sunglass-free

sunday's blueberry almond bars, that have naught to do with this post

Sometimes,

when the weather is sunny and I wake up to the sounds of birds chirping and greenhouse trucks rumbling by and I step outside into the chilly air beneath the crab apple trees and hear the steady hum of bumble bees overhead and sneeze and sneeze and sneeze because the sun is so bright,

I just don't want to put on my sunglasses.

They're adorable and from an outdoor flea market and are the best pair I've ever owned and greatly help in driving to work on the highway when the visor doesn't reach to block out the sun and the glare is extraordinary,

but sometimes I'd rather just see the world as it is and take the sun for what it's worth and risk the squinting and worry about wrinkles in my forehead some other time.

o christmas tree.

I love Christmas. A lot. If I could celebrate before Thanksgiving without feeling too guilty, I would.

However, I'm back home living with my family, and they're not quite as Christmas-crazed as I am. Our tree isn't up yet, decorations are hardly out, and there's not nearly enough Christmas music playing as I'd hoped for.

Alas, I now have one tiny bedroom to call my own, instead of a whole apartment at school. But that didn't stop me from putting up my own little tree. And a stocking. And lights. So maybe the bulbs are big as the branches, but that's okay. It's just a tiny plastic tree with cheap ornaments and my one hanging elephant from South Africa, but this little guy makes me smile.

Take that, living at home after college!

PostScript:

Maybe it sucks to be living at home, but it sure doesn't suck that I now work in an elementary school. Today's our first snow day!

i want to wash my hands, my face, my hair. . .

. . . IN SNOW!

That's right--the first real snowfall.

It started last night, and we woke up this morning to a winter wonderland.

All I can do is think of the song in White Christmas about snow.

That, and act like a child, giddy with excitement :)

if only . . . . .

. . . . . I could take a train from my small town into the city for work every morning.

Forty-five minutes of my life wouldn't be wasted sitting idly in a car, avoiding neurotic highway drivers and listening to bad radio and racing to beat the clock.

I could work on my crocheting and get some reading in and maybe even take a little nap.

If only . . . . .

(Photo via OsvaldoZoom)

a tidbit.

Overheard, while meandering through Barnes and Noble one night:


20-something boyfriend, in Science Fiction section: "It's too bad the world's going to end in 2012. We won't even get to see you graduate."

20-something girlfriend, whispering and looking around, embarrassed: "Don't say that! The world's not going to end in 2012!"

20-something boyfriend, ignoring her: "At least we'll be able to open that bottle of wine we've been saving. That'll taste pretty good."

field trip.

Last week, I went on a field trip with some of our clients and their children (I work for an inner city nonprofit) to Brown's Harvest, a place for pumpkin picking and hayrides. Needless to say, I was excited. Pumpkins? Hayrides? Yes please.

It was so much fun to see the kids all happy, excited at the fact that they could get out of their city (which they rarely do) and into a place where they could run around and climb in haystacks and breathe in fresh air (which they even more rarely do).

Doesn't it seem like now that Halloween is over and done with, pumpkins are a thing of the past? I know they're kind of Thanksiving-y too, but they just don't have the same feeling when they're not waiting to be carved. I'm starting to miss fall and it's not even over yet!

And to top it all off, we got to take a school bus there. When was the last time you rode on a real, yellow school bus? They still smell the same, even.

It was a good day.

imagine, if you will . . .

6:00am: My alarm goes off. I hit snooze.

6:05am: My alarm goes off, again. I am dead to the world. I hit snooze again and again, because apparently I think 25 more minutes of answering my alarm amidst fitful sleep is better than just getting out of bed.

6:30am: That annoying alarm noise annoys me to death. I remind myself to find another ringtone. I push the cat off of me and heave myself out of bed.

6:40am: Just when I'm finally able to enjoy my cup of coffee and the morning news, MH wakes up and joins me. The girl is sick. She never wakes up so early. I try to get her to go back to bed, but no, she's awake. And jabbering away. My head swims.

7:15am: My shirt doesn't look right. My jeans are too ight. I remind myself to go on a diet starting tomorrow. My bangs won't lie flat and my hair is wild. I throw in a stetchy headband and vow not to look in a mirror for the rest of the day. I should have taken that shower.

