Indie naked.

Today in my teenage angst, I love independence. I love people who say, this is what I want to do. And they work and they save and they sacrifice to make it happen. I'd like to note that there are millions of these people in Canada alone. This sort of independence is not new. And I think its outrageous of us to expect every one of them to be amazing. I went to watch a friend's band play and some other friends who didn't know them were there and they were all like, "meh. This is nothing special." Let's also note that the headliner they were there to see was no more special. It doesn't matter. The reality that the singer/songwriter world is exploding doesn't make it any less worth celebrating. Music is always worth celebrating.

A few weeks ago, Bon Iver was presented with two Grammy's. The reception of his winnings was more comical than anything. Most people had never heard of him, his music or his attractive facial hair. They haven't heard of his back-woods life in Minnesota or worked to understand the extensive process that is his music. I love people like Bon Iver because they are artists. They understand music and its depth and the power that it has and the effort it should require. They don't create alternate identities in order to shock and offend. They just are. With their music and their lives, they are.

This video, long as it is, shows that power and effort in its barest form. Its a loop machine, two pianos and two men. Making Music. Music with a capital M.



Thank you, Bon Iver.

Cookies.

Today in my teenage angst, I committed to productivity. I couldn't sit anymore. I've been sitting for three days, and as thrilling as Buffy is . . .  So I made some cookies. I'm also planning to exercise - sans anklet -, efficiently study for my exam tomorrow and make myself a healthy lunch.

I started with some cookies. After finding this Martha Cookie Book at the library I had to bring it home. The index is pictorial! That clinched it for me. I really need it. Ben and I are going to Chapters on Saturday and I intend to locate it and make it mine. Anyway, I decided on Gingersnap Raspberry Sandwiches, because I have a really healthy relationship with jam and like to include it in whatever aspects of my life that I can.

I took some time to play with my sister's kitty in between exchanging the sheets of cookies.

Once they were all baked, I paired them up, lathered them with jam (literally. I loaded it on there) and sandwiched.

I might have dropped a little on my phone. No worries; my tongue took care of it - no assumed euphemisms please.

 Rousseau also helped herself to whatever made its way to the table.

Mission accomplished. Handily I might add.

Questions from Buffy #3.

Marionette feet.

Today in my teenage angst, my worst fear was realized.

I have really bad joints. They hyperextend, they rotate in unnatural ways, they hurt inexplicably. It's a poor situation all the way around. My ankles are a particular issue all the way around. I call them my marionette feet. You know when you dangle a marionette it's feet just kind of hang there? Then when you set it on the stage it's feet land, but they're not as stable as they could be if they belonged to anything but a marionette. If you move the marionette too fast, not allowing for its string-attached limbs to catch up with itself, it will tumble and roll. Those are my ankles and subsequent feet.

Yesterday I was headed out to my favorite newly seven-year-old little girl's birthday party. Please understand that I am terribly afraid of stairs. As I stepped off the deck to go to the car, I was admittedly distracted. Apparently so distracted that I didn't step onto any steps at all. I stepped off the deck and landed on my in-turned ankle. I screamed and writhed and screamed some more. My father, who rushed to help me was sadly assaulted by these screams. My over-dramatist nature is never less of a gift than in the midst of my extreme pain.

This was most evident a couple of years ago when I hit black ice and rammed my car into a tree. My knee and lower leg took the brunt of the impact and were causing some disorienting pain. My passenger, dearest Laura, didn't have a scratch on her and was available to go for help. The disorientation left me wailing alone at the car for God to save us and someone else to come for help. Looking back on it, I can only laugh, thinking of how hilarious I must have looked.

I stumbled into the house, apologized a thousand times - also a shock and pain tendency - and we eventually made our way to the hospital. No break, but alas a pretty sick sprain, leaving me immobilized and off work for a week. Vacation, yes. Relaxing, no. I'm stranded and in pain, left to my own resources in getting around. I gratefully had some visitors this morning and they brought me some flowers. They were none other than these girls, featured in this post. The oldest is to whose party I was headed when the pleasant accident occurred. Her mom told me later that she remarked, "Poor, Hannah," several times throughout the party. I love kids. Emily also remarked to her mom, as they were picking out the flowers, "Hannah probably has lots of flowers." Sarah, her mom replied, "Really? Do you think so?" Emily stated, "Yep. She's got lots of friends." Sarah explained that while that were true (it's not really), they might not have all brought her flowers.

