 

And so, there will, of course, come a day when I come crawling back to you in order to complete a fab outfit with equally glamorous footwear. There will be a wedding. A bachelorette party. A high school reunion. A gig. God willing, a date.

We complete each other.

Until then, my heart, my shoe-collection-which-gives-me-the-breath-of-hope-and-life, please take care of yourself.

All my love,

Erin Teresa

whoopsies

Overwhelmed with the thrill of being able to get myself up on the monkey bars and hang upside down, even at the ripe age of 27, I forgot that I was wearing a demi bra. 

In a normal standing position, the shirt I was wearing was not at all immodest. Yet, when I started out the day, I had no idea I'd find myself on a playground, and for all intents and purposes, dared to get up on those monkey bars and show them who's boss. 

I am not young anymore- nor are my breasts.

                                    

work in progress

Recently, I blogged about the inevitable passage of time (see "thirty"), and with that passage of time, the event of my thirtieth birthday, now coming up in 2 years, 9 months and some odd days. There is a lot of pressure from society on my generation to be settled by a certain age. I'm not sure exactly what "settled" means, but I suspect it involves owning property, being espoused to someone, working at a fast-paced/high paying/glamorous job, and possibly taking care of offspring. I have accomplished not a single one of those things, but lately (especially after having read an often hilarious book comprised of essays from various female authors in their 30s and beyond- which I highly recommend to all women age 20+), I find myself just fine with many aspects of my current situation. Additionally, I am very happy to report that I have accomplished or nearly accomplished more than a few items on my "thirty things before I'm thirty" list.

*pat myself on the back*

#4- Visit friends in far-off places:  (sort of) CHECK! I recently spent a week in Chicago/Kenosha/Milwaukee, making up for lost time. This fall, I hope/plan to take flight, landing in Arizona, where my dear old friend BS (yes, those are her actual initials) is set to give birth to Baby S #1. I'm astonished at my reproducing friends. I admire their courage. I applaud their efforts. Mostly, I'm happy to buy cute baby outfits for them, but not be the person responsible for changing poopy diapers. For now, I'm content to be Auntie Erin- The One Who Sings and Likes Cats and Wears Lots of Makeup and Knows All Those Famous Gay Men.

#6- Live by myself: (almost) CHECK! I am applying to live in a darling 1 bedroom sitting practically atop a lake and adorable neighborhood.  It's perfect (for me); it has lots of light/windows, tall ceilings, a patio, a gas stovetop, abundant character, allows pets, overlooks a charming lake in the downtown area, and the heat/water/sewer/garbage is included... I am having visions of many nights curled up under a quilt with my furry feline friend, sipping red wine, reading, blogging, making crafts with buttons, DIY repurposing projects, dabbling in photo editing, talking to myself, going bra-less, drinking 2 day old coffee without fear of being judged (waste not, want not), going to the bathroom with the door open, walking around without pants on, and so much more.

#8- Lose thirty pounds: (half) CHECK! Thanks to an online calorie tracker/weight loss community, I am just 1 lb shy of half of that goal of thirty pounds. What's more exciting is that I plan to lose those thirty pounds and then some. I am thrilled with the results so far and hope to continue the transformation. Most surprising about this process is that I've actually enjoyed exercising. Those who have known me for some time may not believe me, but it's true. I, Erin Teresa Gaffaney, like going to the gym. Admittedly, I owe much of my progress to closed captioning on the individual tvs mounted on each elliptical (equipped with cable channels), Jimmy Fallon's late late night show, E! News, Chelsea Handler's show, headphones, and the soundtrack to Step Up! 3 and any/all albums by Robin Thicke and Beyonce. Please don't judge me. I like to blame (in part) technology on the rising rates of obesity in these United States, but in my case, it's helped to combat it. Also, it should not go unmentioned that there is the occasional Hottie McHottie working out at the Anytime Fitness I frequent, which serves as fantastic eye candy/motivation. What? I'm only human.

#14- Keep a plant alive for a remarkable length of time: CHECK (times 2)!! I have a violet that was given to me in December that is not only still alive, but growing. Five months kept alive- very remarkable indeed. I also have an oxalis that is living in my office, having been kept alive since it was given to me in early March. It is not only alive, but thriving. Also remarkable is that I had the forethought to ask the secretary at work to water my plants during my week-long absence in order that they might not wither and perish. Wow. I've really outdone myself on this one. I think I may take things a step further and plant a few flowers. Perhaps I'll even transfer the oxalis from its current tiny plastic pot to something bigger and fancier- something in which it might grow bigger and taller yet. How exciting.

#26- Send more birthday cards to family and friends: CHECK! If I may boast, I've been stellar at this in the last few months. Just ask my family and friends. However, I did miss Grandma G's b-day, so I'll have to make up for that by sending a homemade card. I am not good at scrapbooking, so this may or may not be something I made with crayons.

