BB post 7 - "fireworks"

If you're looking for a way to seriously mess up my Thursday night, fire works.

Last night, Jim, Karen, Julie, Lauren and I were settling down to watch So You Think You Can Dance. We were greeted cordially by Cat (the host) and the dancers started performing the opening number, which involved tracksuits and black lights. It was kind of weird, to be honest. But, I'll never be able to form an educated opinion about the performance as a whole, because RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DANCING, fox news (those bastards) interrupted to present "breaking news" about the fire in Spokane. A fire which I'd like to point out is only moderately larger than that produced by a zippo lighter. Ok, that's a lie. But someone should tell Fox news that a "breaking news" segment does not last OVER AN HOUR LONG. We got interviews, about twenty minutes of the same STILL picture, and several particularly riveting segments in which a woman read her email. Or rather, gestured to it as if we could read the screen ourselves.

Thank God for my mother, who focused all her texting energy on providing a blow-by-blow account of the action. It was pretty cute, actually. She was abbreviating left and right (though I'm not sure if that was intentional or the byproduct of technological frustration).

So, I'm mad at Fox news and Spokane in general. Oh, and if you're wondering if I called the news desk to bitch about it...I did. I was ready to give them what-for too, except they didn't answer the phone. Typical.

Bloomsbury Post 6.2 - Hand

I figured, since I put forth two prompts, I should at least do both of them. I'm not really sure what possessed me to open the palm-reading can of worms, as I (like Lauren) am a little iffy on the whole thing. I recall once at a company picnic they brought in a tarot card reader. I was just about to leave for France, and had a whole round of grad school applications on my horizon. I asked the woman about my career - that is, I asked her about my intention to become a professor. She said - I still remember it verbatim, which is funny since I JUST said I don't really buy into this kind of stuff - "I'm sorry, sweetie, but I just don't see that working out for you". First - rude - don't call me sweetie. Particularly when you've just casually shrugged my future off. Secondofly, maybe she just knew the job market for professors sucks. Maybe she herself was a failed PhD! So maybe ten years from now I'll be reading tarot cards at company picnics. Which means I'd better take this palm reading post pretty seriously.

I picked my left hand, even though it's my dominant hand. Because I like being left-handed, and also because I like being a girl.

The Heart Line: 

Begins in the middle: Falls in love easily.

(Not sure I agree with this.)

Smaller lines crossing  through the heart line: emotional trauma. 

(Oh hey! Faaaaabulous.)

The Head Line: 

Curved, sloping line: Creativity! 

(That almost makes up for the crappy heart line)

Deep, long line: Thinking is clear and focused. 

(Fantastic. Except, I think anyone who has ever had a conversation with me would likely disagree. Ben, for example, spends most of our conversational time trying to tie up the loose ends I leave scattered all over the place.)

Multiple crosses through the head line: momentous decisions

(Doesn't everyone have momentous decisions to make?)

The Life Line: 

Long, deep: vitality

(here's hoping.)

Swoops around in a semi-circle: strength and enthusiasm

(I think this is true. I mean, anyone who sits near me during So You Think You Can Dance can plainly see I have oodles of enthusiasm. Possibly too much enthusiasm, considering it's a tv show. But I am enthusiastic about other things too, like Socrates, Shakespeare, and buying DVDs.)

The Fate Line: 

Ok, none of the descriptors matched my fate line. It breaks, but does not continue in different directions. So maybe that means I'm prone to many changes in life from internal - rather than external - features? But really, I just made that up, because it seems to be more accurate. 

My hand seems to be a Fire hand: 

Square or rectangular palm, flushed or pink skin, and shorter fingers; length of the palm greater than the length of the fingers.

-Spontaneous, enthusiastic, and optimistic

-Sometimes egoistic, impulsive, and insensitive

-extroverts

-do things boldly and instinctively

I...kind of agree with this. I wouldn't particularly consider myself an extrovert, since I am kind of ridiculously shy. But the rest of it I think is pretty accurate. 

So that's it. Also, I would like to mention that as I sat here in the AML writing this post, Jim was laughing at me pretty much the whole time. I would say something like "Never let it be said that I don't suffer for you guys" but this whole thing was my idea. So it's my own damn fault. 

delicate

I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I'm pretty girly. I have hot pink pants, for pete's sake. I like to paint my nails, and read about celebrities, and buy shoes. I heed Mindy Kaling's blog the way some people heed the Bible. So you would think I would have very little trouble finding something overwhelmingly delicate in my life. Nevertheless, I am struggling. I can find a lot of indulgence, perhaps. A significant amount of fluff, but nothing particularly delicate without getting into some stuff I'd rather not discuss on the internets. However, since some of my blogging compatriots have been so generous with themselves this summer (ie, since I essentially tear up every time I read Rachel's blog) I would like to offer something a little more substantial than just some bullshit story about how my bones are more delicate than I realized (hence the metal plate in my arm) or the lace bobbins in my grandmother's house or my eyeballs (as I am currently peering at this computer screen through new glasses).