I'm not sure if there's a moral to this story. So I'll just end with this. Don't distract yourself with candy corn and your cell phone or you'll end up blogging on a tuesday afternoon wishing you could get yourself a snack with greater ease and feeling bad for Janelle, whose day off was inevitably taken away from her because you're not there to fill your shift for yourself.

Questions from Buffy #2.

Interrupted.

Today in my teenage angst, I was interrupted. This isn't an unusual occurrence for myself as I am the youngest. Don't think I'm just bemoaning my place as the youngest. I'm a driver by personality, which allows me to make my way in this world easier than my experience as a youngest might have afforded me. I do like to think however, that I have the things I have to say are of some measure of worth. None-the-less, I am interrupted. I am interrupted at the dinner table, on the phone, in general conversation, etc. It's almost a small part of my place in the family. I am the youngest, ergo I am interrupted.

My sister started school again this year. She applied to the fine arts department at the University in the next town over and got accepted. She's 26. There's a significant difference in doing a portfolio interview with a 17 year old than with a 26 year old. Needless to say, she got in. She'd been out of school for a good eight years and as such everything is new. In some ways she reverted to a freshmen's mentality which was pretty entertaining for me.

I'm in my twelfth semester of college. My experience, at this point, should be able to lend to some sort of encouragement, advice or camaraderie. This is not to be had however, because I am interrupted. I'd like to accept my place in that but really just ends with me spending more time in my fridge of a room, watching Buffy. I gotta say, that's not the worst end.

Also, re: image included in this post. Can we just talk, for a second, about Brittany Murphy in this movie?

Kleenex.

Today in my teenage angst, the facial tissue industry is a little bit fascinating. Not because facial tissue is fascinating but because we have come to depend so thoroughly on this umbrella industry we call Kleenex. I, in particular, have been having sinus issues for about three weeks now and Kleenex has been my nearest and dearest friend. Legit. But I digress.

I found this box when I reached into our storehouse of boxes of kleenex, and I laughed. As you can clearly see, this box was meant for a school child. Did you know that a box of kleenex is on most school supply lists today? Maybe this was your late-August-reality, it was mine too. But not until we moved to Canada.

My dad is American - I too, subsequently, am American - and we lived in Portland, OR for the early years of my conscious existence. Kleenex was definitely not on my supply list at Bridger Elementary. I remember thinking, after arriving in Canada as a seven-year-old, how odd it was to have that on my supply list. Why couldn't the school supply us with that item? They supply us with toilet paper. What's the difference?

I learned. The kleenex that the school buys is gross and scratchy and basically out to get you. It must have been an intervention on behalf of the teachers to provide us with a little comfort during cold season. Teachers are the nicest. You could, however, always tell when we got to a box that had been brought by a rich kid. Puffs Plus with Lotion. While we appreciated that extra bit of softness, we cursed them for the automatic tendency to buy the nicest brand.

Isn't this always the way.

Look what I found on the way to work.

Nature is fun.

Questions from Buffy.

Grandchild.

Today in my teenage angst, I am not a grandchild. I've been in a grandparent-less state for most of my life. My dad's parents were both gone by the time I was 5. My mom's dad died when I was 12 and her mom died just a couple years ago. Even so, she had dementia so we didn't have a relationship. I've accepted this as a part of my experience and am subsequently drawn to seniors who are willing to speak into my life. I value them so much more because I never really had ones that were related to me.

This morning I'm reading an ethnographic article on North American models of grandparenting and it hit me. Not only do I not have grandparents, I am not a grandchild. I guess I was but I never really identified with that state enough to say, 'I always will be.'

A big part of building self-awareness is identifying those things that you are. It's funny how you don't think to also identify the things that you're not.

Thrift.

Today in my teenage angst, I mourn. Oh yeah, it's Valentine's day. Happy V-Day! I have this distinct memory of writing Happy V-Day on my valentines for cards. My nine year-old hand-writing was really terrible (and honestly still is) and I guess I just couldn't be bothered with St. Valentine's entire name.

About a month ago my sister wanted to go thrifting for some picture frames. I love walking downtown so I tagged a long. We hit up Salvation Army and then went a couple of blocks up to Then n' Again Thrift Store.

