For Reals

This is an actual book:

Knits Men Want

The 10 rules every woman should know before knitting for a man: plus, the only 10 patterns she'll ever need.

And this is the summary:

"For as long as women have been knitting, they’ve been knitting garments for men only to have men hide their lovingly created pieces in drawers and closets.  Men aren’t being intentionally cruel; they’re just not comfortable in knitwear made with bright colors, itchy yarn, or flashy designs. In this book, the author presents ten hilarious essays, each based on a rule that helps women knit for men successfully."--Amazon.

This actual book was published for the first time in 2010.  Yes, exactly right – last year.

I really, really wish knitting was a euphemism for something – anything, absolutely anything – else, but, alas no, knitting is just knitting.  Hilarious essays?  I bet.

Dear Men:  really?  You “want” knitting?  I thought all you wanted was snacks & sex*.   How completely illuminating.  And, somewhat retarded.  But as one of you (a man) did write this book, it must be true!

Now doesn’t this explain everything? Most especially the state of the publishing industry.  And the reason why we must keep the word “retarded” in circulation.  I mean, is anything more retarded than a book about men wanting knitting?  No, no there isn’t.  I think I might just take some knitting needles, eschew the “only 10 patterns I’ll ever need” and poke my fucking eyes out with them.  Yes, yes I think that’s the only reasonable thing to do with knitting needles.  Save me, blindness, from this retarded crap!

So, supercute imaginary boyfriend (or similar), I’ll tell you now that while I know you would look even supercuter than the fellas in the book with a handmade reversible scarf, I will never, ever be able to give you what you want.  Best you know this now.  God forbid you’re disappointed in my lack of traditional craftiness.  Or worse, cold, without a non-itchy non-flashy sweater.  I know your Laura Ingalls awaits you and trust you will be happy and warm and cuddly together, knitting one and purling two.  As for you, Bruce Weinstein, I'm not only outraged you're a published author, but shocked you've actually sold copies of this book.  But, then again, I suppose this means you can get anything published these days.  How about this: 

Weapons For Women

The Evolution of the Knitting Needle

I can really see this taking off.  For Reals.

*Thanks, SF - very helpful as usual.

Wait For It

Sooner or later you will become the person you made fun of.

Trust me, it's only a matter of time.

Raunch

Beware of befriending, via Facebook, BBM, or the like, the children of your friends. Everyone needs their secrets, don’t you know?

To whit, a BB message from the 13 year old daughter of a dear friend:

‘I like big dicks’.

I am not joking, nor am I exaggerating.  This is a direct quote because as you must know, I do not talk this way.  But that’s not the point.  The point is WHY IS SHE TALKING THIS WAY?!   What does she know of dicks, big or small?  Has she seen small ones, and thus knows she prefers big ones?  Does she know what a dick is?  What is going on here?!  She’s 13!  THIRTEEN! 

Pause, reflective pause.  It’s not her fault, really.  I blame the media.  And Lady Gaga and Rihanna and all the other celebs they idolize who believe it’s totally proper to leave the house without trousers and with push up bras for tops, who sell hyper-sex and ultimately make everything so sceazy (scuzzy and sleazy) and in your face.  This new raunchiness is overt and meaningless.  None of this stuff – nudity, sex, lingo - really means anything to anyone anymore, especially someone who had no context to begin with.

While Rihanna’s new tune is pretty great, I wonder how many kiddies have any idea what  the excitement of those whips and chains is all about.  Do they know what this means?  Of course (hopefully) not.  Did I have any idea, at fourteen, what Depeche Mode’s Master & Servant was all about?  The butler, right?   Of course it’s nothing new, but somehow now it seems different.  There’s just so much more of it.  It’s a veritable onslaught.  Am I being naïve?  Are things really out of control?  Have we lost all innocence and romance?   When did it become de rigeur for kids to use words like dicks and tits and everything else as throwaways without consideration or meaning?  Am I turning into Tipper Gore?

