City of Lights

Let's go ahead and get this over with... I suck.  I know, I know.  If it weren't for the complete harassment I've been receiving who knows when this would have appeared.  I do want to say that prior to this I started two different entries but then talked myself out of posting them because I was afraid I'd somehow alienate someone.  I've been feeling a bit opinionated lately, clearly.

But let's let bygones be bygones, shall we?  Here goes... I started thinking a few days ago as I watched Jane Eyre that I was born in the wrong era. Displaced, somehow.  As I watched Jane and the children play Badminton I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to just cry... and I longed desperately to live in an age where an afternoon round of Badminton was a priority in my life.  Where I didn't check my phone every 3 minutes to make sure something monumental (read: minute and soul-killing) hadn't taken place.  Where I didn't sludge through traffic for 45 minutes two times a day simply to get to my place of employment...

I told my dear roommate about this strange longing I was having and she suggested that I watch "Midnight in Paris" to help me identify with my problem.  So off to the Redbox I went... And two hours of complete charm and a sleepless night later, here I am to tell you all about it.

First of all, this film is gorgeous and quirky and charming and travel-desire-inducing, so go in knowing that.  I don't want to give anything away, so I'll try to skirt the edges here, but all I can think about today is sidewalk cafes, glistening streets, new places and people, French wine and pastries. Lots and lots of pastries. (That's not part of the movie, it's just nearing the end of lent and I'm desperate for sugar.)

I've been having these kinds of daydreams about New York City as well lately, probably because in all of my 23 years, I've never set foot in the Northeast, which is just really depressing to me.  And I've been watching SMASH like it's my job and I envision the entirely of New York to run like a Broadway show.  And I have a slight obsession with subways.  There is something completely fascinating to me about walking down stairs in one part of the city and emerging from the darkness into a totally new part...  Rose colored glasses, perhaps?  Don't kill me dreams, please.

So anyway, I think I need to get out of La La Land.  I don't see this as a real possibility in any form or fashion, but it does have me thinking.  I live in a sort of dreamland myself, and yet my thoughts have been consumed with new, different, better.  Am I becoming jaded by my circumstance?  Have I been here long enough to be weary of the surprises this city has to offer?  Am I turning into the sort of person who constantly has to have more more more?

This is all very alarming to me for many reasons.  First of all, I live an incredibly blessed, idealistic life.  I am a recent college graduate living in a new, exciting city with wonderful friends and a job I enjoy coming to each day.  I work for a person who is incredibly successful, admired and fully Google-able.  I get to attend events that I could have only dreamed of a year ago.  I get to see my family often.  At the very most basic level, I have food in the pantry, clothes on my back and a relationship with a Savior who walks with me through all my insanity.  So why the longing?

Here is my theory:  I think I am overstimulated by the industry, age and level at which I work.  I look at my computer screen for no less than 6 hours a day, answering emails, researching this that or the other, planning trips, work schedules, flights, organizing data, etc. etc. etc. In the meantime, I check my phone to be sure I am abreast of all industry news (new project with Jennifer Lawrence? How can we get in on that one?) social news and occasionally news news.  Oh look! Someone Instagramed (can I verb that?) a pic of their lunch. Wait! Group text alert! We now have plans tonight! And the list goes on.  I fully relax my body for approximately 2 15 minutes segments each week during Shavasana at yoga, but the second I am allowed to stand, I jet out of there to try and beat the traffic home, where I will sit with my shoulders tensed up and jumping eyes for the next 45 minutes.  Catch a couple hours of shut eye, and then I'm at it again, checking, checking, checking. Calling, planing, stressing.  It makes the soul long for days before cell phones existed.  To be completely unreachable the second you left the house, to be free for hours on end simply because you didn't know what all the options were... Isn't there is something infinitely appealing about this?

Am I having an existential crisis here?  If so, please ignore.  I'll be back to normal soon.

