- Up at 4:30 am
- Mikey laughed at my "preparedness" the night before. It seemed normal to me to have the bag packed, my outfit laid out, the snacks partitioned and in their ziplocks in the fridge, lunch packed . . . I guess what got him was that I had a bowl of dry oatmeal on the table with a glass of water and a spoon ready to be popped in the microwave. He said he felt like it was living with the Jetsons. I pulled a string and we were off!
- On the road by 5:15
- Took a wrong turn 10 minutes later that sent us south on I-495 until we found ourselves on some obscure Highway 201. We pulled over for directions at a gas station (a trend that continued to and from our destination) and they were surprised we had made it that far. We were set straight and were in the car nearly 7 hours until we decided to take a detour.
- Princeton was a great pit-stop.
- Mikey had to use the bathroom really (I mean he was waddling) bad so we asked a student where a bathroom was and he let us into his dorm. We walked up the stairs and down the hallway (past students who were moving out, past rooms with blaring alarm clocks, etc) and found the bathroom on the left. I waited in the hall and found messages scrawled in pencil here and there. While I waited numerous boys in towels walked in front of me and one went in the bathroom to shower. I felt like such a creeper-girl hanging around outside the bathroom looking at scantily clad boys.
- We looked up Paul Krugman's office and went up to see it, hoping the door was open and we could casually wave a hello. No luck. But I pressed my ear up against the door and heard someone flipping through a book. I'm convinced it's him. Mikey's not so sure. Neither of us had the courage to knock on the door and mumble something stupid like, "Hey Mr. Krugman. We read your column, but we don't agree with alot of what you say, er, but you're as close as Princeton gets to a celebrity and we just, uh, wanted a picture with you?" He had a political cartoon of himself on the door. We found it a little narcissistic.
- Back on the road and got caught in carzy traffic in New York. We learned to take the lower road next time. Oh, and to bring cash for the toll roads (Mikimber, the bills should be in the mail . . .)
- Got to Westborough around 8 and had a great evening getting a tour of the Chaosison's absolutely, stunningly beautiful home. And we got to check on the eggs that were recently laid under the deck by what we concluded (after some mild research) were soon-to-be offspring of the Massachusettes state bird, the Black-capped Chickadee.
- Off to Boston the next morning. Loved the:
- parks
- cityscape
- Boston Commons
- Fenway Park atmosphere (aside from the ticket scalpers who have no concept of personal space)
- Seven Subs
- Brookline
- Riding the T
- The Freedom Trail. All of it.
- Harvard
- The Hispanic man playing guitar outside the Italian Restaurant we had dinner at
- Paying less than we expected for parking.
- Church the next morning was eventful as Bishop Chaosison was released and we got hear both him and his lovely wife speak. They did a great job.
- Dinner was excellent and several times throughout the meal Emmiecakes burst into song. It was like eating with Giselle.
- Painting our nails. Ababy painted one of her nails. All of the colors. One on top of the next. The result was a thumb that slightly resembled one that was just slammed in the car door.
- Rockband. We sung our hearts out. All of us. It was a great time.
- Up the next morning and on the road again by 5
- Drove straight to Cape May (we avoided traffic this time by avoiding the 95).
- After looking for someplace cool to eat, nothing spoke of coolness like a hotdog stand with an old guy wearing a hotdog hat. They even sell t-shirts. The food was good. So was the price.
- We had to pay some lady sitting in a lawn chair reading Men are From Mars Women are From Venus five bucks a head to go to the beach. I was tempted to ask if I could sit in her chair for a bit an ask people for money to support my expensive reading habits. I bit my tongue, but wondered who would ever read that in public. Like way in public. As in, thanks for you cash, I'll slip it in the back cover of MY RELATIONSHIP HELP BOOK.
- Mike got sunburned and after we were walking back to the car and some guy shouted from across the street and said, pointing to his sunburn, "Dude, does that hurt?" Mike quickly put on his shirt and mumbled something about the nerve of that concerned citizen. He claimed it wasn't even that bad. Four hours later he was whistling a different tune.
- We took a ferry from Cape May to Deleware. So fun. So windy and cold.
- Mike shouted, "LAND HO!"
- We got into DC around ten and were so tired I had to bribe my body with the promise of a warm bed to get myself out of the car.