Maybe, she said with a sigh.

Maybe I just want to channel some JT and bring the sexy back.  The times of little note passing and downturned eyes and giggles and blushing of girl memories that turn into butterflies and crazy-fast heartbeats and stolen kisses of bigger girl memories and finally the anticipation and seduction and sexy (not just sex, sexy) of now memories.   When all the other stuff – the nudity, the sex, the lingo – becomes commonplace to the point of meaningless you demystify the magic, the mystery and even the anticipation.  Quelle buzzkill.

So, sure, saying at 13 you like big dicks is (hopefully) like saying you like big spaceships: it’s (hopefully) otherwordly.  I know she’s a good girl and was just messing around with some friends.  Of course I will never tell her parents.  Of course I will be there to talk to her as a somewhat cool non-parent adult, because regardless of how cool your parents actually are, as a kid you never think they’re cool until you’re older.  Having non-parent adult influences and sounding boards are important for a kid.  If I do say so myself, I think I did a damn good job with our discussion on Chris Brown.  It does make me a little sad – shocked that phrasing like this has reached her peer groups’ vernacular and it’s cutting them all off from the SLOW AND GRADUAL natural progression of things.  Thirteen, people.  Thirteen.  I know for damn sure she won’t become one of those girls out in a pack at night in one of those butt & boob dresses drunk-tripping over impossible heels – you’ve seen these girls – she’s way too sensible for that, but for how long will she be able to stay sensible with the onslaught she’s being hit with on a daily basis?

 I think a nunnery on speed dial is the only solution.  Don’t you?

Holy Brit!

Oh, London, why did I stay away so long?

And, no! I did not bring back this incredibly grumpy weather!  It’s now been five times across the pond for me and each trip has been marked by perfect weather – it never rains while I’m in London - obviously the city has a true affinity to me and my finicky hair.  Thank you, London, thank you.

Now, I’m a big city girl at heart and no big city gets to my heart like London.  This is a BIG statement, I know, but it is so true.  There is a majesty and grandeur in the city that is impossible to replicate anywhere, and, yes, that includes New York because what London has that New York doesn’t is a sense of order and civility amidst a city bursting at the seams in all high point action:  culture; fashion; politics; music; history.  It’s a perpetual mindblow, yet you never feel overwhelmed, jostled or simply pushed around.  It’s clean and proper yet edgy and fresh.  Modern and traditional.  Multicultural and unmistakenly British.  The dichotomies are endless and fascinating.  It’s Everything.  Everything.  

The best part of this specific trip was being able to see it, as if for the first time, with my Mom.  It was her big 6-0 birthday gift from us and (lucky me) played tour guide for four days.  This was an all encompassing job – filled with the pressure of making all the decisions, navigating the wondrous Tube and also dealing with Mom’s never-get-excited-ness.  I didn’t want to spend the trip trying to wow her, trying to have her see what I saw in this amazing city, but I also didn’t want her disappointed.  You can’t force these things, so I did my best to play things low key (hard for over-excitable me) and crossed my fingers she’d see the light. Well, testament to this amazing city, my never-gets-excited-Mom was, and I quote, “impressed” with London.  I mean, that should say it all, right?  This is truly the equivalent of being touched by the hand of God.  Impressed!  Of course she was!  It's London! Victory!

She loved the cleanliness, the people (even if she didn’t understand a word they were saying, she loved listening to them all the same), the shopping, the sites (although the Crown Jewels were “nothing special” Nothing special!) the buzz and busy-ness.  Wandering around Soho and Covent Garden with her was a treat, more so wandering the grounds of Kensington Palace, listening to her oral history, including personal commentary, on the Royals – quite illuminating.  The British Museum and a look-see at the Parthenon Galleries offered an interesting perspective on the “bring them back” debate that the Greeks have been waging for years (Greece wants the bits of the Parthenon back).  Mom says shut it - Greeks should be honoured that the Brits have dedicated an enormous part of their museum for these foundations of history, more people go to London, so more people will see them there.  Huh, good point, Mom.  We had some pints, saw a show (with the extremely tall Rupert Everett and his new face!), went to Jamie Oliver’s, walked until we couldn’t anymore and were amazed at how much Greek we heard around the city (which actually sucked because what’s the point of having a secret language when everyone else can speak it too?). 

