My Roommates

I composed this post a few nights ago when I couldn't sleep. I stayed awake sorting through colors and remembering my best girls. I’m going to brag about my friends; specifically my girls (because, let’s admit it, the boys don’t read this blog and because girls rule and boys drool). They make me feel all kinds a warm and cuddly. This is the only picture I have of all of us, but it totally fits, because we're all really happy about looking silly. But, just for the record, we really do like Katie and don't usually make her stand off to the side, and Mandy and Nicole are not the same height.

I’m a pretty happy person, but I’ve never been as consistently happy (or as consistently sleep deprived) as my freshman year of college. I mean that word “happy,” too, even though it’s a very odd looking word. Dammit, it’s Mandy and Ashley’s fault that I look at words… Anyway, I credit these chikas for a large part of that happiness and I get an amazing rush of affection whenever I think of them. It’s called group therapy and we’re good at it.

In order to avoid sounding like a yearbook entry, full of inside jokes and obscure references to reality tv dance shows (Search for the Next Pussycat Doll, anyone?), I’m just going to tell you why I love each of these girls and because I've been reading some color theory, I’m going to tell you what color they are…just go with it, it’s my blog.

Lindsay Loo is grey.

Not a concrete grey, or a steel grey, but a velvety grey that’s coolly elegant and subtle without being boring. She straight up sophistication (yeah, that’s a silly phrase). Lindsay has an inappropriate sense of humor—not the NC-17 kind, but the laugh when people are fighting and break into a spasmatic dance to Maneater in the middle of the day kind. Lindsay thinks ugly pictures are the most hilarious thing in the world—if her teeth aren’t covered in black candy and her eyes aren’t crossed, than it’s not a successful operation. I have her to thank for the barrage of facebook embarrassment, including a Braveheart-inspired picture that almost made Michael run for the hills. Lindsay manages to convince people to make themselves look silly, by example, but also convinces them to tell her the truth, by example. Lindsay is terrible at hiding her emotions, which makes her very easy to be honest with, since you’re sure that you’ll get it back. The first time I met Lindsay, she invited me to picnic with her on the soccer field (to repay me for loaning her a book, obviously) as the elevator doors closed. I did live by the elevator, but this was still out of the ordinary. Somehow, she does all this…stuff, with grace and a smile. Thanks Loo.

Ashley is pink.

Not bubble gum pink, or Lisa Frank pink, or Avril Lavigne pink, but a deep fushia with a leathery texture. Ok, describing colors is hard. Ashley is pink because she’s a composite of red and white. Red, in the sense that she’s a wee bit fiery and won’t back down from things that she believes and white in the clean sense of the word (like a negative space, graphic design, no clutter way). I’m super proud of Ashley’s “big girl” job and rock climbing membership (I take full credit for that) but I’m also just proud that she’s my friend who’s always super willing to celebrate triumphs and commiserate over small tragedies. I was so happy when Ash came to Marie Callenders so we could freak out our tables—I would tell them that I’m a vegetarian, so no I don’t like chicken pot pie, and she would say that her favorite pie flavor was pumpkin and watch them sort of nod and order chocolate satin. Ok, so we weren’t very helpful waitresses, but it was good to have her around. If I was lost at sea or on some sort of exploratory adventure, I would want Ashley to come, because she would say things like “It seems that the engine has dropped out,” or “Ah yes, there’s a snake,” bluntly in a “let’s just handle this and move on” kind of way. She has a special breed of sarcasm, without being bitter—I don’t have that kind, I am bitterJ. Ashley inspires me to walk from the cafeteria to the dorms like a model on a catwalk and someday I’m going to go wedding dress shopping with her. Ashley likes girly things, she’ll rock out to Glee and enjoys a good haircut, but she undercuts that with this sarcasm and hardcore workethic (that’s what she would say “hardcore workethic”) that makes her fundamentally unfrivolous or airheady. She’s deliciously pink and I love her. 

Mandy is blue.