- Thanks so much to our family for making the trip possible. We're becoming quite apt moochers.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
List
The As-Promised-Memorial-Day-Weekend List
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Leets
It’s been hard to get back into the daily grind. We got home late Monday night and had little sleep because of disruptions (sunburns—which is a gross understatement, Mikey’s is more like a sunscorch— knocks on the door at 1 am, texting in the middle of the night . . .) but we both lifted our dead weight bodies out of the bed and made it to work on time Tuesday morning.
My day was spent like everyday last week was; with Mimic, the eighteen-month-year-old busy-body who I nanny for every day. I’ve never seen a child so small talk so much.
Yesterday was stormy in the city. Flood warnings, police sirens, and stories about accidents permeated the news and conversations on the Metro. Mimic and I were playing Playdoh when we heard what sounded like a bomb explode. And with the bomb went the lights. I said aloud, “The power must have gone out.” And the rest of the day all I heard was “Power OUT! Power OOOOUT!” Yes. You’re right. The power is out. We’ve talked about this nearly eight-hundred times by now. And it’s only 9:30. It was a long day.
Besides the mouth and the constant busy-hands, she’s pretty close to perfect. I got lucky with this job.
Today we went on a walk after Mimic's nap and she spent the afternoon using her stretch pants as extra large pockets. In them she stuffed:
- 1 Large yellow leaf
- 2 small brown leafs
- 4 rocks
- 2 dandelions
- 1 mushroom
- 1 handful of grass
Why? Why do you stuff "leets," "wroks," eelawns," and "mushoons" in your pants? Well, I guess that's because she lives her life in clothes without pockets.
Mikey and I meet up after work on the last car of the New Carrollton bound Orange Line Metro and discuss our days. I always have better stories.
My day was spent like everyday last week was; with Mimic, the eighteen-month-year-old busy-body who I nanny for every day. I’ve never seen a child so small talk so much.
Yesterday was stormy in the city. Flood warnings, police sirens, and stories about accidents permeated the news and conversations on the Metro. Mimic and I were playing Playdoh when we heard what sounded like a bomb explode. And with the bomb went the lights. I said aloud, “The power must have gone out.” And the rest of the day all I heard was “Power OUT! Power OOOOUT!” Yes. You’re right. The power is out. We’ve talked about this nearly eight-hundred times by now. And it’s only 9:30. It was a long day.
Besides the mouth and the constant busy-hands, she’s pretty close to perfect. I got lucky with this job.
Today we went on a walk after Mimic's nap and she spent the afternoon using her stretch pants as extra large pockets. In them she stuffed:
- 1 Large yellow leaf
- 2 small brown leafs
- 4 rocks
- 2 dandelions
- 1 mushroom
- 1 handful of grass
Why? Why do you stuff "leets," "wroks," eelawns," and "mushoons" in your pants? Well, I guess that's because she lives her life in clothes without pockets.
Mikey and I meet up after work on the last car of the New Carrollton bound Orange Line Metro and discuss our days. I always have better stories.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
$4 Gas Tax
In Congress right now there is a bill aiming to implement a cap-and-trade system on carbon emissions. Paul Krugman is in favor of the bill. I am not. However, Paul Krugman is really smart. So, maybe if you are trying to form an opinion on the issue, I would go with a Nobel laureate over some husband of a blogger. Nevertheless, I would like to make an argument against such environmental policies that does not involve saying simply that global warming doesn't exist.
Other such environmental policies include another bill that is being sponsored by President Obama that is in favor of raising the MPG limits on the car industry.
My criticism is that both of these is that they are large governmetal regulations with only modest potential at solving the big picture problems. They both only help to improve the global climate change issue, which, as important as it may be, is actually interlocked with many other problems. These problems are so interlocked that it would be inefficient to try and deal with them as if they were isolated.
Regardlessly, there are now two regulations on the table that are trying to deal with just one facet of a conglomeration of problems.
What conglomeration am I talking about?
Well, I can think of 5 big problems that have a common root:
1. Global Warming
2. Petro-dictators: Iran, Russia, and Venezuela
3. The slump in American jobs.
4. The death of the downtown in America
5. Obesity
The common root is gasoline. All of these problems are exascerbated by the use of gasoline.
I definitely did not come up with this idea on my own. I was greatly helped by Tom Friedman. Last summer, when gas was sky high, he could not have been happier. He was happy to see that they alternative fuel methods had a fighting chance. He was happy to see that politicians were begining to see the problem with petro-politics--especially as Russia invaded Georgia--as more serious. (By the way, Friedman did not include numbers 4 and 5 on his analysis).