All in all, a great birthday trip for a great, great lady and a perfect reenergizing trip for me.

So, what's wrong then?  Not wrong, per se, more a curiosity: you see, when I think of London what first pops into my mind is always Covent Garden, at Christmastime.  My mental image sees snow and the city is lit up and it’s so festive -  it’s so perfectly Christmas.  This isn’t a real image though, it’s made in the movies, Love Actually & Bridget Jones, to be exact, and it’s a sham – I’ve never been to London at Christmas (just as I’ve never been to New York in the Spring).  This is wrong.  So, so wrong.  It's imperative I head across the pond to give London a true reckoning:  my favourite city, at my favourite time of year. 

Who is coming with me?   

London, OY !

Who goes to London for the weather ?

ME!

Sun, Sun, Sun, here it comes ...

Ta 'till next week, kind friends.

xxoo.

Head Shift

I’m wired for understand.  I need to know how things work, why things are, what makes things happen.  Unleashing this why, to me, is the most important thing.

It is impossibility difficult for me to let go of this:  to realize and come to terms with the sheer obvious fact that some things are not for understanding.  Some things are only for accepting.

How do you get there?  How do you give up the need to understand and live with accept? 

I. Don’t. Understand.

Savour

When you eat your Smarties do you eat the red ones last?

Do you suck them very slowly or chew them very fast?

Ah, the things we remember.

What do you do?  Do you eat those red ones last?  Do you savour the last bite of whatever deliciousness you’re eating or power feed?

 

I could win awards for speed eating.  I’m not sure how or why this habit developed but I eat really quickly.  I don’t savour the last mouthful of anything either – the more delicious the (sweet) treat the faster it goes down.  More, please!  :)

What I do savour though, is the last of things:  lovely notepaper I bought on holiday about 8 years ago that I can’t imagine running out of, so I use a few sheets and then tuck it away again (yes, I purchase stationary whilst on holiday because in a prior life I was most certainly a proper Victorian Lady); the last few chapters of a book I’m enthralled in and now, my latest hang on, the last episodes of Friday Night Lights. 

It’s Season 5 and then, that’s it.  We say goodbye to Dillon, Texas and I don’t want to.  I love this show so much it’s hard to articulate, it’s simply that good.  Most people will tell you it’s about football, but it’s as much about football as Harry Potter is about magic. FNL is about growing up and deciding who you want to be when obstacles come in your way to prevent you from making the choices you want.  It’s about dealing.  Sure, there’s teen angst, but when presented outside the soap-y parameters of 90201 you realize that the messages coming across are not limited to the under 20 set – they’re messages for life - for me and for you.  There are no stereotypes, only layered complex characters that have grown up or simply grown over the last 5 years.  It feels odd calling them ‘characters’, as to me and I’m sure to those that watch, these people are real (and not in my delusional unicorn fairy way) – they do the wrong things, they don’t look TV terrific all the time, you don’t always like them, they often make you angry and sad and happy and frustrated and all the things real people make you feel in the real life.  I don’t want to give up any plot points.  I’m not going to spoil anything for you.  What I am going to tell you is to do yourself a favour and watch this show.  Maybe by the time you get to Season 5, I might be ready to watch the last few episodes, but it’s hard to say when I’ll be ready to say goodbye.

Clear Heads

Full Hearts

Can’t Lose

Quotable - Part 4

“Who cares about you.”
                E. Spencer, after dinner, prior to a bit of craziness, Saturday May 14th, 2011, in response to my concern about about "sucking the fun out of our night of fun".

