On this, my 30th birthday, it seems only right to thank the wonderful people who brought me into this big bad world – my parents. My parents are amazing for many reasons. One, my mom birthed me in August in Washington, a disgusting time of year to be pregnant. Two, my parents never let their worry keep me from l.i.v.i.n.
When I told them I wanted to live in Asia after college, they thought it was a great idea. When I hopped trains around the middle of nowhere, they just asked for an email from time to time. And when I wanted to try out every activity a kid could ever be interested in (trumpet lessons, hang gliding), they paid for the lessons and hoped something would stick. Second only to their unconditional love of course, I really appreciate how much freedom they gave me and how much they trusted me.
Neither of my parents is American and have both traveled and lived around the world. So if they had ever tried to tell me to stay put, I could have pulled out a picture of my mom in front of the Taj Mahal at 20 and put up a fight. But it never came to that. They have been the most supportive, generous parents a girl could ever ask for and I’m eternally grateful.
The other day when I was perusing one of my favorite sites, This is Glamorous, I came across some photos from a Home & Garden editorial the New York Times did in June. It was the smallest pile of glamorous bricks I had ever seen.
Sandra Foster is a fiscal administrator at Brookhaven National Laboratory on Long Island, but she’s a gardner by trade. And by the likes of what she did to a rinky-dink hunting cabin, she’s also one heck of an interior designer.
What I love most about this tiny cabin is the size, the fact that Sandra remodeled it completely on her own and that all the renovating and furnishing cost only $3000. Sandra lives in a trailer with her husband and escapes for privacy to the little cabin.
On a day when I received a legal notice in the mail from the DC government saying I had to clean up the tree debris in my parking space or I would be fined, Sandra’s house was an inspiration. The DC government said too much brush piled up like I had “was a breeding ground for rodents.” Hmm, that was enough to get me sawing. And while I sawed, I noticed that my garage is just a bit bigger than Sandra’s haven and shouldn’t I start decorating too? Yes it is. But first I will concentrate on keeping a rodent free backyard. Baby steps…
The hunting cabin turned Victorian hideaway.
That bed! I absolutely love it and would never ever get up in the morning if I lived in that nook of calm.
Those books! The white everything. I want to hide here and eat no colored food or drinks.
I have endured a normal amount of embarrassment in my day. I had an ex take a video of me intoxicated and snoring. That was awesome. I had a neighbor chastise me for having sex so loud that it stressed out his pregnant wife. A less than comfortable conversation to endure. And the list goes on. But one of the most mortifying experiences of my life was when I stood topless in the rather swanky DC jazz club, Blues Alley. Not in a bra, not with my hands clasped over my breasts, just completely boobs out topless. My arms were even arched back in some sort of Victoria Secret position to make things even louder and prouder.
While I have been known to encourage skinny-dipping and aspire to run naked around the Washington Monument, I did not plan on exposing my mammary glands to discerning jazz connoisseurs. It was actually a very innocent mistake. I had decided to wear a black lightweight halter top to the evening’s concert to pair along with some very respectable pants. Of course me having my boobs, I opted not to wear a bra under said top and just threw a coat on and headed to DC’s Mecca of jazz.
We were a tad late arriving at Blues Alley and when we walked in, almost all the other patrons were seated and ready for the concert to begin. Which meant of course that I was standing, almost spotlighted, in a group of seated civilized jazz fans. When my very chivalrous date stood behind me and took off my coat the hook on my shirt snagged and the whole thing fell to my waist. So with arms back and no where to hide I stood there boobs out for that little slice of jazz heaven to see.
Surprisingly, I was not heckled. No one took a picture. No YouTube videos appeared the next day. And while I proved very popular with the band that evening, I was not mortified to the point of abandoning ship. Those jazz heads are so liberal, bless their hearts. They probably see boobs and jazz as going together like vermouth and gin.
Jazz heads are just cooler. Exhibit A being this picture I found online. If my boobs had been out for all to see at a death metal concert, I'm sure the reaction would have been different.
If you work in media, you get press releases. I don’t care if you are an obit writer or a Pulitzer Prize winner, if you are involved with a publication, you’re going to get spammed by places like The House of Magnets (these people send me five emails a week), the united onion lobbyists, and a whole series of others who you don’t want to hear from. But sometimes, in the heap, there is a little gem. My favorite press release of the month came to my inbox on Friday from the Switzerland Tourism Bureau and was titled “Swiss Olympics – Disciplines you have never heard of.”
How could I not open this email? I absolutely love the Olympics and I am always open to new and improved winter sports. The velogemel certainly counts as a sport that should be considered for the next Olympics. In fact perhaps the powers that be should attend the velogemel world championship in Grindelwald , which happen to take place today, and assess if the sport is something the world could get behind. Personally, I see myself excelling at the velogemel. I am best at things where you can just sit there and fly down a mountain with no common sense.
I saw about a half million rugrats on sleds today, but I guarantee you that when I have kids, they will have velogemels. Imagine how incredibly popular they would be on a day like today when two feet of snow blanket our city. If only all Americans had wooden snow bicycles, there would probably have been fewer tears over this snowpalloza hoopla. It’s just frozen water my friends!
Thank goodness there are the Swiss to remind us frightened folks below the Mason Dixon line that blizzards inspire ridiculous sports with names that sound like diseases. Yeah!!
This is the velogemel. I could have really used one today in Washington turned Anchorage.
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