etsy!

Well I've created an etsy site as you can see by the link on the right. Who knows if anyone well ever come across it among the other hundreds of thousands of artist's pages, but at least I'm trying? The only negative effect this site might have is now my friends will know that their wedding/birthday/holiday presents are items that haven't been selling on etsy.

Right now I've only got ceramics posted but hope to include some paintings and photos as well. So check it out, I might even cut you a deal. And hey, if you're in Minneapolis you won't have to pay for shipping.....

Kapow!

I realize this isn't the best photo, but I was in danger of getting hit by cars and missing my bus. On my quest to find a not-sold-out show of The Dark Knight I came across this theater and liked that the marquee man was enthusiastic. Which, by the way, I didn't know was "knight" with a 'k' until the day I saw it. And it should be mentioned that just before showtime a man clearly out of his element in the packed theater stopped Jess, and pointing to his ticket stub asked if PG-13 was his seat number. Precious.

Skinny Black Jeans and Stampedes

I finally bought a pair of skinny black jeans. I’ve been holding out, perhaps because it’s the ultimate hipster classifier. If anyone called me a hipster I could say, “No, no- have you seen my jeans??” But now I can only throw out defensive statements like, “But I shop at the Gap!” and “I still like Death Cab!”

I found the trendy jeans during a day of shopping in Vancouver, just after half-way trying on a pair of maternity pants. I had them pulled up to my knees before I realized the meaning behind the faux fly and extra-wide elastic waist band. Oops. As a self-esteem booster I was prepared to hand them back to the fitting room attendant with an apologetic shrug that said, “These funky pants were waaaay too big,” but alas, the post was unmanned.

Later, in a small vintage boutique in Chinatown I had another shopping mix up. I was looking through the Western/cowboy shirt selection and the cashier perked up. “You’re looking for Western shirts?” she asked, “Because the stampede here is over.” I assumed by “stampede” she meant craze or trend, so I assured her I was from the Midwest and the stampede was in full-swing. A look of bewilderment came over her and she replied, “No. We had a real stampede. Last week. That’s what we do here when hockey is off-season.” Now I can only guess what one does at a real stampede. Maybe it’s Canadian lingo for a rodeo, or maybe hundreds of Vancouverites don cowboy shirts and stampede through town, but whatever it was I missed it by a week.

Other Vancouver notes:

While on the subject of attire I’d like to mention how enjoyable I found the Vancouver’s Bard on the Beach performance of The Twelfth Night. Set in the 1920’s, the actors wore Chuck Taylors and pin-striped suits instead of tights and poofy pantaloons.

They have a library that resembles the Colosseum.

In Canada they have exciting potato chip flavors like ketchup and roasted chicken.

People are not nearly afraid enough of raccoons and rabies.

The best way to see an orca whale might be at Sea World. But to see a baby beluga all you need to do is go to the aquarium, though willfully knowing you will likely not be able to stop humming that annoying Raffi song.

Seattle's Best

Aside from the dandruff ridden a-hole that I was sitting next to on the flight out, things have been running rather smoothly. The man seriously didn’t understand the concept of personal space, and several times I had to feign interest in something under my seat so I could whack his drifting head with my elbow to get him out of my space bubble. And on top of all this, he threw a fit when his laptop couldn't get wireless. True story. Needless to say, I called window seat on the return flight.

Once in Seattle we spent most of the time aimlessly walking around, which quickly made me realize that a) Seattle is not known for its hills and it should be b) things on the edge of the map can be several miles away, and c) I need to do some stair steppers. We stayed close to Pike’s Place Market, famous for being home to the original Starbucks and its local fruit and seafood vendors. Employees at a prime location booth will happily toss around fish, lobsters and giant crabs as if they were manning a Tom Cruise Cocktail bar if only someone in the crowd were actually there to buy a fish. There are also delicious Russian pastries in Pike’s Place along with a “Cat Whisperer” who disappointingly was asking for money without translating fortunes given by cats. I would have paid for a cat fortune.

After a stroll through the Fremont Flea Market I am officially ready to start attending some city council meetings to try to get something like this going in Minneapolis. Antiques, vintage ware, arts n’ crafts, food. And it happens every week! I would even be satisfied if such an event were only held monthly. Among random treasures I was able to find a giant (5 inch) safety pin to replace a friend’s who had one stolen and also had an enjoyable time sifting through a massive pile of name tags pulled from mechanic’s uniforms. Mostly the patches were for Roys and Steves, but I was able to find a “Rock,” which was close enough to my name that I felt obligated to buy it for a dollar.


I was also excited to get both Jess and Ray into a kayak, and though it was more of a lily-pad terrain than whitewater, I am a little amazed that everyone remained virtually dry. We even had such great form that other tourists were taking pictures of us, so look for Jess and I in an upcoming travel brochure. And I highly recommend the kayak rental place, Agua Verde, which also doubles as a delicious Mexican restaurant.



Other things I learned:

The flowers surrounding Mt. Rainier are in bloom, which is picturesque but will cause allergy suffers like myself to become sleepless in Seattle, without the Tom Hanks romance and comedy.

The Experiencing Music Project museum is interesting, but not nearly as fun as Rock Band.

Body paint can effectively imitate spandex on nude cyclists.

Giving homeless people your left-over Chinese food can be a somewhat terrifying experience.

Family photo by a waterfall on Mt. Rainier.