#29- Take a community ed pottery class: (sort of) CHECK! While mosaic-making isn't exactly pottery, it's still functional art. Thanks, Groupon and Mercury Mosaics. I did look into the local community ed catalog for a pottery offering, but the consecutive classes on Saturday afternoons during June and July conflict with my schedule of singing at weddings, working, and taking advantage of mosquito season.



Wow. 6/30. That's not bad, considering it's been less than 3 months since I made my list. I suppose I might be kind of a big deal sooner than later if I accomplish the other 24 items before 2/28/14.

The one with the drunk confession

Louis isn't home. I peed with the door open. I can still hear the tv. This is nice.

lockout

I knew the day started out simply too good to be true.

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the air smells like spring, and the temperature is predicted to reach nearly 60.

Today is my Friday; I have no rehearsals tonight and am planning to drive out of town to visit friends, maybe commit gluttony at a fish fry, and to return Saturday morning. I shaved my legs. I lotioned. My hair looks fabulous. I weighed in at the gym last night and am down 5 lbs from my weight a week ago.  I'm wearing a simple dress and new $6 earrings from Target. I have a travel mug full of deliciously hot and deliciously strong black coffee. Things are/were looking up.

Things were/are looking up, that is, until I locked my keys in my car. Fumbling with a paper bag carrying today's lunch in it as well as my purse, I locked my car doors while still groping for items in my backseat. I put my car keys in my purse, grabbed my lunch bag and slammed the door shut, only to realize within a split second that I'd done it again. I'd locked my keys in my car. My keys were safe in my purse, and my purse was safe in my backseat.

a 'dramatic reenactment'

The custodian here at work has no such device with which to break into a vehicle. I asked. 

The last time I locked my keys in my car was in rural Pine City on an otherwise beautiful, summery, sunny Saturday (and, coincidentally, the day of my very good friend's wedding) just 8 months ago. I was charged nearly $100 for someone to come open it. And that was after I talked the locksmith down from $125. What the what?

As I feel very resolute that this type of service should come at only a minimal cost,  I immediately got to work doing online research. Thanks, www.dexknows.com. For you St. Cloud/Waite Park/Sauk Rapids/Sartell/St. Joseph residents, the following information should come in handy in case you ever need a locksmith or a tow in the future. I compiled a very nice (thorough) list of businesses offering lockout assistance and the amount they charge.

Now I simply need to find out how much it would cost to get a duplicate set of keys made (the set I'm using is my spare- I lost the original- and the auto start with it- somewhere in a snowdrift during a blizzard in '06). At least it's what my insurance provider advised me to do, anyway.

Lord, help me.

Enjoy (?).

Orange Cab  (320)252-8080   $25

Lockout Services  (320)249-2890  $35

Security Locksmiths Inc.  (320)253-4862  $60 (YIKES- no thank you!)

Collins Bros Towing  (320)257-5525  $30 (and they take personal checks- and they have a location in Elk River- and my brother's name is Collin, so I see this as a good sign)

All Care Towing  (320)253-5203  $35

Andy's Towing  (320)251-5691  $35

Anchor Towing  (320)259-4199  $35

Perhaps, as a thank you to me for this useful information, you could click on some ads all over my blog so I can pay for these little incidents (that seem only to happen to me with great frequency). 

silver lining

In the last year or so, I have managed to gain a somewhat substantial amount of weight. This is due in part to a variety of factors, including, but not limited to the following: my own negligence (going to the gym is not something I look forward to by any means), my slowing metabolism, genetics, a work schedule that does not lend itself well to meals prepared by myself and eaten at regular intervals, a penchant for mochas (I've learned to order them with skim milk recently, and honestly, I enjoy them more that way) and a nearby Qdoba and White Castle. I can't help it. I love food. In part, I blame both sides of my extended family. Holidays were just as much about gluttony as they were spending time with each other. Who am I kidding? I loved it, and I still do. Thanksgiving is not Thanksgiving without Grandma Agnes' mashed potatoes and my aunt Cindy's vegetable pizza (as an "appetizer"), and Christmas isn't the same without Grammie's homemade caramels, my aunt Dorothy's brandy slush, and a host of savory dishes. We Gaffaneys and Grundmans really know how to put it away. To this day, I associate feelings of being overly full with family gatherings. It's just... what we do.

Every day I plan to go to the gym. I have my bag of gym attire in my car should I feel a strong urge to swing by there before work, after work, or on the way home from any other plethora of engagement or errand. I have been planning to go since January. My bag is still untouched.

I lie. The bag has not gone untouched. I had arbitrarily thrown some nail polish and a book I had been reading into it, thinking that I'd read whilst on the elliptical machine to trick myself into thinking that time was passing more quickly than it actually was, and after about a week of being unable to locate said book, remembered that it was in the bag. I went out to my car to get it. If I had time to read, I had time to go to the gym...

The best laid schemes of mice and men go oft awry. (Thanks, John Steinbeck, you really hit the nail on the head with that statement.)

There is, however, a bright side to this.