Sometimes you need friends to slap your issues out of your head, at least for short while.  And yes, I know you didn't mean it. 

xxoo.

For Every Rule ...

I feel the same way about name hyphenation upon marriage as I do about bisexuality : just take stand, you know?

But for every rule there’s an exception: 

Olga Constantopoulos – Stromboulopoulos.

I so would.

And you can just nevermind yourself about the other.

Dear Heather ...

Dear Heather Reisman,

You are the founder & CEO of Indigo Books & Music.  I don’t care.  This position of yours does not give you the right to conduct seemingly important, but more likely despotic, conversations with your minions at the foot of stairs in your flagship store completely unaware of your surroundings and the goings-on of a usually top notch retail operation.   We are people and we have places to go.  (Likely home to order online from amazon.ca because it’s way cheaper.)

Move it along, sister.  

Unobstructively yours,

Olga.

Losing Your Shit

I was on the subway the other day and a young girl (maybe 18, likely 13 - kids look so old these days!) was crying her eyes out. She wasn't reading, but had an iPod on and she was just crying. The subway was pretty empty so not many people noticed her and those that did (me included) ignored her and imagined what was up. What was making this girl lose her shit on the subway? Initially I thought she must be crazy - who would allow themselves to be so unbridled with emotion so publicly? Who was this crazy nutjob?

But then - full / stop / halt. A memory came into my mind so clearly it was actually pretty jarring.

That girl was me about 5 years ago. I was on the GO Train, heading up to The Hill and was talking to my mom about, well, you know what. Things were grim and I lost it. I lost my shit on the GO Train with a bunch of strangers who I see everyday likely wondering what was up with me. I do remember pulling myself together enough to go into the stinky washroom. I also recall a knock on the door and someone telling me they'd left my purse with the conductor, but I don't remember much else – I have no idea how I got home or  anything else of that night aside from my total meltdown on that train.

For someone usually wound up pretty tight, it's not surprising that I blocked this entire episode from my memory.  It was beyond embarrassing.  While the underlying reasons for the meltdown were incredibly painful and very sad, in my mind, at that time, it was simply no excuse for subjecting these people to the rawness of what I was feeling in that moment.  But you can’t control these things.  You can try all you like to keep the lid on but somehow, someway, things are going to blow – you’re going to lose your shit.  Hopefully this will happen in a safer haven than a GO Train or the subway.  Ideally, you’ll be around someone who knows what to do when this happens and not someone  who makes you feel like a Grade A Overemotional Wimpy Chic, or someone that just wants you to stop no matter what, or all the other not so helpful things people are prone to do in this uncomfortable situation because they focus too much on them being uncomfortable and not making you feel comfortable.  People that don’t freak when you lose your shit are the best people in the world – find these people and hold onto them tight.  I mean it.    

Ultimately, though, it’s about being confident enough in yourself to know that it is simply fine and more than normal to lose your shit – it doesn’t mean you’re weak or incapable of handling the tough stuff.  It just means that sometimes this tough stuff is just too much – even for super strong you! - and the only constructive thing to do is let out all the emotion you’ve got.  This is a hard little lesson to learn.  I hope the girl on the subway figured it out.  I’m really glad I (finally) did.

Hot 100

What ?!  Yes ! 

Really ?! I know!

It’s 100.  I’ve hit the Hot 100.  One Hundred Blog Posts.  I can’t believe it either.

As much as I hate to admit it, I am a pretty committed quitter – I get bored and things become too much work and it’s just more exciting to move onto the next (let’s all read into that, shall we?) but for some reason, I’ve stuck this out.  Likely because I can do it sitting down and it doesn’t aggravate me.