7:40am: I'm trying to put on makeup in the bathroom when I hear my mother arguing with MH. She tells her to take the medicine. MH says the taste is so awful it will make her throw up.

7:41am: MH runs into the bathroom and straight to the toilet and proceeds to throw up. I am brushing my teeth. My mother comes into the bathroom shouting all sorts of things like, "Oh--you know, Mary!" and "Stop it! You're making yourself throw up that medicine!" I spit my toothpaste. And storm out.

8:00am: I make my lunch in a huff. Whoever made the chicken salad put way too much mayonnaise. The fruit drawer of the fridge is so broken I can barely get it open. And I'm still mad about the bathroom/puking/yelling incident.

8:05am: I realize I need to stand up for myself. I live here, too. I tell Mom and MH that I'd appreciate it if they'd at least let me exit the bathroom before screaming at each other, next time. They hardly notice I'm speaking.

8:10am: Even though I have to leave for work in five minutes, I can't even fill up my water bottle on account of last night's dinner dishes piled in the sink. I spend my last precious moments scrubbing pots.

8:20am: I finally get out the door. I'm so agitated I forget my cell phone.

8:23am: I turn around and go back for my only piece of sanity.

9:10am: I then arrive to work late.


Live at home for a year and save money? What did I get myself into?

I miss college . . . . .

(Photo via Deerlings and Ghostthings)

saga of a bad stylist.

Do you have a brain? Can you wield a pair of scissors?

CONGRATULATIONS. You just beat my hair stylist.

I wish I was kidding. But all my worrying was not in vain. (Okay, so maybe I was just screwing myself over because I decided to see a new, random stylist, but really--how much bad luck can one possibly have with a hairdresser? I sort of figured I couldn't possibly have any more and hoped this one would be super and fabulous.)

Wrong, Ruth. So wrong.

Close your eyes and let's paint a little picture, shall we? You walk into a pleasant hair salon. It's upscale, modern, and smells nice. It even has interior brick--you fall in love instantly. It's bustling for 6:30 on a Wednesday night, so you figure it must be popular. A nice girl takes you to wash your hair (even throwing in a little scalp massage!) and brings you to your chair, combs your hair, and tells you Becky* will be right with you. You furtively glance around, trying to guess which one is Becky. Is she the old one, terribly dressed but with fabulous silver hair? Is she the one who cannot possibly be more than eighteen, too cool to wear an apron and instead donning a shirt straight out of the 80s with leggings and Uggs? Is she one of the countless 30-somethings with pin-straight obviously-dyed blonde hair and an eternal side bang? Or is she the one sitting right next to you, chatting loudly while waiting with a client whose hair she has just dyed? That couldn't possibly be her, right? Someone with a good name like Becky couldn't be that rude. Ha, I thought to myself. Imagine if that were my hairdresser--how rude would that be to keep sitting there talking to someone you're already done with while I've been sitting here waiting for a solid five minutes? Right?

Two seconds later she gets up, pats me on shoulder nonchalantly, and tells me she'll be right with me as she walks away. NO JOKE. I'd feel pretty damn guilty if I knew my client was sitting there wet-headed and antsy while I sat and chatted it up with someone else. And that wasn't even the tip of the iceberg.

I brought aforementioned pictures. She grabbed them out of my hand and flipped through them before I could even explain them. I believe her exact words were, "Ugh, this bang's too heavy. Ugh, this one's too light. And this one is just--" and she scowled and tossed them to the counter.

SHE WAS EVEN CHEWING GUM. WITH HER MOUTH OPEN.

I made sure she knew what I wanted, and let her get to work without frantically screaming just yet. Once she had cut them, which didn't look too bad at first, I had to blatantly order her to cut them shorter (which I suppose is better than being too short) because she was insisting they were a good length.

I could hardly see my reflection through them.

Now tell me--when you pay a decent amount for a professional haircut, should you have to fix it when you get home? Should you have to hem and haw in front of the bathroom mirror while snipping here and there to make your uneven bangs even? No, I didn't think so.

Therefore, I've chalked up yet another bad haircutting experience to my perpetual bad luck. THIS is why I cut my own hair. If I could reach the back or if I actually knew the proper tecnhique of bang-forming, I'd never see another professional again. But alas, I'm stuck.

So if you know how to handle a client professionally, have a clue about hair, and don't snap your gum in public--would you be my new stylist? I bet you'd be fantastic.