My hair is the best it has ever looked. In my life. No, seriously. It is. The color could use some work (this is also due to my own negligence), but the cut is superb. My stylist, a young woman who I happen to have known since elementary school, has set up shop with her mom in my tiny hometown. K has managed to cut my hair in such a way that I am able to style it up, down, straight, curly, sophisticated, artsy, and everything in between. So, you see, there is a silver lining to every sad story.


Now, be a friend and click on the ad(s) on my blog, so I can continue to afford going to see K, and thereby continue having several great hair days per week. Unprecedented, to say the least.

desperate

At tj maxx with a friend yesterday, perusing the clearance racks and shelves, I found an interesting little wood cutout, meant to decorate a home. So intrigued by this, but unwilling to spend the $3 to forever have it as my own, I asked my accompanying friend to snap a photo with her phone. With a little simple editing in Picasa, I took the irony to a new level. Pictured below is the result (laugh at it- you know you want to- I am still laughing).

(once again, feel free to click on the ads below and between posts- it helps to sustain my livelihood)

avian flu

Today I received one of those subscription emails from a salon I used to frequent. I usually delete these without hesitation when I see them in my inbox, but something about the subject line caught my eye- "feather extensions."


"What are feather extensions?'" you ask, and I must admit did the same thing.


I had preconceived notion (envisioning voluminous hair extensions that feathered out, like the style made popular in the 1970s by Hollywood star Farrah Fawcett, may she RIP), but that was quickly proven to be wrong when I saw photos similar to these :

Sweet, right? I think so. I think I could easily rock this look, or something similar, even at the risk of looking like ke$ha, a currently trendy pop "singer."

Of course, like any good 20something who often doubts herself, I forwarded the email to a handful of friends/family members, asking them whether or not I could pull this look off.  The responses varied from "probably, but what about [your church] job?" to "hot! and dangerous!" Best of all, though, was my sister K's witty commentary, as seen below. Cleverness runs in the family.

Ew. Avian flu. Pruning. Other birds try to hump you. Suddenly bursting out in whistles that sound like common songbirds. I don't advise this. --KG, March 22, 2011

Whether or not I have changed my mind will remain to be seen, but K's response put an entirely different spin on the the "hottest new look in hairstyles." I prefer that a winged animal not attempt to copulate with or on me during my next walk outside. And, while the risk is very, very highly unlikely, I do not wish to die a premature death at the hands of a disease most commonly affecting poultry.

P.S.  Do me a favor again and click on an ad- any ad. Doing so helps to put food on my table and (expensive) gas in my car.

blemished

not the coat referenced, but a garment similar in style and color

It's no secret that I have an absurdly difficult time trying to maintain the cleanliness of white clothing. Somewhere in my innate being, there exists the inability to effectively repel any substance that can leave a mark (permanent or otherwise) on a textile. I have often stared in a combination of admiration, wonder and jealousy at women who are brave enough to go around sporting outerwear in a shade that is usually reserved for those months that lie between Memorial and Labor days. How perfect the lives of those women must be- I'll bet they also never smudge their nail polish before it is dry or unwittingly wear a distinctively-colored bra underneath a not-so-opaque shirt. Those women probably have boyfriends and husbands who have never seen them break a sweat or with their hair undone. I digress. I wished that I, too, could don a classically beautiful winter look. Alas, I have a hard enough time keeping a white t-shirt spotless... that I wear to bed.

How could I possibly be brazen enough to think that me, of all people, would succeed in wearing a jacket that I would be guaranteed to spill coffee on? No, 'twas not to be. My clumsiness is simply a way of life- an inevitable rhythm to my movements. For this reason, I have avoided purchasing a white coat to stave off the cold Minnesota winters for some time now. Until this year.

Armed with a coupon good for $70 off a purchase of $150 and a very decent tax return, I made my way to my most-visited ladies' apparel store, New York & Co. Always one to check the clearance racks before anything else, I happened upon a row of winter coats that were 70% off. Perhaps it was my begrudging acceptance that even in late February, Minnesota winters are far from over, or the snow that had started to fly that Sunday afternoon that caused me to look twice at this array of leftover winter gear. Whatever it was, I noticed that an ample amount of white coats remained. How could there be so many left? Nicely made coats at a very nice price. I wasted no time in whipping out my phone and opening the calculator app. At 70% off the sale price, the coat was priced at a very appealing $24. How could I pass by this opportunity?

I did it. I bought it. A white coat.

Over the next several days, I was very careful not to do anything that might soil this gem of a coat. I even contorted my body into some very strange positions in order to clean the snow off of my car so as not to brush up against it and pick up whatever the car wash had missed. I found myself hanging the coat up when I would enter a house rather than laying it on the arm of a chair or couch. At night, when I took it off at the end of the day, I would look it over for spots and dab them off with a wash cloth.

It's now been close to a month, and my relaxation in caring for the coat has caused a drastic downturn in appearance. There is a coffee (?) spot near the pocket on the right side- when did I spill that? There is black dirt on the back- where in heaven did that come from? Along seams, there are darkening spots where the fabric must rub on things.