So, in my head, the solution to this whole charade is Paris.  I know. Make fun.  I picture wandering the streets in a sundress and espadrilles, (what else would you wear?) having dinner at an outdoor picnic table where I would undoubtedly make new friends and stay out late talking and laughing. Wandering into a store and buying a bottle of Guerlain perfume just because that's what you do in Paris.  Reading classic literature beside a deserted pond with lilies.. Okay woah.  I'm getting melodramatic here, even for me.

I think what I'm trying to say is, watch "Midnight in Paris."  And study abroad and learn about yourself.  And then remind me of how I was crazy last year and cried while repeatedly watching the last scene of "Pocahontas." And tell me that it will all be okay, and to take a deep breath and get a massage. And do some more yoga.  And drink more water. And blog more.  Yeah, that too.

Thanks for sticking with me.

It's been a Trip

The last month of my life, that is.  Sorry I fell off the face of the earth and turned off my brain.  And therefore my blog.

Here's what has been going down, in no particular order.

My family and I rafted down some serious white water rapids.  As in, our bodies rafted down, because we found it impossible to stay in the darn raft.  I'll include some super-de-duper pics at the bottom.

I saw Les Mis.  This wasn't planned before my last post, which says to me that the universe is smiling upon me.  Then I heard that Taylor Swift was cast as Eponine in the upcoming film adaptation, which made me want to pull out my hair and question seriously if I should go back into the field of casting.  

Or whether I should just go try out for the role myself.  Love her, but let's not get overzealous.  The T-Swizzle works best when confined to a blowout concert/sparkly dress/full band/millions of screaming tweens kinda box.  A role built on sheer voice power and raw emotion?  Oy, vey.

Go ahead and tell me that she can nail this. Start around 3:10 for the power notes.  Les Miserable casting if I've ever seen it...

I lost my debit card.  This caused a lack of sleep and one bleeding finger.  (From the lack of sleep and the use of power tools.  Don't ask.)  This signified to me that the universe is definitely not smiling all the time.

I ate a whole lot of beans and rice, but mixed together in this wonderful Costa Rican concoction known as "Gallo Pinto."

I slept for approximately 12 hours a night for a 3 week period.  It was so, so deceiving.

My family got down and funky.  If you know what song I'm talking about, then you are definitely either my mother or father.

My rooms and I hung gold glitter wallpaper in my apartment.  Here's the big letdown: The stuff doesn't really glitter.  We are now looking into gold glitter spray paint.  Like this. 

Gaudy? Yes. Spectacular? Definitely.

I ate approximately one and a half boxes of Williams and Sonoma Peppermint Bark.  Thank heavens this stuff is only available one time a year.

I bought a French Press coffee pot.  It makes me feel worldly and fun for some reason.  Maybe because it has the word "French" in it?  I'm not going to debate this one too much, as I'm thinking I may fail in my reasoning...

I discovered that I am staying at a 100 year old castle in the middle of the mountains of Canada next week.  Then I did a happy jig.  Because, give me a break... this place is like a dream.  Wow.

And last but not least, my dad got bit by a wild monkey.  This was humorous at the time, perhaps not so humorous during the 4 rounds of rabies vaccines. We only wanted to say hi little buddy...

It's been an adventure, that's for sure.  Here's to hoping the next three weeks are just as memorable, if not quite as rabid.

Here are a few more rafting pics in case you're needing a good laugh today...

Watch out for the branches!

My father, the rafting warrior.

Thanks for single-handedly saving the day, Dadio! It sure looks like we needed it!

Mom...

Success!

High five!

This place is ridiculously gorgeous...

And our final demise..

 
Going...

Going...

Gone.

If you ever go to Costa Rica, please, please go rafting.  It's extraordinary. 

Musically Theatrical

Hi-yo.

Where the heck have I been? I wish I knew the answer to that question.  I'm truly afraid that the answer lies somewhere along the I-10 Freeway between Santa Monica and Miracle Mile, where my soul dies every day.  Twice.

Woah.  Enough with the melodrama already, right?

Today I'm going to talk about something that inspires me to be a better person, and wear too much makeup, and burst into song and dance in my kitchen with only my poor mother and sisters to spectate and laugh.