So, thank you kind reader – thank you for following, for commenting (not to play favourites, but I do love you the best), for encouraging and for having these daily one sided conversations with me.  I do appreciate that reading is like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get and that’s sort of hard.  I am sorry if you came to laugh and I made you sad, sorry if you stopped in for a mindless moment and I made you think, and I, of course, apologize for the periodic editions of the TMI Times - I can’t help it, really.  While I do adore consistency, I reserve the right to be unexpected when I want to be.  ;)

You must know that when TV shows celebrate their 100^th episode they have a huge 1 0 0 cake with lots of sparkly candles.  I don’t know where to get one of those and while I could, I don’t think I should eat something like that all by myself.  So, I’m going to celebate (not a typo – have you been reading?) with a most apropos Red Velvet Cupcake: curiously red coloured yet undeniably delicious.

Yummy.

Thank you … xxoo.

Hork !

I suppose you feel you have to, that there isn't a moment to waste.

You perhaps try to suppress it but in the end you're overcome with feelings of great haste.

If I could offer a mild suggestion to consider
before you release this grotesque sound,
which of course pollutes our eardrums
but also the fair, poor ground?

Do seek a little privacy - perhaps in a washroom, behind a garbage bin or tree.

Just please, please, please do not hork anywhere near me !

The Week (Or So) That Was ...

In lieu of proper Facebook status updates, a random sampling of The Week (Or So) That Was :

From this day forward, please call me Pippa.
Slow news day.
"There is no need to spike the football."  Word.
We're coming Chuck!  We're coming!
Hot Docs, Cold Docs – you win some, you lose some.
Cupcakes make me happy.  Eating them, even happier.
Do the Sedins still play for Vancouver?
Spotted : R.H Thomson AND Ann-Marie MacDonald at my local hardware store!  I know, shocking :  I was in a hardware store!




And there you have The Week (Or So) That Was.

Lost

In the last month I have lost two things.  I never lose things.  

I lost my sunglasses because I was careless with my purse (I am always careless with my purse – I leave it wide open in my car, on the floor, everywhere really and assume everything will be in its rightful place when I pick the thing up again.  Well, this time things weren’t).  Poor sunglasses.  Lesson learned.

I lost my May Metropass on the last day of April because, well, this one I’m not sure about.  I’m nothing if not routine oriented, right?  I leave my Metropass on my desk until the first day of the month when I start using it.  I looked for it last week and it was *poof!* gone.  I either threw it out by accident in one of my whirling dervish cleaning episodes (very possible) or, someone lifted it off my desk (this would obviously make me feel better, but be a negative spin on the state of human nature.  Hhhmmm, what to decide).

Anyway, no one has died so the situation isn’t all that serious but now I’m wondering what I’ll lose next.  They say everything happens in three’s (one day I’m going to find out who this THEY is and give them a piece of my mind – how do they know everything?!) and well, I’m at two.  What could be next ?

Will it be my mind (questionable that I still have one, read lost items above)?  My dignity (it’s 2011, though, does anyone have dignity anymore?)?  My sense of humour (waning, I think to be truthful)?  No, dammit!  I will stop the bleeding at two.  I cannot afford this – seriously, I can’t – those sunglasses were expensive and we all know what a scam bargain the TTC is these days.  My psyche can’t afford it either – I’m too young for widespread memory loss!   But now, wait – I think I’ve already lost my third thing: I have lost the right to say I never lose things.  That seems to be the hardest loss of all.

Experiments in Hair and Other Natural Disasters

I’m not really sure when or how this happened, but I’m so done with my hair. 

It’s naturally unruly (that’s just a nice way of saying frizz curly with magical expansion properties, usually brought on by any type of non-perfect weather), so I unnaturally straighten it all the time.  There are a good many people in my life who have never, ever seen my naturally unruly hair.  This isn’t really a sham – I read somewhere that Jules Asner has never let Steven Soderberg see her naturally curly hair.  They’re married.  Imagine what type of prep and commitment is required to pull that off.  Totally hardcore. 