I started off with the dictionary entry for delicate, since that seemed as good a starting point as any. And you know what? I was surprised. I was expecting the first definition to address the easily wounded, or the intricately designed. But the first definition was:

Pleasing to the senses, especially in a subtle way.

Fascinating.

The very first thing I thought of was air. The smell of the air has always been oddly important to me, which seems kind of like a bizarre characteristic of some sort of Disney villain. Can't you see it now? Cruella DeVil, teetering down the street in sky-high stilettos and baby seal fur, bitching about the smell of the air? I can see it, at least. And I'm not talking about when you're driving along the highway and you catch a whiff of skunk, or when you drive into Moscow. I'm talking about a subtle scent, so subtle that it seems less like a smell that's bothering you, and more like the place itself is just giving you the creeps.

The inverse of the creepy-air smell, of course, is warm and inviting - just a generally content smell. Real estate brokers will tell you that it's baking bread, or something like that. But again I think that's a little too obvious, don't you? My favorite is the smell the air takes when it's about to rain. Or, the odor right before a big electrical storm. These scents are almost imperceptible, but so lovely. These smells are a quiet assertion of presence, and in those moments before the storm I feel like I too am more present. Those are wonderfully calm moments, and I love them for their quiet dignity.

Ok, that's probably more on my love affair with smelly air than any of you really needed. But, it kind of sets the groundwork for my larger, original point (also known as the point I was going to make before I actually looked "delicate" up in the dictionary).

There is something subtle in the way the air changes as you move from place to place. My home in Bellevue, as I've mentioned, pretty much always smells as if it's going to rain. The air in my temporary home - Pullman - smells like heat and humidity (at least, it seems to these days). The air at Jo's house - yet another home - has the weird, tingly current you inhale just before a really powerful sneeze. (I don't think it smells like this for most people, but I am, tragically, really allergic to Bampton. It is like Pollen Land there.) So I suppose it's fair to say that I've collected this weird affinity for delicate shifts in air scents because I have this impulsive need to keep moving. I've been thinking about my pack-up-and-move bug a lot recently, because I've been here in Pullman for a year now. That means it's time for me to get antsy again. I'm like Juliette Binoche in Chocolat, but not in any of the cool mistress-of-chocolate ways. Just in that move-every-time-the-wind-changes way. I've only got a year of this chunk of my life left, so now my vision of the future is once again kind of an inchoate, shifting image. Generally speaking, this is the way I like it. It's exciting to think about the way the air will smell in my new home (wherever that may be). But, in this case, what is exciting is also incredibly selfish. I leave. I leave all the time. It was recently pointed out to me that I have about a billion best friends. The English student in me recognizes, immediately, that "best" is a singular superlative. But Lauren, who in fact is the one who pointed out this "best friend in every port" situation, is totally right. I can in fact, off the top of my head, think of seven people I'd classify as best friends. Best friend from high school. Best friend from college. Best friend from my sorority. Best friend from the crew team. Best friend from Scotland. Best friend from France. Best friend from Pullman. And I adore these people so, so much. And what I'm wondering is, when will I stop leaving these people? Isn't the ability to stay put a mark of adulthood. And if it is...when will that bug...bite?

And the Money Kept Rolling In

Well, in true Toria fashion, I started this post on Tuesday, got all excited about the timeliness of my posting this week, and then promptly forgot about it until today. Oops. But anyway. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's spending imaginary money. So here goes!

Dalston Hall:

This, technically speaking, is my ancestral home and a point of vague heartbreak for me. My mum's family are Dalstons. Dalston Hall (conveniently located in the town of...Dalston. I don't know if we're named after the town, or just really egotistical. Probably the latter.) But we don't own it anymore, and since then it's become a luxury hotel and a...caravan park? Ok, obviously I am in no position to be snobby, because I could never, ever buy this place. However, it just makes me a little sad that, you know, the sprawling grounds of my ancestor's home now backs onto...a trailer park. And the antiques are fake! Made in China! I know this isn't that big a deal. These are minor offenses, in the grand scheme of things. Really, this is more about a general discomfort with leaving my family's history to a group of strangers. Oh my god, did I mention that in the tower room - also the honeymoon suite - they're planning to put mirrors on the ceiling? Jesus. There's so much potential there, but it would require a) a crap ton of money, and b) a willingness to live in the most haunted house in Britain. Not that I can blame my ancestors for haunting the place. I mean, mirrored ceilings? I would haunt the crap out of the people who did that to my house.