Musicals.  Oh, how I love them.  I will pay a lot of money to see a speck on a stage dance about and sing their heart out and hear the orchestra swell.  I've seen a few in my short 23 (!) years (still not over that one, folks) including, but not limited to:

Magical.  Dancing grass, need I say more?

Oh what a night.  Oh!

If I were a rich man...

And a darling dancing boy. 

Last night I was graced once again by one of my faves...

Now THIS, folks, is a show.  There's drama, comedy, romance, some fantastic music, and magic.  And a green girl.  It's fantastic.

I dooooo have one small complaint.  I think I was spoiled the first time I saw this show, because I saw the Megan Hilty version of Glinda- and she is just too perfect.  Now, in defense of Kristin Chenoweth, I never saw her perform Glinda- so I will resist calling Megan Hilty the best Glinda EVER, but I think she is just a hoot and a half.  The woman must drink 4 Red Bulls every night before showtime...

Last night's Glinda was good... but she wasn't this good.  Ah, well.  Can't win them all.  Still a fabulous show.  If you are in LA, make it a priority to go see it.  You won't regret it.

And this brings me to my favorite musical of all time...

Oy, vey. I shouldn't even get started, as I'm tearing up just thinking about it.  Maybe it is the first love phenomena, because I saw Phantom at a young age in San Francisco, but this show has a firm grip on my heart, my emotions, and my tear ducts.  I find the Phantom to be the most tragic hero of all time, and he just gets me.  

I saw this show this past year in Austin, and the poor friends I dragged with me had to witness me at my most emotional sappiness.  It's the music, I tell you.  It just moves you in such inexplicable ways. 

If you haven't seen Phantom and plan on seeing it in, oh, I don't know, 10 years when it comes back to the stage (an outright travesty, I tell you!) then you might want to stop reading.  Because I'm about to re-live the most tragic and melodramatic moments. Sorry I'm not sorry.

Most tear inducing scene- Act 1: As Christine and Raoul croon to each other on the roof, the Phantom looks on, heartbroken, and sings... "I gave you my music- made your song take wing... And now, how you've repaid me, denied me and betrayed me..."  and then he sobs.  And let me tell you- when a masked figure sobs over his lost love, I sob too.

As if this isn't enough... Act II really punches you in the stomach when you're down.  I'm not going to post the video, because it's 11 minutes long and I don't want to admit that I actually spent 11 minutes on this... 

Anyway- just watch "Final Lair" when you have a spare moment and want to have your heart ripped out and danced on.  When Christine begs of the Phantom to have mercy on Raoul, he shouts in reply, in agony, "The world didn't have mercy on me!" 

Oh, come ON.  By the time the poor, tragic Phantom belts out, "You alone can make my song take flight- It's over now, the music of the night..."  I'm one big fat blubbering mess wondering why I like to torture myself in this way.

I think there might be only one musical more tragic- 

And I'll be waiting anxiously in line the day this lovely comes to town.  

Because there is nothing as uplifting as listening to the haunting melody of "On my Own." 

And I shall ask again... why do I do this to myself?  

Pampered Hands

**Disclaimer:  This entire post is about nails.  Yes, the ones that grow out of your fingers.  If this isn't your cup-o-tea, check back soon for something that might be a bit more relevant to your life.

 Okay, I'll admit it.  I have a bit of a nail obsession.  I blame this completely on the fact that my mother's nails have always been perfect and she throws around the term "pterygium" like it's no big deal. (Word to the wise- DON'T GOOGLE THIS.  It's horrifying.)  Come to think of it, my mother's endless knowledge about illnesses and drugs are probably the reason I'm a certifiable hypochondriac too...

But alas, I digress.  So I like my nails to be absolutely perfect at all times with very, very few exceptions.  I spend a lot of time perusing All Lacquered Up to make sure I haven't missed something vital, like a new O.P.I. collection debuting or the introduction of Shellac into the market.  

Let me explain... Shellac (or any number of "gel" manicures, now there a million and a half off-brands that do the same darn thing) is a gel-polish hybrid that is painted onto the natural nail, "cured" under a UV light, and sticks there for at least 2 weeks.  Like glue.  And then you can either rip it off, (unfortunately, along with the top layer of your nail) or spend an hour soaking your fingers in potentially toxic liquid to make the stuff crumble and fall off, leaving you with brittle, dry and basically useless fingernails.