I doubt Jules’ hair is as bad as mine – not quite curly, not quite wavy, unbearably thick and so much of it – but she obviously thinks it’s pretty bad.  I’m totally down with, you,  Jules.  Naturally unruly hair is so incredibly unpredictable - you wake up in the morning looking as good as you can, and within a few hours all hell could break lose.  Your head is attached to some makeshift hair type substance that looks at once windblown, matted, pouffy (beyond pouffy) and, well, not good.  My unnaturally straight hair, though, is truly the hallmark of consistency I long for in all aspects of my life.  Seriously, come rain, shine, hail or thunder my hair listens and stays straight.  I feel that I need to reward this obedience by straightening it all the time.  So I do.

Big hair like mine is length tricky.  Too short and it can’t be straightened, so that’s not going to happen.  Too long and it takes forever to straighten, so that’s no fun.  I undertook a major chop about a month ago and now it’s just blah.  It’s a medium length and it’s straight and, well, it just kind of hangs there. It’s not long, it’s not short it’s just rather boring.

So what do girls do with blah naturally unruly hair that they unnaturally straighten?  Why, they buy hot rollers of course!  Because what makes more sense than straightening your hair to curl it again.  Really, in the world of vanity nothing.  Nothing makes more sense than this. 

This hot roller experiment thus far has been average at best. My hair, in my opinion, looks like a big mess.  Like I simply woke up and shook it out.  This is actually pretty good as we all know the goal of any look is to make it appear as though it was effortless to achieve regardless of how long it actually took to achieve it.  On the bad side of the experiment is that I really don’t look like me.  I mean, yes, my hair is messy, which isn’t me but it’s also curly which really isn’t me anymore either.  I’m telling you – it’s been years.  Years since I exposed my curly head !   Next on the bad side is whatever my big mess hair looked like when I left the house, it sure as hell doesn’t look like that now. 

So what does this all mean?  Hell, I don’t know.  I’m bored and I bought hot rollers and I burned my fingertips on them (which means I can now commit the perfect crime!) because I’m a spazz and I like my straight hair and I’m okay with my curly hair but I’m really not because it’s really a big mess.  I’m now impatiently waiting for my hair to grow back to its rightful length.  Hurry Up Hair!  Until then, I will resort to another look from my (extremely limited) bag of charlatan tricks: The Ponytail. 

Jules would be proud.

What Up, Julie & Julia?

You’re all familiar with this story, right? 

Julie Powell is frustrated with her desk job and starts writing a blog about making every recipe in Julia Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking”.  Her real life tales soon take the world by storm (well, at least the publishing & film world) and her blog becomes a best selling book and top grossing film (starring Meryl Streep!).  Julie herself soon becomes a bit of a kook as detailed in her second book about becoming a butcher and cheating on her husband (look, I don’t know how those two things are related either, but that’s what the book is about).  Anyway, Julie & Julia is the kind of uber simple idea that bloggers the world over wish they thought of themselves. Seriously. 

But back to Julie.  It’s true that few people eat the way Julia tells us to these days and Julie does get slightly bogged down.  The recipes are somewhat complex and time consuming.  The meals themselves are very rich and, well, somewhat odd (are we really making homemade mayonnaise, people?).  Who has the time?  Who can find duck fat?  Or, dear God, bone marrow?  Kudos to Julie for giving it a go, but truly, being a good cook (not a good chef, a cook) is actually pretty easy and for all Julie’s complaining and whining you really just need to follow the instructions, read the recipe through before you start, and, well, you’re pretty much set.  A chef, on the other hand needs to make up recipes on their own and improvise where necessary – I like to save such folly for experts.  There is nothing wrong with religiously following a recipe, step by step, ingredient to ingredient - experts put it together! Who am I to mess?  I do think I’m a pretty decent cook because I’m very good at following instructions.  Honestly, anyone can do it.  Which is why I really don’t get Julie at all – why all the problems?  What’s with the drama?  How in the world do you screw up beef (oh, excuse me BOEUF) bourguignon?