When we went to visit, when I was on the way to college, the owners actually made us sit in on a ghost tour. Because, apparently, having original family members would persuade the ghosts to come out and frolic. It didn't, for the record. No frolicking with ghosts. Probably because my mother was SUPER not into it. I have never seen her so uncomfortable/whiny/rude in my life. But that's kind of to be expected, since she is really into practical things. Anyway, if I had all kinds of money, I would love to buy Dalston hall and wrap my arms around it and make everything okay again. Except, I am HUGE wuss. So it's not really a practical purchase, because I would probably get scared. (Rachel and Lauren can attest to my overwhelming cowardice.) So, in case I need a backup residence, I would pick...


A windmill! Oh come on, everyone already knew I'd be the weirdest rich person ever, given half the chance. Seriously though, the windmill/house from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? AWESOME! I've always been into really unique/slightly quirky buildings being fashioned into homes. As a special bonus, I think the churning of the mill would be like having a giant fan going all the time, which could be soothing. I mean, it could also be really annoying, but if it is, I could always move to a lighthouse, or an abandoned fire department or factory or something.

Ok, enough real estate. What else could I buy?

Maybe...this!

I fully aspire to one day be cool enough to ride around on a Vespa.

Anyway...I'd probably devote the rest of my money to emulating Peggy Guggenheim. What a pimp! I totally forgot about her, but I would like to formally, and retroactively, invite her to my dinner party. She could be in charge of the drinks - Bellinis, obviously. Aside from the fact she named her children the weirdest things ever - Sinbad and Pegeen - she was really committed to art, and threw fabulous parties with all the best and most interesting people. I myself don't actually know anything about art, but I really admire the way she decided to be the protector of her generation's artists (she single-handedly kept Jackson Pollock alive, for example) and then followed through. I suppose you can have that kind of commitment when you're obscenely wealthy. But let us take some executive notice of the fact that good old Peg used her money extremely well. Aside from assembling one of the most important art collections ever, she also bought a gondola (don't worry, she lived in Venice. It's totally rational). She and her friends would get deliciously intoxicated on prosecco and take the gondola out on the Grand Canal. If that alone doesn't justify this woman as the premier role model of the 20th century, I don't know what does.

bōl

bōl. Initially, I was going to call my restaurant "Bowl Me Over!" Because, as Lauren said, it's the kind of name that says, "Just try to have a bad time here. We dare you." But, I am going for more of a cozy vibe than a perky vibe. I mean, okay, I am pretty perky anyway. So my restaurant would also likely be perky and smiley and generally bubbly. But I want my restaurant to be plush, with rich colors and comfy furniture. My restaurant will have the same overall feel as a really good nap. It will be cozy and intimate. And everything will be served in a bowl. Because I LOVE bowls (please refer to my favorite bowl, above, from Ikea. It fits in my hands perfectly). Eating out of bowls is so comforting. So that's the twist for my restaurant. I'd like all my customers to bask in the warm embrace of eating from bowls. Also everything will be bite sized, so knives won't be necessary. I myself like to eat with forks, but spoons will also be available. I'm not here to judge.

Oh also, there will be no tables! Well, not dining-type tables. There will be some low coffee tables, next to deep couches covered in old, worn leather (you know, for when the meals are served/finished. Oh, also for the wine. Obviously wine will flow at my restaurant like Willy Wonka's chocolate river. Not actually though, because I don't think there's any real benefit to churning wine). Patrons will be encouraged to take their shoes off and curl up on the couches, bowls in their laps as they engage in deep philosophical conversations. Oh, and there will be a huge brick fireplace in the middle of room, and wood floors. Music will play softly in the background, and will vary anywhere from Badly Drawn Boy (I think "Something to Talk About"
is like a musical hug. I'm really into hugs, or things that produce hug-like feelings) to Lesley Garrett (her "Song to the Moon" is heartbreakingly beautiful. If you haven't heard it, let me know and I'll send it).
Here are the couches:

Makes you just want to curl up with a bowl and a philosopher/dining companion, doesn't it?

BB Post 5 - Mix Tape

I finally made it to St.Andrews in the Fall of 2004. Applying to St.Andrews has kind of become a hobby for me. It's a long story, with it's final (hopefully happy) chapter coming up sometime next year. Anyway. St.Andrews is cold, windy, and completely perfect. Minus the haggis. Actually, I don't know about that, because I've never eaten it. They serve it in the dining halls though, which I always thought was pushing it just a bit.

Here are some pictures of St.Andrews, which will probably serve as a better explanation for my obsession. Suffice to say that my mum, when she dropped me off, seriously contemplated stealing my identity for the semester and taking my bed. But who could blame her? My room in Eden Court had huge picture windows overlooking St.Andrews Bay. The ceilings were like, 20 feet high. My father, when he saw the pictures, pointed out that Eden Court was probably the nicest place I'd EVER live. And he was definitely (and kind of depressingly) right.