Seattle Library

On A Blender

I was preparing to make a smoothie (or maybe daiquiris, funny I can't remember) when I discovered a key element was missing: the blender. There are only so many places a blender can wander off to, and after checking the usual spots to no avail I became a little annoyed. Did somebody steal my blender? After a moment of contemplating whether or not a hand-held mixer would do the trick I suddenly remembered where I had seen the object in question.

That's right ladies and gentlemen, it was being used as a doorstop.


And on that note, here's a fun "Will It Blend?" video.

Random Thoughts

Congrats to the Goplins for a new addition to their family. I don’t actually know the birthing mom, does that make this creepy? But why salute the person who carried the baby for nine months and delivered it when I can congratulate her siblings who did nothing?

And while I’m throwing around praise, I’d like to give a big, “Proud of you” to my good friend Rafael Nadal. Though Federer may have cooler fans (Gwen Stefani and Gavin Rossdale) Raf is cuter and has a more pronounced accent, so it’s only fair that he win Wimbledon.

And lastly, never ever spill grease that has been sitting around for weeks in 85 degree heat. If you were contemplating it, I urge you to stop. The horror of an odor that does its best to combine the scent of a decaying body and cat urine will soak into your pores and leave you wishing you would’ve just eaten that ground turkey grease-intact.

Somewhere in the Middle of America

My college roommate Margee (pronounced with a hard ‘G’) hails from Griswold, Iowa, population of roughly 1,000. Actually, that’s not quite right. Her family doesn’t live in town, but a few miles outside of it in a beautiful farmhouse, set among acres of corn and a matrix of gravel roads. This is where I spent my Fourth of July. As I sat on their deck drinking a delicious cocktail of gin and freshly picked-and-smashed cherries, I couldn’t really imagine a more fitting setting to honor America’s grandeur.

After just a few hours of this peaceful, slower-than-city pace, Jess and I were contemplating if we could ever live in a rural environment. I was thrilled to ride in the back of a pickup, to be constantly surrounded by kittens and to be as loud as we wanted without worrying about fun-hating neighbors. And to be able to grow your own food? How marvelous! But these thoughts went as fast as they came. Twice during my short stay someone had to drive 20 miles each way to a mid-size town for various errands. I never even make it to St. Paul. And what would I do if I ran out of ice cream in the middle of the night? Or what if I had the desire to have a pizza delivered and someone dressed as a superhero driving a three-wheeled moped to deliver it?! Nope, I’d never make it. Despite the theme of “Green Acres” running through my head every five minutes, farm livin’ is not the life for me; I’ll stick to visits.

On Saturday we ventured into Omaha to celebrate Margee and Katie’s (another college friend) birthdays. There are people that love birthdays, and then there are people that love birthdays enough that they start planning the event 364 days in advance. Luckily they keep the requirements simple enough: matching outfits and lots of booze. Though there tends to be a trend in their outfit choice (heavy on neon pink), this year they decided to don shiny black wigs of the Pulp Fiction bob variety. As we walked through the Old Market area downtown people didn’t even attempt to hide their open-mouth stares. Even the equestrian cops showed a great deal of interest, perhaps wondering if the birthday girls were in fact working girls. There was maybe less dancing than Margee and Katie had hoped for, but maybe the setting off fireworks inside a bar and having “Happy Birthday” sung to them (or their false names, anyway) by an Irish band was enough to make up for it. I’m not sure how they’re going to top those wigs next year, but I’m looking forward to finding out.

Margee, drinking wine on her deck with the sunset behind her.

Delicious Fourth of July feast including chicken kebabs, crab cakes, pesto pasta salad, ham and cheese torte, and Three Buck Chuck.

Group shot in Omaha featuring birthday girls in matching wigs.

An Introduction

So I'm starting a blog. Obviously. Great, you're thinking, all the world needs is another uber sarcastic single-gal-in-the-city blog. In attempt to remove those eyeballs from the back of your head in hopes that you'll keep reading, let me explain that I'm doing this strictly as a form of motivation for me to do some writing. Every time I try to start a journal I feel like I'm in seventh grade again and need to gush about my crush or a backstabbing friend, and after three entries or so I fail miserably. So here's hoping that my readers will be enough to keep me going. All three of you. And that might be a gross over-exaggeration. Oh, and I promised to blame Kate, because after reading her superb blog it made me want to start my own.

Perhaps the title needs some explanation? For those of you who haven't seen the '90's baseball classic, The Sandlot, I urge you to queue it up immediately. And if you're not fortunate enough to have an online movie rental service, try the library. Let me set up the scene for you from which I took the line of dialog that serves as my motto:

In a clubhouse a baseball team of 12 yr old boys are making s'mores. Smalls, the main character, is a bit of a square and has never had a s'more.
Teammate: Hey Smalls, you want a s'more?
Smalls: A s'more? How can I have s'more (pronounced "some more") if I haven't had any?
Teammate: (Flabbergasted) You're killing me, Smalls.

Life is full of these "you've got to be kidding me" moments. I try to find humor in these situations and will try to share them with you. And to start things off, I'm attaching a photo from my street corner stop sign. Writing things on stop signs is nothing new, but it's always refreshing to see something cleverer than "Stop War." My personal favorite is, "Stop. Hammertime." but I've yet to obtain a picture. It's also good to know that the taggers in my neighborhood are PC. And thanks to Jake for actually noticing the stop sign- I apparently breeze through it without looking.