Dark blue, but not navy. Sort of a sapphire with a little bit of inky blackness, so that it’s smooth not shiny and deep like a pool. Mandy needs a little black in her blue, I think, and not just because she had a goth phase J. Mandy’s the best roommate ever (even if her room usually looks like a clothes tornado just passed through) because she’ll wake you up in the middle of the night to ask you what the words to the Monster Mash are and come climb in your bed or dress up like High School Musical kids and jump around. Mandy has a deep level of enthusiasm for an incredible amount of things including but not limited to Celtic music, art, dark chocolate, literature, fashion, Nintendo, Japanese movies, malls, Harry Potter, classical music, masks, Shakespeare plays and her friends. Mandy is the most loyal friend I’ve ever had; she cares about me and my problems more than I do most of the time (and I’m an egoist) and is willing to talk about whatever, whenever (due to her conveniently late bedtime). Mandy balances all the people and parts of her life seamlessly and somewhat mysteriously, I’m not sure how she manages to fit in caring about her family and friends so much. Mandy laughs at me more than anyone I know, often commenting that I find myself so funny that I don’t need anything else to entertain me. She’s right; I am funny. Mandy knows of her inner wonderfulness deep down, but she’s also shy, saving her best parts for the people who deserve them. I’m honored to have seen some of Mandy’s best parts…that took a lesbian turn, whoops. Mandy’s an onion with some serious layers and I haven’t quite figured out her sense of humor yet (I have mastered my own, as previously mentioned). She’s one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met and I’m so happy that we’ll be friends when we’re old and wrinkly.

Katie  is [snow] blue.

She’s not black, contrary to her wardrobe, or red, contrary to her kitchen appliances. Do you know what blue I’m taking about, it’s the color that snow turns at dawn or dusk or right before it snows? It looks shimmery and solid—sort of thick like the perfect snowball type of snow. Well, that color is Katie. Katie has two sides: one can stand in front of people and make everyone laugh just by making noises or speaking in accents, and the other can scoot her chair back a little and listen contentedly, watching and oozing a sort of sisterly affection. Katie can express every emotion by first clapping her hands and then arranging her face and hands in specific ways. Commonly the face/hand combo makes an explosion or she simply shouts “good, good job” in a decidedly sarcastic manner or hits herself in the face. I tried to describe it Katie, sorry…just do that thing that you do with your hands and then everyone will understand. I’m afraid that she sounds like a stooge, but she’s also capable of intelligent conversation, particularly if the conversation is about punctuation; she taught me that this

***

is called a dingbat. Who knew? Katie did.

Nicole is gold.

Not bling gold, or Olympic gold, or anything that could be described as "encrusted," but like gold leaf. She's not shiny, but more sober like the stairs at Abravenell Hall in SLC or Byzatine panel paintings. She is gold, which is certainly not boring, but she's not "brand new" shiny. Nicole is a Greek goddess: wisdom, power, beauty, grace and a general inclination toward nudity. Like gold leaf, something glows out of Nicole—sometimes it explodes in a torrent of sass, but most of the time it just radiates. I once skipped two classes and talked to Nicole, standing in the middle of the quad while it snowed for hours, because I knew that that conversation was more important than Poly Sci 1100. Nicole’s guarded like a mama lioness, but she’s not shut off; she’s very connected with her feelings and those of the people around her and offers her friends a level of respect and understanding that gives me, at least, a kind of quiet confidence. She also lies on the floor and laughs with you until she decides that the occasion calls for a sort of theatrical, upward-thrusting, hand motion, which is the mark of any true friend.

Amanda is purple

Let’s not mess around with violet shades, Amanda’s not a cupcake or an Easter dress; she’s deep purple like royal robes or her converse shoes. She’s got some sort of power over people and has a serious side (royal), but she’s also super fun, and purple is a lighthearted color with a little bit of a wink that doesn’t take itself too seriously. Everyone likes Amanda and Amanda likes everyone, but she’s mine so all y’all back off. Just kidding. I love the things that make Amanda nervous, because they aren’t normal things like public speaking, tests or heights, but the thing that makes her the most uncomfortable is when other people are uncomfortable. This means she raises her hand and makes up a comment whenever there’s an awkward silence in class or starts dancing around if I start crying (because that will make it better). Amanda is the first person to drop on her knees in the company of a puppy—to get down to their level. I’ve watched her play peek-a-boo with children she doesn’t know in the grocery store, popping out from behind the chips. She greeted every person that walked through our front door or within her general wingspan with hugs and enthusiastic salutations, because when other people feel good, Amanda receives genuine pleasure and joy. This is why Amanda should have lots of kids and puppies. Besides, selfishly enjoying how much Amanda cares about me (and everyone), I love when she says “do-ti-do” and wiggles her shoulders while she’s cooking. Even though she likes people a lot, Manda also can get really quiet at a music performance and hang out in her room alone, writing out Valentines or poetry in the middle of the night. I love that her hand-eye coordination is…just not even there. I wish Amanda would draw more pictures so I could write papers about children’s art (FYI: that was supposed to be a joke about how Manda can’t draw). I love that she’s the only person I’ve ever met who rock climbs with her knees. I know we don’t get to stay up until 4 talking about our friends, politics, books, art and science, but I feel like we do, because I have conversations with Amanda in my head all the time and think of her whenever I see a hippo, a fuzzy blanket, or an overly-stuffed, black backpack. Love.