This place is so classic. A little hole in the wall stuffed to the brim with things that mostly nobody needs. We walked around and I noted several times how I felt like a bull in a china shop on the brink of bringing everything to the ground. And then I saw it.

Evita. Not just Evita, the poster from the original Broadway production.  

Note the presence of Patti and Mandy in the billing. Glory!!!

This is the totality of my finds that day. A four dollar tiny-knapsack, Lars and the Real Girl for a buck and Patti. I hung her up next to my bed. She blesses me, as well as Argentina, as I sleep.

Today I found out that the lady, Grace Ovans, who owned Then n' Again passed away in her sleep. She was sixty-eight. When I found Evita, it was buried in the back against a wall behind some skis and videos and records. She was really nice about me wanting to look at it and pulled out her step ladder, slowly crawled up the wall and then decided it was better if I did it. I asked her how she started the store and she told me the story of her happy addiction to auctions and the transformation of trash to treasures.

She along with her husband go to church with my parents. He's a trucker who's really into motorcycling and evangelizes while adorned in leather. I'm so sad. It kind of hurts me that people can die in their sleep for seemingly no reason at all. And as sad as we are we have to wonder what's going to become of the store. She didn't own the building so I suppose it will be cleaned out and rented to someone else. That store has been there longer than I've been alive. That's an for real assumption, but I'm willing to assume further that it's a safe one. I can't imagine walking down High St. and not seeing the odd ball knick knacks in her window. I miss you already, Grace.

Day 31: You, again.

This is almost a year and a half ago. It doesn't seem like that. but my hair is a lot longer, so I guess that's proof.

This marks the end of the photo challenge. If you'd like further explanation on any of my posts or the people in them let me know. I'd be happy to fill you in.

See you tomorrow.

Day 30: Nature.

I so wish.

Buffy.

Today in my teenage angst, Janelle and I wondered why the vampires in Buffy the Vampire Slayer are so invariably and inexplicably heinous. These things are so ugly. Just so so ugly. In the words of Janelle, "What the hell, Joss Whedon???"

The Cullens certainly don't look like this. But I suppose Vampiria has evolved since the mid-nineties. 

Day 29: Inside your fridge.

Now that's just sad.
Don't worry, it's not actually my fridge. Add some cheese, ranch dressing, apples and oranges. That's my fridge.

Day 28: Light.

The sun as it graces the Rocky Mountains. Gorgeous.

Carrot nose.

Today in my teenage angst, I wonder. I wonder if you've ever laughed so hard milk came out of your nose. I have, but it was when I was really little. It was a fairly strange experience in the midst of my lack of life experience.

The connections between the ear, nose, and throat are a remarkable thing. It's like plumbing you know exists but don't have to utilize that often so until something goes wrong you aren't even aware of it. The other day, I was eating some carrots and choked. I coughed and sputtered and felt intrusive and apologized to those around me. After, I went to the kitchen and drank some water.

On top of this, I've been having sinus issues. It's like I'm walking around with a plate of pepper under my nose. I'm not. Either way I've been blowing my nose about 20 times a day. After choking, sputtering and getting some water, I blew my nose. The kleenex was orange.

There was carrot in the kleenex. I had carrot in my nasal passage. That's just weird. And a little bit sad. And a little bit funny. But mostly sad.

Day 27: Lunch.

Just a little clam chowder by the harbor in St. John's.

Day 26: Color.

This was at my friend Amber and Phil's wedding. They're colorful people. As is evidenced in their wedding.

Day 25: Something you made.

I really hate crafting. But I went to this craft night because it my friends were hosting it and I participated like I'd never participated before.

Go me.

Day 24: Guilty pleasure.

This is one of my favorite movies. It is legit hilarious. I dare you to watch it.

Day 23: Something old.

This sweater belonged to my father. His parents - my grandparents - brought it for him from the OSU bookstore, when they came to visit us in Alberta in 1986. My dad and I have a mutual love of the Oregon State Beavers and having never worn it as it never really fit, he gave it to me.

It's my most prized possession.

Day 22: Your shoes.

These aren't actually my shoes, though I wish they were. I love how they contrast with the red dirt so associated with Prince Edward Island.

Day 21: Reflection.

Looking at grad pictures causes a sort of reflection. I didn't feel any measure of accomplishment upon receiving my first B.A. I did however learn more than I ever considered possible. Thinking about those four years at Briercrest always works up in me a nostalgia for where I've been and just how much I've grown.