However, when gasoline is lower, people drive more and get fatter. They drive away from downtown. They buy foreign goods that are no longer as expensive to ship. They make American alternative energy unviable. They help to fuel dictators and jeopardize our climate.
I know because I did. It might be sad story, but it is also a rational story.
What we need to change this behavior is not a burst of goodwill or a drenching of government regulations. Instead, the encompassing solution is a systemic solution: Let people choose, but just stack the options in favor of the socially optimal outcome.
Thus, the $4 gas tax.
I know it is unpolitical but our President has a ton of political capital. (You would just think that he would use it on something like this instead of closing an island without a plan.)
Other such environmental policies include another bill that is being sponsored by President Obama that is in favor of raising the MPG limits on the car industry.
My criticism is that both of these is that they are large governmetal regulations with only modest potential at solving the big picture problems. They both only help to improve the global climate change issue, which, as important as it may be, is actually interlocked with many other problems. These problems are so interlocked that it would be inefficient to try and deal with them as if they were isolated.
Regardlessly, there are now two regulations on the table that are trying to deal with just one facet of a conglomeration of problems.
What conglomeration am I talking about?
Well, I can think of 5 big problems that have a common root:
1. Global Warming
2. Petro-dictators: Iran, Russia, and Venezuela
3. The slump in American jobs.
4. The death of the downtown in America
5. Obesity
The common root is gasoline. All of these problems are exascerbated by the use of gasoline.
I definitely did not come up with this idea on my own. I was greatly helped by Tom Friedman. Last summer, when gas was sky high, he could not have been happier. He was happy to see that they alternative fuel methods had a fighting chance. He was happy to see that politicians were begining to see the problem with petro-politics--especially as Russia invaded Georgia--as more serious. (By the way, Friedman did not include numbers 4 and 5 on his analysis).
However, when gasoline is lower, people drive more and get fatter. They drive away from downtown. They buy foreign goods that are no longer as expensive to ship. They make American alternative energy unviable. They help to fuel dictators and jeopardize our climate.
I know because I did. It might be sad story, but it is also a rational story.
What we need to change this behavior is not a burst of goodwill or a drenching of government regulations. Instead, the encompassing solution is a systemic solution: Let people choose, but just stack the options in favor of the socially optimal outcome.
Thus, the $4 gas tax.
I know it is unpolitical but our President has a ton of political capital. (You would just think that he would use it on something like this instead of closing an island without a plan.)
Monday, May 18, 2009
Gourmet
It's only fine dining at the Clubhouse. We tried out a recipe forwarded to us from MotherCheer and we were not disappointed. Saturday we went to the Eastern Market to pick up the goods: fresh basil, tomatoes, mozzarella (fresh, the wet kind). After brushing our sliced baguette with balsamic vinegar and olive oil we cooked up a culinary delight.
Sandwiches are beautiful, sandwiches are fine. I love sandwiches I eat them all the time
I just felt like shouting, "Hey look Ma! It didn't come from the freezer!" On the expensive side, I think we'll mostly stick to our frozen beef and cheese burritos. They're not so bad.
Sandwiches are beautiful, sandwiches are fine. I love sandwiches I eat them all the timeI just felt like shouting, "Hey look Ma! It didn't come from the freezer!" On the expensive side, I think we'll mostly stick to our frozen beef and cheese burritos. They're not so bad.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Happiness
Spurred by a David Brooks editorial piece, They Had it Made (New York Times, 11 May 2009), Mikey and I have been having an interesting conversation over the last few days about what truly makes people happy. In his peice, Brooks cited an article published in The Atlantic (What Makes Us Happy. The Atlantic, June 2009) that reported some findings from The Grant Study (which in short is a longitudinal study of a group of Harvard students--including JFK--that began in the late 1930s, attempted to discover what makes people happy and successful).
I found the reports so fascinating. The findings were incredibly diverse and specific to each man's life, but there were some over arching themes of working through hardship and overcoming through sacrifice that seemed to run through many of the case study stories.
Again and again this week the theme of how necessary and valuable suffering is has echoed in conversation. (Which is ironic because both of us consider this time in our life one of such joy and gratitude, we hardly have a complaint beyond our lack of a kitchen sink . . .)