Well, I'm going to stop know because I’m feeling a little bittersweet. I love you girls, thanks for the support and the fun. I decided to write this post because I was telling a story about Nicole (beating up a French mugger, incidentally) to my classmates and I called her my roommate. My cohorts got confused (because I live alone) and I realized that I never actually lived with Nicole. But you all are not just friends, or people I used to live with, you’re my roommates (even if some of you have husbands and stuff) and I love you and (as a cheesy end to a cheesy post) I know I can always come home to you.

It's Ray Charles Week

In my library wanderings this week I got a best of Ray Charles CD. It's so good that I feel like sharing.

I was driving yesterday and trying to find something on the radio. Not to be an "old soul" but Katy Perry was playing on three stations. That's no good. This is good.

Peace out.

Banjo love

I'm feeling a little nervous because I have a mondo Dada midterm today. Crazy Dadaists. So, I've decided to blog it out--that's like dancing it out, or taking a cold shower.

I'm going to tell you two Dada stories and one banjo story.

Dada 1) Jokes on us.

One of the lasting legacies of Dada is the "readymade" or a "found art object" that is re-appropriated to a museum setting. This usually inspires people to be offended and ask this is art? Well, that is the question. Marcel Duchamp's work makes it in all the textbooks, and would probably be on the cover, if it were a little more aesthetically pleasing. But, I don't think "pretty" was Duchamp's intent. He purchased a urinal in 1917, signed it under a false name and put it in an art show. And the rest is history, I suppose, since we're still debating the issue of "is this art?" a century later. Most of Duchamp's readymades were lost, basically because no one cared--it was a urinal, after all. It was a statement (like wearing a cape to junior high). Most of Duchamps readymades were reconstructed in the 1950s (mainly by other people) and that is what we have in museums today. The only readymade that survived--an "original" oooooohhhh--was this perfume bottle. Duchamp put a photo of himself dressed in drag as the spokes...person (couldn't say man there) on a bottle that he bought at a department store.

Because this image was an "original" it sold for $11,000,000. Eleven. Million. Dollars. I think this would have made Duchamp cry with laughter and yell "sucker" at our silly ideas of authorship and "originals." I think he would have probably had a merry cry and then made about a hundred more readymades and guarded them closely. "This urinal is going to be very valuable one day," he could have said. What a trickster.


Dada 2) Barroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven


Other people participated in nonsensical art in the Dada movement, but the poet Barroness lived nonsense, proudly. She got around, marrying a few times. I think she married a German Barron, just for the title. Can't blame her--picture this: Duchess Sarah. She fashioned all her own clothing from things picked up on the street, shop-lifted from department stores or garbage. She once showed up for a portrait wearing a tomato soup can bra and black lipstick. My favorite outfit had a birdcage complete with live canary. She also aggressively pursued Duchamp, writing poetry about his body, etc, to the point that Duchamp was completely frightened of her and declared that it was a relief to leave New York sometimes to get away from her brazen advances. So, here's to you Baroness, for tricking the trickster and walking the walk.

Banjos 3)

Every Friday at noon, about twenty people assemble in an empty classroom down the hall from my office and rock out. It's an all-banjo jam session. I have no idea who these people are, but I'm so happy that this happens. They're not young banjo-ists, so they very well may be professors. I hope so.
"Would you like to have lunch on Friday, Tom."
"Sorry I can't; I know a lot of people who play the banjo and we play together in a random room in the art building every Friday."

This post is a little odd, I know. But so is Dada and banjo club.

Spokane word

I drove the seven hours to see Michael this weekend. Someday, I hope we live in the same city.

Anyway, my favorite part of the weekend was eating pizza at a little place that was...well, trying too hard. The menu came in a comic book. There were cartoons on tv, classic video games with artfully broken screens, and RC cola instead of "trendier" drinks (like Coke). When did nerdy become so cool? and brandable? I'll admit though, I was delighted with the Trivial Pursuit questions on the tables.

Me: Where is your medulla oblongata?
long pause
Michael: I don't know...Europe?
prolonged laughter
Me: The answer is: your brain.

Bwahahaha.

We had perhaps an even less exciting weekend than my previous post about Eugene. Highlights included being really cold while we replaced my headlight, buying a wrench so we could change my headlight and discovering this restaurant:

As if the name weren't funny enough--it's arguably an Italian fastfood restaurant.