Fry the bacon, sear the beef, add to sautéed onions, carrots and garlic, flame up some cognac add a bottle of wine, some beef stock and cook for an hour.  Add pearl onions and sautéed mushrooms.  Simmer forever. Seriously – that’s about it (if you want to make it I would recommend following a recipe as I may have missed a step or two and you should have proper measurements).  I really don’t understand how you can overcook such a thing – it’s stew (okay, fine, Julie went to sleep while it was in the oven and cooked the thing all night but really, are you that dumb?). Julie had to make her boeuf twice.  What a waste of a decent bottle of Burgundy and a Le Creuset pot. 

Maybe it’s not Julie’s fault.  Maybe it’s Julia’s.  I’ve never tried cooking a recipe from any of Julia Child’s cookbooks. Everything in there seems really daunting, although her bourguignon recipe is quite similar to mine.  I rarely cook anything that has a recipe longer than a page and the shorter the ingredient list the better – I’m not kidding.  I don’t think it’s pedestrian, it’s just simpler.  And in times like these when we’re so busy and rarely have time to cook a meal from scratch, why over complicate things.  I’ve always contended that the key to being a decent host is knowing how to make one dish really well – this obviously only works if you only invite people over once, but at least you’re cooking !

As you can see, I’m not a huge Julia lover (and even less of a Julie lover – cooking should only be a labour of love, not solely a labour) so who is my tried and true, you ask?  Who do I turn to when I need to impress without stress?  Why The Barefoot Contessa, of course.  My girl, Ina Garten, simplifies everything with a trademark “how easy is that” and spends her days planning meals and parties for her friends and husband Jeffrey’s weekend return to the Hamptons from his work week in New York City (there is no butchering or cheating for Ina & Jeff!).  Her recipes are simple and extremely delicious.  It actually looks like she eats what she makes, which is refreshing (I’m very suspicious of you, Giada!), and her goal is simple entertaining – ah, to be invited to a Barefoot Contessa party!

I love Ina and all her delicious creations that I humbly re-create in my own tiny kitchen.  She makes me happy.  Cooking makes me happy (baking, happier).  I think cooking made Julie super stressed and perhaps that’s what led her to the butchering and the cheating.  Poor Julie, she cut the forest to spite the trees and forgot what cooking is ultimately about - opening your home and breaking bread with those you love to spend time with.

How easy it that?

Running On Empty

Is it trite to say I have nothing to say, nothing to write about?

Well, so be it.

I'm empty.  I'm not exactly sure what my brain is full of at the moment but it's nothing illuminating, funny, observational, soul searching, goofy or rant worthy.  It's just empty.  

Not vapid empty, just exhausted empty.

It's okay.  It was bound to happen, I'm certain of it.  I'm also certain it'll fill up soon and the floodgates will open once again ...until then, Running on Empty it'll have to be.

:(

Zadow Rocks !

Baritone Matthew Zadow rocks.

Not because he's a tremendous baritone.
Not because he picked up his family and moved them all to Belgium to hone is craft.
Not because he emails me birthday videos, complete with operatic renditions of Happy Birthday.
Not because he manages to make living an ocean away seem not so far.
Not because you can at once have the most serious and silly conversations with him.

No, Matthew Zadow doesn't rock because of those things.  He rocks because of those things AND he made two + hours of Schuberts "Die Schone Mullerin" (sung in German, with reading of the text in English translation preceeding) moving, engaging and simply amazing. 

So much so, that with my birthday video this year I am requesting a rendition of "Des Baches Wiegenlied", please pretty please.  I know it's a sad one - the poor guy commits suicide - but it's in German and I don't understand it and will likely forget the meaning by December.  I'll just listen to your powerful voice, wonderful music, imagine your facial theatricality and take myself back to "the salon".

Thanks Matthew Zadow.  You rock.