(No but really, if you live in my area and know someone good--YOU MUST TELL ME!)

So if you've made it all the way here through that long-winded and rambling rant, here's a before and after shot for your viewing pleasure:

These are obviously wavy vs. straight, but you get the idea. I'm still getting used to them and still fiddling around with them. Hopefully once I style my hair curly, like I usually do, the bangs will look a bit more natural. They definitely could have been worse, so I shouldn't be complaining.

And the funniest part of all--guess who wanted to be twins as soon as I got home:

Yep. MH wanted me to cut her bangs, too.

*I contemplated substituting a made-up name, but then shot it to hell. Her name was Becky and she sucked.

beard revue.

Have you seen this handsome blog?

What? You haven't?

Jump on the bandwagon. It's a blog dedicated entirely to facial hair.



Cute, right? If you don't know, I love me a man with a beard. This blog has kept me smiling and laughing for the past half hour! (What? I'm supposed to be doing work at work?!)

Also, coming up: an update on my new 'do! (And I'm not even crying!)

(All photos via BeardRevue)

chop chop.

I've thought about it long and hard. I've labored over Google images. I have my pictures printed out. I've rehearsed what I'm going to say. I know what I want. And I know what I don't want.

That's right: I'm getting a haircut.

BANGS, no less.

I'm so excited. And so @#!**^ nervous.

If you see a post after 8pm today that's titled something like, "OH NO SHE DIDN'T" or "GIMME A BANDANA, PRONTO" or "THAT'S IT, IT'S ALL COMING OFF," you'll know something went terribly wrong. And that I'll probably be posting from inside my closet, or under my bed, or behind a door somewhere.

BANGS CAN BE DANGEROUS THINGS, PEOPLE.

As long as I don't come out looking like this:

Poor Kristen Stewart.

Here goes . . . wish me luck!

Little Yogis

My third-graders in our after school program fell in love with our yoga class.

Precious, no?

Autumnal Confession

I’m spilling it:
I really enjoy autumn.
I’m not sad that summer is over (or, most-of-the-way over).
I much rather prefer 50 degrees and cozy sweaters than 90 degrees and tank tops.

I know--weird, right?

When I was little I used to think there was something wrong with me, because I was always the only one to be happy when fall started and the dog days of summer had ended.

But what’s there not to love? Pumpkins, apple picking, cozy sweaters, Halloween, cider, crunchy leaves, scarecrows, my birthday--I love all of it. (Okay, so my birthday probably has a lot of sway in choosing fall as my favorite season, but whatever. I love anyone’s birthday.)

It was fitting that the day after I got home from my summer vacation, the air had changed and cooler weather had rushed in. I didn’t mind at all (if it had rushed in to my beach time and ruined my balmy island breeze, well, that would have been a different story). On the TV, on the radio, on blogs everywhere, the news of fall’s arrival flew around. I reveled in it. While everyone else moaned and groaned about summer being too short and rainy (in the Northeast, that is), inside I secretly soaked up the crisp chilly air and marveled at all the leaves on the ground. Starbucks has Pumpkin Spice Lattes again and before you know it’ll be Christmas. CHRISTMAS.

Then I’ll get REALLY excited.

(Don’t tell, but I also secretly love the fact that while commercials advertise back-to-school deals and kids are forced to buy new lunchboxes and backpacks and get hit with mounds of homework once again, I’m beside myself with joy that I’m not one of them. I’m not moving into a crappy dorm room and I’m not wasting hundreds of dollars on textbooks. I may be living at home again and working nine to five, but at least I don’t already have a paper due tomorrow and two hundred pages to be read by Friday. Just saying.)



(Photo via NixieMichelle)

The Time Traveler's Wife

I saw it. I semi-liked it. Some parts were good, some parts were bad. If you haven't seen it yet, I would highly suggest reading the book first. Really. I guess this is usually the case, but the book was just about a bajillion (jabillion? majillion?) times better. Go ahead. Read it. And then go see it. And then we can talk.

And if you've already seen it, what did you think? I personally hate when foreign actors try to put on American accents. And when little kids don't act like real little kids do. And having twelve-year-old girls sitting behind you in the theater giggling over parts that are non-giggly probably doesn't help, either.