Needless to say, this stuff is a miracle.  Because let me tell you... for the two weeks that it is on, your nails are flawless.  Shiny, chip-free, and strong.  (Or at least they feel strong... which is most definitely an allusion.)

So I try to get my nails shellaced (can I make this a verb?) every two weeks, and this serves me well, for the most part.  We get into trouble around a week in, where I can start seeing my cuticles, and thus having a panic attack.  So I've devised a system to sustain the long, strong nails- and keep my devil cuticles in check.

Here goes.  I begin by filing my nails (with shellac on!) back to a reasonable length.  Then I push back and trim my cuticles. (I'm afraid I've become de-sensitized to that and it's really gross.  Sorry.) Which brings me to this point...

Yuck.  Let's move on quickly...

I then buff them to take away all traces of shine- and make the surface a bit more tactile (tactile? tacky? what am I trying to say here?) and to smooth the line of demarkation (I'm totally making these terms up tonight...) and get a nice surface.  Like so.

Double yuck.  Make sure to wash your hands thoroughly before painting to get rid of all the nasty chalky biz.  You don't want that on your canvas.

And then you paint. Just in case this isn't glaringly obvious, you must use a similar shade or darker on too of the original Shellac. Durr.

And bada-bing!

And you have perfect, cuticle-free, Shellaced nails for another week.

You're welcome.

If for some weird reason you don't have all the aforementioned tools at your convenience, well, get yo-self to a beauty supply store and start working with those cuticle nippers.  Your life will never be the same.

Until next time, when I'll hopefully have something of a bit more substance to talk about.

Magic

Next week will be magical.  I've called it. Yes, I know that Halloween has passed, which only means that my favorite time of year is here.  My toes are blue and purple and numb and Starbucks has red cups.  And I'm going to Texas TWICE in the next TWO months.  Holy cow.

But back to this week...

I will not have to dread the day of my birth coming about (although I am very curious as to what my roommate has been hiding from me from my parents- they text) and I have many, many magical events on the agenda.

First and foremost, I get to see my sweet Daddio in seven mere days.  I absolutely adore the fact that he sells giant chunks of aluminum in this strange land I'm living in, because it means spur-of-the-moment, make-your-Thursday-brighter, trips.  I'm picking the fanciest restaurant in town with the most expensive steak that I can't afford and making him take me on a date.

Also, my boss surprised me with an invitation to the premiere of "Immortals," only the movie I'm most excited to see in this whole opening weekend.  Okay, really though, I've been excited about this one for awhile, due to this face.

I'm sure we will meet on the red carpet and fall madly in love and he will abandon his horse-back riding fiance for me.  Or I'll see him from a few yards away and try not to embarrass myself or my boss with my star-struckness.

I loved him first.

I'll leave it at that.  Talk to me in a few months when you fall in love too.

Twenty Something

I am approaching a milestone in my life.

Oh, okay, more like a worthless birthday, but whatever.

I am a little unnerved by my upcoming 23rd birthday.  My mother kindly reminded me that I did this whole panic-attack routine last year, lamenting the fact that I would never be 21 again, and I've managed to not fall apart in the past 12 months.  I was sure it would be the same with 23.

Until I turned on the dang radio.

(I know, I know.  The day I find a blog post that is not inspired by XM radio I'll know I've really made it.)

Today's instigator: Blink 182.  And the line...

"That's about the time she ran away from me... Nobody likes you when you're 23..."

Geez, now I'm really thrilled.  You see, I have this small issue with age and the fact that I'll never be 17 again.

If you're reading this and you're under 17, (are there any of you out there, by the way?) you have this whole holy grail of sorts looming in your future that will pass too fast for you to even realize that you've made it to the pinnacle of your life.

I kid.

Kinda.  Think about it.  How many songs do you know that talk about being 25? Or 32?  Or (gasp!) 40?