Here are my St.Andrews songs:

Run - Snow Patrol

Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand

Don't Look Back in Anger - Oasis

Some Girls - Rachel Stevens

Green Eyes - Coldplay

Somebody Told Me - The Killers

The First, the Last, My Everything - Barry White

Perfect Gentleman - Wyclef Jean

I can't actually decide if I want to write about these, individually. But since I was so grossly late on the last post, I thought I should post while the jury's still out.

Dinna Paaaaartay

I'm late. I know. I did a bad, bad thing. In my defense, my computer won't pick up the rogue wireless signal in our apartment. Come June 16th, I will be blogging all over the place, I promise.

My dinner party! I have been thinking about this for a long time, but this partnering thing is throwing me for a loop. I could only think of two people I reallllllllly wanted, but they are HARDLY going play nice with the group. But whatever, I will just be happy if my (hypothetical) house is still standing at the end of the evening.

Dinner Guest Number One: Henry VIII.

I know. I KNOW! Hal was not exactly a peacemaker. He probably, in real life, is a big fat meanie. But I love him. I have such a crush on him (not when he was obese and had gout). What a pimp! I would like to have a younger version of Henry, maybe pre-Anne Boleyn (even though I am totally inviting her too). I don't want him all drunk with power. Drunk with wine is okay though. I just don't want him beheading the other guests.

Henry's pair would be...Mary Kingsley. Weird pairing, I know. She definitely wouldn't put up with any of his bullshit. But as everyone from last year's 521 knows, I am totally obsessed with her! She is funny as hell. Someone who can make deepest darkest Africa amusing, I think, might convince Henry to lighten up. Or she could break the tension if Henry got out of control and ordered someone's head off.

Dinner Guest Number Three: Anne Boleyn. I know this is probably a risk. Anne Boleyn was probably a class-A beeyotch. But there's a chance she's not! Ok, a very small chance. But I feel like she essentially invented feminine wiles. I would love to see her interact with the other guests. She'd probably manipulate everyone out of their dessert. And it'd be worth it, just to watch her work.

I was really torn about A.B.'s dinner partner. Part of me just wanted to invite someone like, I dunno, Paris Hilton, or Jessica Simpson - someone who'd be totally outclassed. But I don't want them at my dinner party, and I feel Anne would want a challenge. I want someone with unbendable will. Someone with a quiet resolve, capable of containing such a forceful woman. He TOTALLY doesn't match, but I think I'll pick Nelson Mandela. I think he's capable of doing just about anything. Both Nelson and Anne have conviction of steel, but met their obstacles in entirely different ways. I wonder who would come up trumps in that pairing. At any rate, maybe Nelson could bring some class and dignity to the joint.

Dinner Guest Number 5: Audrey Niffenegger.
I don't know anything about this woman, personally. I know some of her art is pretty wacky, and I know the plot for her next book is totally weird. But she wrote The Time Traveler's Wife, which in my opinion is the most perfect novel I've ever read. It has the most remarkable effect on me. Every time I go into a bookstore, I want to buy it. I have at least four copies. I know I have at least four copies, but I always want to buy another one, just to have it in my hands RIGHT THAT SECOND. I've never been that way about anything else. She writes about love in a way that breaks my heart and then puts it back together again. So even if she's totally weird, I just want to be around her. I want to bask in the warm embrace of her talent.

Audrey's partner: Charles Barry. Does anybody know who this guy is? Because I didn't, until I googled him. So obviously, this is another person I don't know anything about, personally. But he also created something I love: the Houses of Parliament in London. The HoP is, without question, one of my favorite things in the world to see. I smile like a big idiot anytime I see it. I never get tired of looking. When I was living in France, I'd come home to my grandmother's house often. To get there I had to get to the train station, go to the Austerlitz station in Paris, get on the metro, go to the Gare du Nord, get to the Eurostar, go to Waterloo station in London, take a taxi to the bus depot, go to Oxford, then take another bus to Carterton, where Jo would pick me up and take me home to Bampton. It was a long day. It involved a lot of lugging of cases (always unreasonably heavy). But there was always one perfect moment in that whole process: when the taxi pulled out of Waterloo station and the HoP clicked into view. I dare you to be unhappy when you're near the Houses of Parliament. I seriously don't think it's possible. At least not for me. It's perfect in the rain. It's perfect in the fog. It's perfect in the sunshine. So thank you, Mr.Barry.

Dinner would be provided by Fleuron from La Mangeoire, because his rumsteak is probably the thing I miss most from Orleans. You know, other than people. With the cubed potatoes and the peppercorn sauce! Amazing. Food like that could keep the peace, even with all my bitchy guests. Sartre would serve as sous-chef, not because I think he'd be any good at it, but because I am kind of obsessed with him and I want him to come, even if I have to cheat a little bit.