I keep becoming struck with the redemptive quality that suffering has. Early Fall Semester Elder Holland gave an address that likened Liberty Jail to a Temple, quoting Elder Maxwell in calling it a "prison-temple." I thought about this as I contemplated the ways that hardships are instructive and empowering like the temple is.
Today in Relief Society our lesson was on persecution and the themes surrounding why we are persecuted and how best to respond to that persecution. Honestly I've never felt persecuted for my beliefs, nor have I felt like the Church itself was under fire in the way that it was in the days of the early saints. But it was interesting and enlightening for me to be around these stalwart women who have felt persecution in their lives, whether because they're the only members of the church in their place of work, or whether they simply let their temple recommend fall out of their wallet at the grocery store.
I have consistently come to the conclusion that hardships bring us closer to the Lord. Undoubtedly. Whether a trial simply kicks us into gear in making us aware of our failings, or impairs us so severely that we have no other choice but rely on a higher power, hard things help. Too often I think people lead their lives looking to avoid the bumps in the road and seek ways to take the easy road in an attempt to make themselves happy. But what was made clear not only in the article in The Atlantic, or in the lesson this afternoon, but also through experiences in my own life, is that hard things lead to real personal triumphs and increased closeness to Heavenly Father. No effort for easiness can compare to the satisfaction of succeeding in our sorrows.
I found the reports so fascinating. The findings were incredibly diverse and specific to each man's life, but there were some over arching themes of working through hardship and overcoming through sacrifice that seemed to run through many of the case study stories.
Again and again this week the theme of how necessary and valuable suffering is has echoed in conversation. (Which is ironic because both of us consider this time in our life one of such joy and gratitude, we hardly have a complaint beyond our lack of a kitchen sink . . .)
I keep becoming struck with the redemptive quality that suffering has. Early Fall Semester Elder Holland gave an address that likened Liberty Jail to a Temple, quoting Elder Maxwell in calling it a "prison-temple." I thought about this as I contemplated the ways that hardships are instructive and empowering like the temple is.
Today in Relief Society our lesson was on persecution and the themes surrounding why we are persecuted and how best to respond to that persecution. Honestly I've never felt persecuted for my beliefs, nor have I felt like the Church itself was under fire in the way that it was in the days of the early saints. But it was interesting and enlightening for me to be around these stalwart women who have felt persecution in their lives, whether because they're the only members of the church in their place of work, or whether they simply let their temple recommend fall out of their wallet at the grocery store.
I have consistently come to the conclusion that hardships bring us closer to the Lord. Undoubtedly. Whether a trial simply kicks us into gear in making us aware of our failings, or impairs us so severely that we have no other choice but rely on a higher power, hard things help. Too often I think people lead their lives looking to avoid the bumps in the road and seek ways to take the easy road in an attempt to make themselves happy. But what was made clear not only in the article in The Atlantic, or in the lesson this afternoon, but also through experiences in my own life, is that hard things lead to real personal triumphs and increased closeness to Heavenly Father. No effort for easiness can compare to the satisfaction of succeeding in our sorrows.
Hair
Hair cuts don't come cheap in DC. Mikey has been trying to convince me to cut my hair. Short. Like Julie Andrews short. I don't know if I'm that brave. I've been trying to convince Mikey to keep his hair. I think his little ear curls are cute. He doesn't want to be confused for an Orthodox Jew.
While we were in Georgetown Friday (after our bike ride along the Potomac and C&O Canal) we walked passed a salon and looked at the prices in the window. 80 bucks for a woman's cut (it went up from there with the wash and styling) and for a girl who has spent her life getting the $12 Master Cuts in the mall, I would rather buzz my hair myself.
Then there's Ian's Hair Salon which is on the corner of our block. Saturday morning on our way to Eastern Market we stopped in and asked about prices. Better this time, they quoted "our hair texture" at $35.
I can stand my hair but Mikey simply couldn't, so rather than break the bank on getting a quality stylist, he convinced me to cut it. We went to Target and used yet another gift card on a 12 piece home hair styling kit. I was terrified. I kept telling him, "This is gonna be bad. Just wait until I massacre your hair." But he just kept smiling and saying, "You're artsy fartsy and a perfectionist. I trust you." I wanted to spit back that handling a paint brush on a canvas is far different from using some clippers on someone's scalp, but he wasn't going to fork over the dough for a real cut, and even I'll admit that it was getting a little ragged on the edges.