What is a girl to do? My sacrificial white coat has been blemished. Just like no good deeds go unpunished, no white clothing (of mine) goes unstained.




Now, be a good friend and click on an ad anywhere in my blog. :)

crazy sick

I have been sick for the last day and a half or so. Not one to run to the walk-in clinic for every sniffle and sore throat (having a nurse for a mother tends to cause one to grow up with the attitude "whatever doesn't physically kill you doesn't merit a doctor visit"), I have not allowed myself to go see a medical expert, though I'm beginning to wonder if in this instance, the error has been mine. I think that the sickness has been making me crazy. Like, a real crazy person. The kind of crazy person we delicately refer to as having "special needs" or "requiring medication."

We've all been there- had sick thoughts. No, I'm not talking mentally disturbed sick, but the fever and fatigue-induced sick thoughts.

As I laid in bed this afternoon and opened my eyes after resting them for a few minutes, I gazed up at the ceiling and thought, "my, what a white ceiling that is" and "it is so blank." In the middle of the night, I woke up and decided that I needed something crunchy to help me fall back asleep. I went into the kitchen and retrieved a bag of Doritos and munched on a few. I ate eleven chips. Eleven was the number I'd decided to consume that would create just the right number of chews to get my teeth scraped well enough to fall back asleep. How nice. Like apples. Or those dog and cat treats that are designed to clean your pet's teeth. Castles. I am a medieval princess. Robin Hood?

Oh no- am I going "Tom Cruise Crazy" crazy?

Even as I type this, I can feel (sinus?) pressure increasing in both of my ears. I expect to experience partial hearing loss by morning. I wonder if the birds will care? Wait, what? Birds? I'm sick. Fever. Chills. Mom? 

a father's wisdom

on the phone...

me: Dad, what took you so long to call me back? What have you been doing?
my dad: Well, Erin, I've been busy. Busier than a one-armed wallpaper hanger with crabs.

Here's Dad, relaxing in the house just after Christmas, in his favorite spot- the recliner across the room from the television (most likely tuned into Lifetime Movie Network). He was sporting his long johns (sans pants) as there had been a cold snap that week.

thirty

With my 27th birthday looming just less than a week away, I find myself having miniature, short-lived existential crises as of late. 27. Just 3 years away from 30. Mid-late-20s. Late 20s. Oh, oh, goodness. Late 20s? Seriously? My mom had already birthed me at this age, and was probably already planning child #2 (who came in the form of my lovely, always entertaining sister Ashley Ann when my mom was 28). No, no thank you. Because of my work schedule, I need a second dog-sitter to dog-sit the dogs I'm dog-sitting. I haven't the slightest clue as to how I could work my own progeny into the mix.

Of course, I sometimes experience the 20something single girl blues. You know which ones I'm talking about- the...

"woe is me, I have no boyfriend" or 

"if I don't start having children soon, I'm going to be an old mom" or 

"why can't I attract straight men like I attract gay men?" or 

"if that mean girl can get a boyfriend, so can I" or

"only my cat truly understands me" 

...thoughts that tend to creep in after a long, solitary Friday night of binging on red wine, pizza, chocolate, and rom-coms starring Sandra Bullock on Netflix's instant watch feature that you're too embarrassed to admit made you shed a tear or two.

"They" say that 30 is the new 20. If this modern adage turns out to be accurate, then I shouldn't be worrying so much about being "behind" my peers. 

Nonetheless, I feel more compelled than ever to just do the things I've been putting off for one reason or another. Whenever I feel anxious or troubled about the future or a big project at work or school, or am just having difficulty articulating myself, I like to make lists. This situation is no different.

Thirty Things Before I'm Thirty 

(if I really mean to attain completion of this list, I need to work at a rate of ten items per year- doable?)

1. Spend more time with my remaining grandparents- make audio recordings of our conversations about their youth.

2. Sponsor a child through a mission organization.

3. Go to London for the Proms classical music festival, held yearly from mid-summer to early fall (this might have to wait for my "Forty Things Before Forty" list, as trans-oceanic flights are not cheap and I work for a church).

4. Visit my friends in far-off places (Arizona, Atlanta, Boston and South Carolina, specifically speaking)

5. Scan and electronically preserve all photos taken in my immediate family before the miracle known as digital photography was invented and made accessible to the general public. 

6. Live by myself.

7. Learn to knit.

8. Lose thirty pounds.

9. Chaperone a prom.

10. Establish a photography business.

11. Pay off thirty percent of my student loans (have you noticed a theme yet?).

12. Sing in a band. A soul/funk/folk/bluegrass/rock/jazz/gospel/hip-hop inspired band. Jam. Gig it up in bars and outdoor festivals. Record an album.