Perhaps I'll re-read the book . . .

Time goes by

Three months ago today, I was graduating from UConn.

Whoa.

Three months.

Revealed

Let's have it out.

As you may know, I've been looking into AmeriCorps for awhile now. It's been what I've wanted to do since high school, pretty much. Yes, I'd be making no money, and yes, it's a year of "volunteer" service, but it's what I want to do. It's really what I want to do.

Well, this afternoon, I accepted an AmeriCorps position. A good AmeriCorps position--an afterschool program coordinator in one of Hartford's public schools through an organization called Hands On Hartford. They have strong ties to Haiti, too--we actually did a lot of work with this particular church when I went to Haiti in 2007, and I just realized it was the same one. So it's nothing to sneeze at, this Hartford position.

But I also turned down a program in New York City. YEAH, New York City. My dream. I think this was the hardest decision I've ever made in my life. There were tears. I predicted that though. I knew that whatever I decided would still be really difficult. I know, this is only for one year of my life and I've got the rest of it ahead of me, but this is the first thing I'm doing after graduation. I feel like it's the ultimate decision that's going to affect all other decisions to come (silly, I know). It's difficult, though, to decide what to do with your life.

In the end, New York just wasn't realistic. I'd be getting even less money than the Hartford position, and that's saying something since I'd already be getting next to nothing (imagine: living on $200 a month in New York City. Not possible).

Not to mention, I would have had to be packed up and driven to Staten Island for orientation this Sunday. As in, five and a half days from now. And I only just found out that I was accepted last night. I don't know if I could have been mentally prepared for that. I definitely would not have been mentally prepared for that. I would have been a wreck.

So, that's what I'm left with. I'm actually a little excited, because now I can go on my family reunion vacation to the Outer Banks of North Carolina that I would have missed. I'll be making a little money, that I can save, plus a few other financial benefits that made it worthwhile. In the end, they were both afterschool programs, they were just in completely different cities.

I think the hardest part is facing that I'm going to have to live at home for the next year--while my friends are going off to new lives with boyfriends and new lives in grad school and new lives in their own apartments. I won't have much at home for me. I'll be having family dinners and entertaining Mary and babysitting on the weekends. I'm trying to tell myself that it won't be so bad. I know tons of people live at home after graduation, but I just really didn't want to. My little town in Connecticut is probably one of the most boring places to live. I don't know how people choose to live here permanently.

Maybe this will be a year to save a little and get experience and make connections and go off somewhere fascinating afterwards.

I'm really trying to believe that right now. Even though it's insanely difficult. And I don't really believe it just yet.



(Photo via phantomwise)

Ray, here I come

Ray is just getting too popular. Too many other people are being won over by his good looks, his moving music, his crack habits, his emotional instability . . .

Wait, no, I do like him. I love him.

That's why I was at my computer by 9:45 Monday morning waiting for the ticket site to become available at 10 o'clock so I could order tickets for his fall show via the presale (cause I'm in the fan club and get regular emails, I know, I know). So you can imagine how surprised I was when, as soon as it turned from 9:59 to 10:00, I clicked right in and went to purchase my tickets for Boston on November 4th (MY BIRTHDAY I KNOW IT WAS MEANT TO BE) and it wouldn't let me get any. I kept trying, and trying, and trying. It kept saying silly things like I had selected too many tickets or some garbage like that. By the time I emailed the ticketmaster and went back on at 11am, it was sold out.

I later got an email saying that the presale had sold out IN ONE MINUTE.

Needless to say, I was devastated and thoroughly irritated. How am I going to have his babies if I can't even get to his show? (Stop. This is a joke.)

By Friday night, I was set on getting on my computer well before 10am the next morning so I could at least try my chances at getting tickets for the general public. (General public? Me? I was insulted. Perhaps they don't understand how die-hard of a fan I am . . .)

Saturday, I was babysitting. Which really means quelling fights and calming down hysterical five-year-olds and saying no to multiple glasses of chocolate milk at 9am and reminding about teeth brushing ten thousand times until it was actually done and constantly asking, "Did you really take off your glasses again? GO GET THEM." Horrifyingly, I forgot about poor Ray.

At 9pm last night, I remembered with a jolt. My mind went a mile a minute with thoughts of despair and grief and giving-up-edness. I thought I'd never get them.