We got home, wrapped Mikey in a towel and I said a prayer that this event wouldn't terminate our married life as we know it. I was scared. Mikey claimed all was well. "Just you wait." I kept chiming.
All I could think of was the article I read the the New York Times earlier that day titled, "Even to Save Cash, Don't Try This Stuff at Home." I wanted to turn ourselves in right then, hang ourselves up with the newspaper and leave us out to dry. I was sure this would turn out like the woman who bought her own home bikini wax kit. "All she can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time." Or the woman who, rather than going to get a full head of highlights decided to bleach her own hair and half of it broke off leaving her with significantly less hair than she started with. This was our fate. I was sure of it.
But leave it to Mikey, who was called out on his cheapness at the Wedding Lunch, to just smile and coolly say, "Alright. Here we go."
All I could say after was, "I didn't do a terrible job." Mikey gave me a B. But for a perfectionist, that was a failing grade.
While we were in Georgetown Friday (after our bike ride along the Potomac and C&O Canal) we walked passed a salon and looked at the prices in the window. 80 bucks for a woman's cut (it went up from there with the wash and styling) and for a girl who has spent her life getting the $12 Master Cuts in the mall, I would rather buzz my hair myself.
Then there's Ian's Hair Salon which is on the corner of our block. Saturday morning on our way to Eastern Market we stopped in and asked about prices. Better this time, they quoted "our hair texture" at $35.I can stand my hair but Mikey simply couldn't, so rather than break the bank on getting a quality stylist, he convinced me to cut it. We went to Target and used yet another gift card on a 12 piece home hair styling kit. I was terrified. I kept telling him, "This is gonna be bad. Just wait until I massacre your hair." But he just kept smiling and saying, "You're artsy fartsy and a perfectionist. I trust you." I wanted to spit back that handling a paint brush on a canvas is far different from using some clippers on someone's scalp, but he wasn't going to fork over the dough for a real cut, and even I'll admit that it was getting a little ragged on the edges.
We got home, wrapped Mikey in a towel and I said a prayer that this event wouldn't terminate our married life as we know it. I was scared. Mikey claimed all was well. "Just you wait." I kept chiming.
All I could think of was the article I read the the New York Times earlier that day titled, "Even to Save Cash, Don't Try This Stuff at Home." I wanted to turn ourselves in right then, hang ourselves up with the newspaper and leave us out to dry. I was sure this would turn out like the woman who bought her own home bikini wax kit. "All she can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time." Or the woman who, rather than going to get a full head of highlights decided to bleach her own hair and half of it broke off leaving her with significantly less hair than she started with. This was our fate. I was sure of it.
But leave it to Mikey, who was called out on his cheapness at the Wedding Lunch, to just smile and coolly say, "Alright. Here we go."
All I could say after was, "I didn't do a terrible job." Mikey gave me a B. But for a perfectionist, that was a failing grade.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Metro
One of my favorite things to do as I am riding on the metro is to notice the kind of announcer on the metro, whose job it is to announce over the intercom what metro line the occupants are using and what the next stop is, etc.
What is amazing to me is that there is a WIDE variety of announcers.
Some metro announcers are short, bored, and barely audible: "ch hmur hmer blue line hmur hmer. ch".
Others seem quiet spry, with the kind of voice that you could expect to burst into a rendition of "Oh When the Saints Go Marching In": "ch NEXT Stop. EASTERN Market. ch"
And then there are those that must believe that they are announcing at Madison Square Garden: "ch THIS IS THE RED LINE...Line...line, HEADED TO LARGO TOWN CENTER...Center...center ch"
Either way it is always pretty clear when it is our stop for our apartment. "It's just when we are the only white people left on the train," as Wifey helped me realize.
What is amazing to me is that there is a WIDE variety of announcers.
Some metro announcers are short, bored, and barely audible: "ch hmur hmer blue line hmur hmer. ch".
Others seem quiet spry, with the kind of voice that you could expect to burst into a rendition of "Oh When the Saints Go Marching In": "ch NEXT Stop. EASTERN Market. ch"
And then there are those that must believe that they are announcing at Madison Square Garden: "ch THIS IS THE RED LINE...Line...line, HEADED TO LARGO TOWN CENTER...Center...center ch"
Either way it is always pretty clear when it is our stop for our apartment. "It's just when we are the only white people left on the train," as Wifey helped me realize.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Poop
I got pooped on at the White House. Not just any poop, but the bomb-splat-'n'-slide poop that leaves a good 8" goob down the front of your shirt.