13. Make my first entry into... Canada.

14. Keep a plant alive for a remarkable length of time (remarkable for me would be two months, and bulbs don't count).

15. Start composting.

16. Refinish a coffee table top with all the corks and beer bottle tops I've been saving for the previous 3+ years.

17. Buy myself a "right hand ring"

18. Meet Tina Fey.

19. Organize a family vacation with my dad, Pat.

20. Go on a hermitage retreat.

21. See Beyonce in concert.

22. Go through the entirety of my (current storage) 2034 MB-sized gmail account. Delete unnecessary archived items.

23. Convince a straight man to love and be devoted to me in the same way some of my dear darling gay man friends do.

24. Be more fully healed of the anguish caused by my parents' divorce.

25. Spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with family, rather than at church. 

26. Send more birthday cards to friends and family. For an entire calendar year, do not miss one birthday of those most important to me. Mail cards to the intended recipients on or before their birthday. Tape $1 bills into the card.

27. Go blonde for the summer.

28. Make a pie. From scratch.

29. Take a community ed pottery class.

30. Publish a humorous memoir.

Whew. I better get started.

Sept 18, 2007

I searched my gmail this afternoon for my sister's address, using the term "Ashley parker" because my sister Ashley currently lives in Parkers Prairie. The search yielded no archived address, but there was a little gem of an email that I'd written to my friends (among them, a friend named Ashley). I am amused at my ramblings, but a little disturbed by the candor. Have I always been guilty of sharing "TMI"? I think the 2007 version of me is pretty funny- a bit odd, but endearing.

Thanks, Gmail, for unlimited storage, archiving, and a search bar within email.


Following is a direct "copy and paste" of an email I sent to a handful of college girlfriends on September 18th, 2007 at 10:15am (no doubt from my work desk):

My feet stink. It's the shoes I'm wearing, rather actually. But the stink transfers. I wore them too many times without any sort of socks, so now they're gross, even though I dumped some antibacterial citrus febreze in them. Maybe I should dump body spray in them now? Will the alcohol kill the stink? or should i rinse them out with hot water? they're only payless shoes and it's not like the outer is made of real leather- it's a man-made material.

I just discovered "google scholar" and I'm pretty excited.

For breakfast, I had an english muffin with roasted garlic hummus. The hummus was a bit runny compared to what I'm used to- disappointment. Also, I had lime yogurt with granola. I love granola and yogurt. It's my new favorite food.

On my Starbucks cup this morning: "childhood is a strange country. It's a place you come from or go to- at least in your mind... It's like a little sealed-vault country of cake breath and grass stains where what you do, instead of work, is spin until you're dizzy."

I miss my childhood.

I had dinner with my mom last night at "my" vietnamese place. I don't think she appreciates the Vietnamese the way I do. I love Vietnamese and Thai food. My favorite Vietnamese food is the bowl soup with clear noodles and pork and seafood. And fresh spring rolls. The best part is the fresh mint leaves and cilantro. Anyway, Julie (age 49) tried to tell me she was going to date a 35 yr old man and I didn't really care and then she said she made it all up to test the waters but I don't think she really actually made it all up. There is a 35 yr old out there somewhere from match.com who my mom is thinking about making out with.

I got Megan Dieschbourg and Trevor Parker's "Save the Date" card in the mail yesterday. They're getting married July 11, 2008. I can't believe we'll all be 24/25 within the next 16 months.

composition

My forays into musical composition have been infrequent at best, and usually only because necessity required doing so, such as a music theory or teaching methods course. Of course, there was the one exception, fondly referred to as "Booty Ballad" by those privileged enough to perform it (click on the title of the song for a youtube link, then fast forward to approximately 5:30).

Today is one of those days, however, in which I feel inspired. My muse, I cannot pinpoint. Perhaps it's the sunshine or the 40+ degree weather, or the fact that I unlocked a level on Angry Birds that had been eluding me for a few days, or maybe it's that I'm having a fan-flippin-tastic hair day (thanks, Hairitage Square, for the effortless cut and revolutionary product you sold me). 

No matter the cause, I want to sing- sing a message to the UPS man (or woman), whom I am patiently waiting for to make haste with my new shoes in arm. In this instance, I feel the text should come before music. And so I write...








Give Me What I Want  original lyrics by ETG
copyright ETG, 2011

Tires splashing through melted snow,
mix of dirt, salt and cold.
It's not the sight of you, UPS truck, that I want.
No, no, no. It is what you carry in your cargo hold.

(chorus)
Give me what I want (it's shoes).
Give me what I(iiiiii) need (it's shoes).
Give me those tall heels (skyscrapers)
Give me what I need (to the stars).

I hear an engine and rush to the window
Much to my dismay, it's just the neighbor,
Pulling up to her house in her black Jeep Laredo
When? I cry, and feign tears of sorrow....
                              
(chorus)
Give me what I want (it's shoes).

Give me what I(iiiiii) need (it's shoes).

Give me those tall heels (skyscrapers)

Give me what I need (to the stars).

Now is not soon enough, for when it comes to shoes,
I'm a fiend, a beast, I cannot be satiated.
Metallic, dramatic, suede, patent, canvas,
Buckled, platform, strapped, knotted, I'm besotted.

(chorus)

Give me what I want (it's shoes).