I mean, 17 has a whole publication, for Pete's sake.  Taylor Swift is perpetually 17 in her songs. The Dancing Queen is only 17.  Liesl von Trapp feels so strongly about her approaching age that she can scale whole gazebo's in one leap.  In Strawberry Wine... oh, nevermind.

You get the point.  I get really sad when I think about the fact that 17 is gone forever.  Maybe I should write a song? It could be called "Seventeen is Gone."

Clever, huh?

Which brings me to my next theory... I have a theory that when we get to Heaven, God is going to offer up a plethora of sorts of characteristics we will get to have for all of eternity.  And since it is heaven, we will all choose perfectly and be forever perfect.  I've long ago decided that I will be tall in heaven, as I have no idea what the world looks like from anywhere higher than 5'2''.  I'm convinced this will happen.

Now I've decided that I will be perpetually 17.  It's about the age I feel, and my interests tend to skew in this direction.  I don't think this is something that will change with time, either.  17 is my soul age, I'm afraid.  I'm certainly not 20, or anywhere close to where I should be given the clock.  There is, however, a large possibility my soul is about 35, but that is a depressing realization that I'd rather skip over.

So, on Friday, when I become unlikeable to everyone, I'm just going to pretend I'm turning 17.

Because I can't miss out on that twice.

Drops of Something

I'm a little tired today.

Also, my ears are incessantly ringing because I stood too close to the speaker at the Pat Green concert in Hollywood last night.  Yes, that Pat Green.  I haven't seen so many boots and cowboy hats in Los Angeles since the Rose Bowl.

I'm also a little emotional.  I have no reasoning for this, so just bear with me.  I was reading this charming little book called "Koala Lou" to my boss' 7 year old daughter last night and I literally had to choke out the last page through my tears.  She laughed hysterically.  Oh, to be 7 and not know the bittersweet stepping stones on the path to adulthood.

Oy freaking vey.  It's sad though.  And it just made me want to hug my mom.  (Love you, Mamasita.)

This whole mess adds up to me being nostalgic (Pat Green) delusional (lack of sleep) and a big blubbering crying mess (Koala.)

Therefore, I've come to some revelations.

And they probably won't make any sense to anyone other than myself.  Here goes...

I am terrified of being a "Drops of Jupiter" girl.

Did ya catch that? Really, no?

Suffice it to say that Train and Sugarland are having a battle in my head.

Drops of Jupiter-this song comes on the radio all the stinking time.  If you know me at all you know that I place great value upon the songs that I hear on the radio.  It's weird and superstitious and wrong.

Take a listen...

So my fear here is that I'm the girl who's wandering around the atmosphere, (hopefully my head is glistening with drops of something) and that someday someone will say to me "Did you sail across the sun- did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights are faded, and heaven is overrated... And tell me, did Venus blow your mind- was it everything you wanted to find and did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?"  "Me" in this case being all of my lovies back in Texas.

I am terrified of finding that I have spent my time frivolously chasing after "faded" lights and an "overrated" heaven.

But I tell you- the second I start wondering these things too much, Sugarland pops in to save the day.  The current radio message is "Settlin'."

Now, I would like to point out that I am taking this from a "life" point of view as opposed to a "love" point of view.  Such girl power going in this one, right?  She's not settling, or setting the bar low, or giving up, or fearing that she is wasting time.  And I shouldn't either...

So you see my conundrum...

(And I'd like to point out- I'm not plagued by this like it might seem, I'm just feeling needy today.)

The only answer I've found for all these wanderings comes from the place where all my answers lie...

"For the LORD gives wisdom; 

From His mouth come knowledge and understanding;

7 He stores up sound wisdom for the upright; 
He is a shield to those who walk uprightly; 

8 He guards the paths of justice, 
And preserves the way of His saints. 

9 Then you will understand righteousness and justice, 
Equity and every good path."

-Proverbs 2: 6-9

In all these things, I am exceedingly comforted by the fact that as long as I am seeking Him wholeheartedly, I cannot be led astray.  My path is not some elusive needle in a haystack that I am searching for, rather my path is my everyday interactions, my work, my conversations.  

Seek ye first...

Amen.