By the time I found the ticket site (different the presale site, so it took me even longer), Boston was sold out. New York only had single seats available in places like "Upper Left Balcony Row YYY seat 2045." In other words, "You can pay $80 and sit here and listen to the music even though you'll only see half of Ray LaMontagne's profile the size of a flea and probably be suffocated with the smell oozing from the bathroom directly behind you. If you want."

I was not sold.

I then noticed a show in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania on November 7th. I Google Mapped it and realized it was only 13.5 miles from Jana. We could do this.

Even though she didn't answer her phone, I bought them anyway. If she couldn't go, I would just go by myself and invite a stranger off the street to join me, free of charge. I WAS GOING TO SEE THIS MAN.

In the end, Jana called me back. She wanted to go. Which is good, seeing as how I had already bought the tickets. We decided to make a weekend of it. I'm so excited.

Ray, here I come.

(Photo via The Couch Sessions)

To 'Book or Not to 'Book

That is the question.




I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. We've been pretty rocky lately. Actually, our relationship has always been pretty rocky.

The summer before I went to college Facebook was just becoming hip. I immediately signed up, found my future roommate, stalked her all summer, and so it began.

Everyone at school had Facebook. You could look up the cute boys who lived in the dorm room downstairs or the cute boy you bumped into in the dining hall. You could search for long lost friends or past crushes (this was before anyone realized they should make their profiles private, and everyone could see everything). Hours were spent in the same room as other human beings while each one of us would be on our laptops, getting sucked into Facebook page after Facebook page. My roommate and I would be up until the early hours of the morning, not speaking for hours besides the rare, "Oh, go look at so-and-so's profile, they updated their interests and you just have to see it." (You think I'm kidding, but I'm not.)

Throughout college, this infatuation grew. Finally, I moved to South Africa for four months and just couldn't handle the pressure. I "deactivated" (read: canceled) my account. Facebook wanted to know why I was leaving. I selected every option (too much drama, too much time wasted on it, not purposeful, etc). I just didn't want to be wasting time in Africa on my computer at all, let alone a social networking site. Also, internet there was ridiculously expensive and Facebook's endless amounts of photos and videos just sucked up all my bandwidth. It was quick and clean.

I got back to America and the endless nights of jet lag forced me to find something to do online. I signed right back in and Facebook welcomed me with open arms. I knew I always loved it. I caught up on everything I had missed in the past four months and updated my profile. I even added pictures. We were happy again.

Fast forward a year. I never went on. I found that skimming through practical-strangers' photo albums really just didn't do it for me anymore. I wasn't as enthralled with snooping on who wrote what on whose wall yesterday at 3am. I'd get the infrequent emails informing me whose birthdays were coming up, and I just deleted them. If I really felt strongly about wishing someone a happy birthday, I'd just call them. And if I didn't have their number, well, I probably wasn't close enough to be wishing them happy birthdays anyway. I once again deactivated.

Just recently, I decided I needed to be more social. After much deliberation, I reactivated my account (again, Facebook let me right back in. So reliable). I realized that yes, I did miss it a teensy bit. I'm practicing self-control and not wasting every waking minute on it, but I do go on from time to time and see what's new. Before I knew it I was getting friend requests and weird group invitations and messages and realized that even my ex-boyfriend's mother was on it.

I used to scan each person's profile who friended me and decide if I should really accept or not. After all, some of these people I hardly even knew. Now, I don't care much. Facebook isn't the end-all-be-all and I really don't take it seriously. I'm not going to tell you if I'm looking for "A Relationship" or "Random Play" or "Just Friendship" and I'm not going to update my status every five minutes with what I'm doing next. While I will censor any pictures tagged of me and what people write on my wall, I'd probably think a little less of an employer if they didn't hire me on the grounds of something they saw on my Facebook page.

I still love Facebook, but we're really in more of an open relationship now. I don't care if the layout is changed every other week with new silly gadgets and applications, and it won't care if I don't log in for weeks at a time. We've come a long way. We've been through a lot. It's okay now.

I'm curious: what do you all think of Facebook? Do you have a profile? Do you use it often? Are you addicted? Do you hate it? Do you boycott? Do you think less of those who use it?

This social phenomenon (which I truly believe it is) fascinates me.



. . . . . And don't even get me started on MySpace.