Give me what I(iiiiii) need (it's shoes).

Give me those tall heels (skyscrapers)

Give me what I need (to the stars).

Whoa, whoa, wait a minute there, Mr. UPS man,

Is that a big package that I see in your hands?

Run to me, fly to me, make haste to please me,

For only you can give me what it is that consumes me...

(bridge)

I want shoes. That's what I want.

Give me those shoes. They're what I want.

Give me what I want. 

(final chorus)

Give me what I want (it's shoes).

Give me what I(iiiiii) need (it's shoes).

Give me those tall heels (skyscrapers)

Give me what I need (to the stars).

                                   

                                   

Amen.

                                

                                
                                

                                
                                

pre-planning

Some girls fantasize about their wedding day, pre-planning down to the most trivial detail, long before they even meet the man who will eventually become their spouse.

I, on the other hand, am pre-planning my funeral liturgy, along with a few other major details surrounding the conclusion of my life here on earth.

This might seem shocking to most- why would a seemingly healthy 26 yr old woman be contemplating her own death? Do I really foresee an unfortunate, gruesome, and untimely demise for myself? Hopefully not, but anything is possible, and pre-planning will save me much agonizing over whether my family will force "How Great Thou Art" and "On Eagle's Wings" on those who attend. Am I unusually morbid? Do I have an obsession with the macabre? Absolutely not.

Still yet, a few readers may be puzzled as to why these thoughts are occurring to me in the first place. I'll tell you why: funerals. I'm in funerals up to my eyeballs. Approximately 7 months ago, I began working full-time as the music and liturgy director at an aging Catholic parish in St. Cloud. I had been warned that we have a high incidence of funerals at this particular faith community, but I was not prepared for the almost weekly onslaught that seems to have taken hold. Since January 1, I have had to plan the liturgies for 8 people. I wonder if I shouldn't go into the business of it all, considering. Because so many people seem to choose the same "comforting" songs so often, they have little, if any meaning for me at all anymore. Whilst sitting at the bench of the piano or the chair for the cantor at all of these funerals, my thoughts often stray to the future, and with great frequency, the future affair of my end.

What I do not want:
-wailing and gnashing of teeth
-the notion that I've become an angel- people do not become angels...
-an elaborate coffin (if preservation of my body is preferred by my loved ones, I wish for them not to waste their money on anything but a simple, wooden box, perhaps even wrapped in a favorite quilt- I believe in as green a burial as possible- in fact, why not bury me by the tree I planted in first grade on the farm where I grew up- the place from whence I came?)
-if cremated, please do not place my remains in a conspicuous spot in someone's living room; it's not healthy to not let people go
-How Great Thou Art, On Eagle's Wings, You Are Mine, Be Not Afraid, Amazing Grace, Shepherd Me O God, Wind Beneath My Wings, The Rose, Ave Maria (Schubert, Bach/Gounod, or otherwise), Here I Am, Lord (unless sung by a good choir, arranged by Ovid Young), Hail Mary, Gentle Woman, Prayer of St. Francis, God Is Watching Us, Shine Jesus Shine, In the Garden, Softly and Tenderly, Our Father (Albert Hay Malotte), Panis Angelicus (Franck), etc., etc.

What I would like:
-music to be chosen from the following (or similar pieces): Earth and All Stars, All Creatures of Our God and King, I Know that My Redeemer Lives (Handel or DUKE STREET), O God, Beyond All Praising or O Spirit, All-Embracing (set to THAXTED), Holy God, We Praise Thy Name (arrangement used by National Catholic Youth Choir), Bread for the World (Farrell), In Paradisum (Faure), A Mighty Fortress (for my inner Lutheran), Steal Away to Jesus (sung by the men of Cantus) or Deep River (sung by local gospel favorite Jearlyn Steele- if she's available), Precious Lord, Take My Hand, Walk in Jerusalem, etc., etc.
-a party held yearly at my gravesite, marking my death date, to celebrate my new baptism
-beer and other spirits served at my funeral luncheon/dinner, and a jazz pianist playing meal music
-much laughter and story telling
-a memorial scholarship established in my name at Carthage College, reserved for a financially despondent OR first-generation college student , majoring in music
-to be buried sporting a full face of makeup and my most fabulous pair of heels


Thus ends my death directive. Consider this a legal and binding document. Friends, family, I am entrusting you to uphold my wishes based on this virtual note, my blog.

Love you all, and good night.

fresh and delicious- a recipe, by request

homemade,fresh and delicious-

             pico de gallo

you'll need...

1 can whole kernel corn

1-2 cans black beans

1 bunch of cilantro

1 medium jalapeno

1 yellow bell pepper

1 orange bell pepper

1 red bell pepper

2 green bell peppers

1ish lbs roma or vine tomatoes

1 medium-large red onion 

2 limes

2-3 cloves garlic (or less, depending on your personal preference)

for a sweeter salsa, replace jalapeno with mangos, and add a few tablespoons of honey

dice tomatoes, peppers, onions and jalapeno

chop cilantro

rinse corn and black beans (ESPECIALLY the black beans)

press or chop garlic

slice limes in 2-4 pieces and squeeze out juice

mix ingredients together in large bowl

add salt to taste

for more "heat", use the whole jalapeno or add crushed red peppers

serve on tacos, with authentic tortilla chips, mix with cheese for amazing quesadilla filling... use your imagination!