I also discovered that Michael's door is amazing. The BELL is, in fact, a door bell. Jealous? If you push on my last name nothing happens.

Buddahological hippopotami

I was reading an article on Buddhist art for a class; therefore, I was terribly bored. Since the reading was optional I clicked on the author's biography. Apparently, she's currently advising a student's studies on "visual images of Buddahological hippopotami." Here it is! proof that you should always click on blue links. If I hadn't, I never would have found these two incredible words (one of which is almost certainly made up) assembled together and thus, have the best post title on the blogosphere.

Say it out loud--it's even better.

Bathtub books

I've recently discovered that no matter how much reading I have for school, I can't sleep properly or be sufficiently happy unless I'm reading a book, and also thinking about the next book I'm going to read.

These musings are partially inspired by an artist's lecture by Andrea Zittel (who was pretty great) where she talked about her clothing. Following the idea that rules and limitations can sometimes be liberating as opposed to stifling, she elected to adopt a type of uniform to wear everyday. Uniform? That word takes me back to junior high... Zittel wears a black tee shirt (washed daily to avoid cartoonish "stinky lines") underneath a hand-made dress for about six months and then she creates a different design and wears that for about a season. Instead of feeling restricted she said that she found herself perpetually excited and always thinking ahead to the next design, and thus felt that it expanded her creative horizons.

I'm not sure if I'm ready to adopt an every six months outfit, but I loved the idea that rules that you set for yourself can actually be liberating and help you look forward to the future.

I have never thought of it as a "rule" but I always have a book on my nightstand and I'm always thinking about my next book. I blame my parents who read to me before I went to sleep and were always reading something themselves. I dare say the process has gotten rather regimented, in the way that I chose genres. War and Peace was followed by a few Harry Potters, and a contemporary fiction novel is always coupled with a classic (they're tried and true, and cheaper after all). I also tend to chose things that Michael hasn't read--take that, English major--which has lead to a healthy competition (which he's losing) over who's read more Barnes and Noble classics.

Last term, I fell off the wagon. I didn't even bring very many novels to school, allocating my bookshelf space to Greek Art and Contemporary Feminist Theory. I do have a rather daunting amount of assigned reading every week, but it doesn't scratch the same itch. Today, I figured out why. Eureka! Because I cannot read Art History in the bathtub. It's too dangerous to risk water damage on some of these books, and I tend to have to take notes. It is possible to scribble in margins and delicately balance notebooks on your knees while the textbook teeters on the edge of the tub, but it is NOT possible to decipher these writings later. My baths have become shorter, less bubbly or salty and fundamentally less satisfying without a book. I think I thought that reading a novel on top of everything else would cause a sort of brain explosion. But, it turns out novels make me happier and my brain feels more substantial. So, I'm retreating back to the world of books.

On a side note, I believe books should be loved--they should be smeared with chocolate, burned by hair straighteners and really, very wrinkled. Many book-lovers consider this blasphemy. I'm not allowed to borrow books from Michael unless I swear I won't break the binding or bring them near water or food. One of the cutest things I ever heard my friend Mandy say was that she used to be so worried that her books would get hurt in her backpack in junior high, that she'd put them in a big ziplock baggie. I'm not of this mindset, many of my books no longer have covers. HP and the O of the P requires a rubber band to stand up straight.

Anyway, I just started a happy, little Nick Hornby book to get me started. I have a new rule: read before bed and whenever else you want to. And, frankly, thinking about what book should come next is just about the most exciting thing I've got going today. I'm not sure if it's making me more creative...but it feels pretty good.

"There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them."

 --Slyvia Plath. 

I found this quote particularly inspiring because I read it while in the tub.

When I searched for bathtub books this came up:

 Maybe I should try Baby Loony Toons rub-a-dub books...

For sale: my body

No one panic: I haven't gotten so broke as to walk the streets. I'm not selling my eggs either ($50,000...yes, I looked it up). I am selling my hair here. I've donated twice, so nobody judge. The worst part is internet frauders. After hunting craigslist for an apartment and a job, I'm pretty good at picking them out. Mostly, if they don't speak/type English particularly well and have some sort of obscure reason for complicated payments like blindness, deaf-ness, being a very important and very rich business man who has his own private bank (wha?), or being "at sea." I've actually had all of these. In fact, I just sent this email:

I'm sorry to be unaccommodating, but, since I'm not really sure what your asking and I'm a little wary of internet scams, I'm going to go with a different buyer. If you really are an oceanographer, searching for hair to give to your British mother as a birthday present who cannot pay me regularly since you are...at sea, I hope you find it.