Make SURE you rinse those black beans!

I clearly should have worn a hair net... and a bra...

If the weather permits, spending the day outside on a deck, cutting up vegetables is a great way to pass the time.

Chop up that cilantro nice and fine.

If you're already making pico, it's not a bad idea to simultaneously work on guacamole. A good guac  contains tomatoes, garlic, cilantro and red onion. Two birds, one stone... also, two delicious dips!

Voila! Your pico de gallo will be as colorful as it is delicious! 

grateful

I work for a church. There was a time when I swore I'd never go back into a full-time music ministry job, but here I am, six months into a new position and still alive, not having ended my life by my own hands in a fit of fury and frustration. I absolutely have days when my mind's eye sees me leaving after a staff meeting and never looking back, but ultimately, I am aware that it isn't the parishioners or choir members that I'm frustrated with, but rather the nuances and unspoken rules that govern Church (with a capital C) and the privileges that go hand-in-hand with priesthood.

What impresses me most about my current place of employment is how the people of the community so positively respond to Christ's teachings- to feed the hungry, clothe the naked and visit the sick. I see examples of this everyday.

During the Christmas season, parishioners donated cold weather items (hats, mittens, scarves, thermal underwear- "long johns," etc) to local organizations. By the end of December, there was a heaping mound of these items under the tree that decorated the back of the church. The van used to transport the items was filled, and I was particularly struck by how many of the items were handmade.

This week, the parish is "Church of the Week," which means that we are sponsoring those who seek food and shelter from the nearby Place of Hope. Parishioners take turns cooking meals for the people in Place of Hope's care, and at night they sleep in the school gym.

Wednesday evening, as I was cleaning up after one of the choir rehearsals and getting ready to go home, I started thinking of how it was going to be especially cold this week. In order to get to my office without going outside, I had to tiptoe through the gymnasium, where the homeless persons were bedded for the night. In the darkness, I heard the occasional whisper and position adjustment as people attempted to find comfort on a sleeping mat on a gym floor, covered only by the blankets available to them from the garbage bag allotted each person.

What circumstances led them here? What single event devastated their existence? What twists and turns in their lives took away shelter? Does a mental illness prevent some from regular employment, and therefore the inability to pay rent?

The last three years have not been easy ones for me, financially speaking. Not having even an inkling that the economy would take a nosedive, I quit my full-time job and took up a teaching certification program in winter 2008, planning on working a few part-time jobs to make up for my lost income. I lost track of the applications I filled out- trying for everything from waiting tables to office assistant and in desperation, even McDonald's. Things were extremely tight, and I somehow managed for the next few months on my tax return, PTO that I cashed in when I quit my job, and a meager $500ish/month that I made at a very part-time church conducting gig. Even after that, I struggled. Ultimately, I ended up juggling 2 different conducting gigs, teaching a class for adults coming into the Catholic church, and cooking at a chain restaurant. There were many times when I had to decide between gas and groceries or my car payment and rent. Without a doubt, not an easy time, indeed.


No matter my circumstances, however, I knew that if the struggle got to be too much, if I  had to, both of my parents would have welcomed me home in order to get back on my feet. If not my parents, then a grandparent or generous aunt and uncle or cousin. If not family, then friends.

Fortunately, I am employed full-time again, and life is less stressful (to a degree) than before. 

I have so much. Even though I still need to find creative ways to pay all my bills- mainly, student loans-  (LBA and I keep the house at a very chilly temperature in order to save on heating costs), I have food to eat in my refrigerator, a bed with many blankets piled on top to keep me warm, and clothes to wear. Personal possessions aside, I am richly and profoundly blessed with supportive, loyal, trustworthy friends and family.

And so, as I quietly walked through the gymnasium last Wednesday evening, I was reminded to thank God for all that I have and all that is to come.

bathing

It is my personal belief that showering is a privilege, not a right or a mandatum, and that on a person's day off from work, is completely optional.

resolutions

I doubt that I have ever made a New Year resolution in earnest. 

Of course, there was “that time in college” - sophomore year, to be precise, if my memory serves me- when I decided to exercise diligently, since starting the year with a J-term would provide me ample opportunity to go pump iron with the football players during their off season. (I should point out, before writing any further, that the thought of working out in any kind of proximity to Carthage football players wasn’t one that excited me, but rather gave me a great sense of anxiety and apprehension. These creatures that shall hereafter be referred to simply as “college athletes” were of a simple, yet frightening stock).
  

Unencumbered by the busyness that typically left me feeling overwhelmed during regular semesters, I felt I was at the threshold of something new and exciting- by golly, I'd have time on my side. No longer was I powerless to combat the seemingly unceasing barrage of studying, homework, rehearsals, lessons, paper writing, sorority functions, committee meetings, weekly phone calls to my mother (and weekly phone calls from my mother, usually on a Friday or Saturday evening around 10pm- probably just Julie checking in to make sure I wasn't ruining my life with sex, drugs and alcohol) and self-righteous IVCF members (Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship... a feeder group for a frightening evangelical church whose followers were known to often make others uncomfortable by speaking in tongues, go about preaching that certain Christian denominations weren't actually Christian at all, and decide who and when to date solely because "God told [them] so"). 

No, this was a new semester, a new year. I felt lighter than air. My only responsibility in this winter haven month was to successfully memorize music for the opera that I was a part of, and during my ample spare time, I set out to get caught up on MTv's "Newlyweds" (RIP, Jessica and Nick's marriage), "The Osbournes" (I still do a fantastic Sharon impression), read books for pleasure, and get in shape. I had no excuse any longer- I couldn't say I didn't have the time, and I couldn't say that I didn't have access to an exercise facility. Carthage College, in its far-reaching kindness, offers admission to the fitness center to all of its students, free of "extra cost" (though, when a person figures in the cost of tuition, room, and board at Carthage, the fitness center should seem a standard feature, especially when one considers that the college made mad profit from their washing and drying machines in the dorms). 

And so, this is how it came to be that BS (formerly BG) and I embarked upon our J-term 2004 exercise adventure. 

Having no actual fitness attire for myself, I was resigned to wear an old t-shirt, a pair of $7 Wal-Mart purple sweatpants that AKE (formerly AK) had given me (mostly likely in effort to persuade me from walking around our dorm room without pants on- which, as it turns out, can make those who aren't accustomed to no-pants living uneasy) and the pair of Nike "cross trainers" (?) that I'd purchased when I was going through a sporty phase. 

In addition to my awkward accoutrement, I gave the appearance of the oft-used analogy, that is to say, I was a fish out of water. I wasn't at all accustomed to this fancy new building with its fancy floor-to-ceiling windows and fancy televisions and fancy equipment. I spent most daylight hours in the darkness of the sub-basement of the JAC, where it was common knowledge that yes, a rape had taken place in the building, and yes, asbestos was not something to be speculated about- it was fact. 

This fancy fitness center in the fancy TARC was home to a subculture that I did not belong to (and still don't). Contained in the fitness center were strange machines and contraptions, things of which I had no knowledge of. Wanting to give more than just my legs a work out on the stationary bike (now that, I know how to use), I had to make a concerted effort to learn how to use other, more imposing equipment by observing brawny (what football, baseball, and basketball players lacked in brain, they made up for in brawn) athletes in such a way that didn't make me appear incredibly creepy. This plan was in no way fool proof, and in the end, I am sure I left in a more confused state than when I entered the fitness center.

Not accustomed to any sort of strenuous physical activity, I allowed BS to act as my motivator. Something about the TARC and the fitness center changed her into a very intense, very driven and almost scary exerciser. Like the Incredible Hulk, who, when instigated, could morph into a being not himself, BS would have a curiously piercing persona come over her on the treadmill. Not having a competitive streak (where sports are concerned, anyway, and my 7th grade basketball season is gross evidence of this), I quickly came to learn that it for the best to simply get out of her way at times like this. While Bethany raced herself and set higher and higher distance goals with each visit to the TARC, my only incentives for finishing that 30 minutes on the elliptical (I didn't use a treadmill because, well, I've never been the running type) were
1) I'd stay until the Real World episode finished and
2) when I was done, I could go back to my room, shower, dry my hair with the hand dryer that was oddly installed at about eye level in the floor's communal bathroom, and get back to my book, all while convincing myself that I'd become more healthy that day.

And then there was the sweat. More than all the other repugnant facets of exercising in a communal fitness facility (including, but not limited to: back-ne, the smell of metal and other people on your hands after using equipment that hasn't been properly sanitized, overhearing the grunt-ish conversation of college athletes, headaches caused by poppy dance tunes turned up too far on the loudspeakers and ESPN and ESPN2 being broadcast on every television), sweat is the one thing that I recoil at when I think of how I feel at the end of a hard workout. Encountering a single smelly person isn't a pleasurable experience, and so when several stinky, steaming-with-sweat hulking bodies are crammed into one area, one is blasted with an unforgettable stench upon entering the space where they are gathered. You know what I'm talking about, diligent exercisers- that odor of sweat mingled with iron- and you know full well that it takes some time to adjust to the air whenever you visit your local fitness club.

I believe that I made it to the TARC a total of 4-5 times that J-term. None too impressive, but when considering obstacles blocking my path to physical fitness, I like to think that that J-term was one in which I overcame the odds, blazing a trail for my future exercise endeavors, and maybe, just maybe, I like to think that I burned off almost all of that cheese sauce I so very generously allowed myself during our nightly dinners in 'the caf.'