Sarah


Oh well, I've had some offers that sound a little more believable, who are willing to use paypal (like real people do). If you know anyone who needs some...hair, let me know. Frankly, I'm taking the best offer I have by the end of this week because I have a ziplock bag full of hair on my nightstand which is a little icky.


On another note, I like my short hair. Everyone says to cut off inches in the summer to cool off. But nothing kicks off a new year like teaching yourself how to style dramatically different hair. That's the perfect resolution: a hobby that feels great for a week and then slides into something you resent. Just kidding, I don't regret my decision at all. I've pretty much got it down though, and it's nice to spend 5 minutes blow-drying instead of 45. I do feel like a child when I try to accessorize. I haven't worn "haircessories" since age 12, so it feels like a regression to put on "clippies" and a stretchy headband. I should go to Claires! haha. Here are the two styles I've mastered. These were taken on my computer so the quality's shabby, but you'll get the idea.

 I should get back to Greek art now...as you can see I'm smiling at my laptop in a library.

My life belongs in a magazine

Well, Michael came to see me. We did a bunch of hipster/super cool things:

--refilled my ink cartridge
--went to the wrong mall for a movie
--considered getting an oil change
--decided against getting an oil change
--did all of our homework...almost
--walked to the library
--walked to the campus library
--found the prettiest trees on campus (yep, that one was my idea)
--had a spare key made (don't tell my manager)
--bought garbage bags
--got a bagel
--tried to get a doughnut, but VooDoo Doughnuts (tempting eh?) only took cash
--Michael watched Harry Potter one and two
--I took two Harry Potter naps (I watched them last month...and they're not very good)
--had a two hour debate about what to name Michael's new story
--I had a cookie fail. They look delicious....
--took the futon up and down one million times



"Sarah your blog is like an adventure novel, full of action and sparkle." Don't I know it.

It was great though. Plus, Michael made us watch Harry Potter and is listening to HP and the HBP right now on the drive. I've got him all trained up.

You may think that none of this demanded photo documentation...but you're wrong. Here's Michael, in the library:

Spelling: 1. Florist: 0.

Yep.

Grades smades

I like to think that I'm above letter grades or standardized tests, but who doesn't like to get a score that starts with a 9? After all, a 4.0 is pretty easy...when you major in Family and Consumer Science. Yes, that was insensitive. However, I'm allowed to make jokes because my major also means nothing; an "A" in Museum Studies is nothing to do a backflip about.

I usually lull myself into believing that my interest in education is a romantic pursuit of Knowledge (with a capitol "K"). During the term, I do get a sense of personal satisfaction when I know I've tried my hardest. However, I do get an equally satisfied feeling when someone smarter than me pats me on the head (think the "Teacher's Pet" scene from Guffman). An A- is a thumbs up, but sometimes I need a head pat.

As a graduate student, I thought I was past GPA drama and attendence points. Grad school is about elbow patches, stacks of ancient books in library basements and 3 am eurekas! Right? Nah, I still get points for attendance and have to memorize the occasional flashcards. My classes are hard--I'm proud of that--but, my mood seems to sway dramatically depending on 95s versus 89s. What exactly does a check plus mean? Where's the romance, where are the ELBOW PATCHES?

Oh! That must come when you're working on your doctorate. I better get my PhD. soon. Excuse me, I'm going to go sew fabric onto all my sleeves.

Post-Christmas Christmas

Now that I'm back in Eugene and have nothing to do besides put off doing my reading (yes, I already have reading even though the term hasn't started), I have time to upload Christmas pictures. My favorite presents this year were all the clothes I got, Netflix (more ways to not do my reading), and Derek's wand. I cleaned up.

The sunglasses shot: a Christmas favorite.

Jazz tickets.

 

 I'm pretty sure she took this back. This smile is a lie. I won't be too mean...

she gave me a super cool necklace.

Michael didn't know it, but Star Wars pancake molds are just what he wanted. There's a chess set on his lap (from me)--what a dork. PS--this led to some great jokes "Make pancakes, you will." Well, I thought they were great.

Wandage:

 Diminuendo = not a spell

This is what Jackson looks like all the time now.

"If you too don't stop dueling, I'm going to call Voldemort." I better photoshop in a darkmark.

 My cousin's son, Ben, came to see us this Christmas. I think we spent most of the break playing with his new toys.

Anyway, I had a jolly Christmas. At least I'll be able to see everyone I love a lot more often now that I have a wand. "Accio Rusty, Accio Mom, Accio Brad Pitt circa 2000..."