Thanks Obama.
Thanks Obama.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Thanks
After hours and hours of NPR and nearly half a block of cheese, I feel like I'm finally getting close to finishing all the thank you notes. (People don't tell you what a drag this is. It tests your will to be married).
But now I'm stuck. After trying to think up five different ways to thank people for the "lovely whisk and bowl set" for fear that I'll begin to sound like a form letter, I can't for the life of me pretend to sincerely thank someone for the "wonderfully embroidered Families are Forever wall hanging." Or how about this, "Thank you for the four matching spoon rests. We have no idea what you thought they were, and we have no idea what to do with them. With your four, we have a total of seven. SEVEN spoon rests. We're looking into regifting options. . ."
I think I'll go take a shower in hopes to rouse my brain a little.
But now I'm stuck. After trying to think up five different ways to thank people for the "lovely whisk and bowl set" for fear that I'll begin to sound like a form letter, I can't for the life of me pretend to sincerely thank someone for the "wonderfully embroidered Families are Forever wall hanging." Or how about this, "Thank you for the four matching spoon rests. We have no idea what you thought they were, and we have no idea what to do with them. With your four, we have a total of seven. SEVEN spoon rests. We're looking into regifting options. . ."
I think I'll go take a shower in hopes to rouse my brain a little.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Jefferson
Sunday started out lazily. We took a 2+ hour nap after church before breaking our fast with:
After "dinner" and doing a bit of cleaning, we headed out for a long walk to the Jefferson Memorial. It was another highlight night for us as we talked and listened and soaked in the sights and setting sun.
We got to the memorial right as the sky began to be illuminated and cast in colors of purple and gold. Sitting on the steps brought a measure of solace as we stayed and scanned the scene in front of us. Dotted with masses of elementary school groups, the walk in front of the memorial was busy and chatty. But when I turned around to look past the heavyset pillars, there was a sense of serenity in the memorial itself.
We sat for awhile, made a phone call to MotherCheer for Mom's Day and enjoyed being together, still. While watching the sun set Husband had his hand on my back and started to rub it when a woman came over and said in a grumbly voice, "I'm next for a backrub." She proceeded to ask if she could sit, "there," pointing to the step in front of Husband. He replied with a friendly, "Absolutely," not realizing she was edging in on my prime backrubbing realestate. I don't think he got her joke, but I was glad she merely smiled at us and continued walking down the stairs.
The night was beautiful in all sorts of ways. From where we were sitting we had a perfect view, cut through the trees, of the White House. Husband sat there looking at it and I began to tease and sing, "I love to see the White House, I'm going there someday, to govern all the people, to listen and to pray . . ." He only thought it was sort of funny, but the tune was stuck in his head all night and we got a good laugh out of it.
Finally, here is another postcard picture, in honor of our Mothers who are wishing there is a person in it. You get enough of our faces. Promise.
- Frosted Mini Spooners (aka: Frosted Mini Wheats)
- Roasted Peanuts
- Peanut butter and generic Ritz crackers
- a microwave garlic and herb mini pizza
- another microwave meal
- tuna and crackers
- Sunday "dinner" made miss home, and/or having a real kitchen with real food
After "dinner" and doing a bit of cleaning, we headed out for a long walk to the Jefferson Memorial. It was another highlight night for us as we talked and listened and soaked in the sights and setting sun.
We got to the memorial right as the sky began to be illuminated and cast in colors of purple and gold. Sitting on the steps brought a measure of solace as we stayed and scanned the scene in front of us. Dotted with masses of elementary school groups, the walk in front of the memorial was busy and chatty. But when I turned around to look past the heavyset pillars, there was a sense of serenity in the memorial itself.
We sat for awhile, made a phone call to MotherCheer for Mom's Day and enjoyed being together, still. While watching the sun set Husband had his hand on my back and started to rub it when a woman came over and said in a grumbly voice, "I'm next for a backrub." She proceeded to ask if she could sit, "there," pointing to the step in front of Husband. He replied with a friendly, "Absolutely," not realizing she was edging in on my prime backrubbing realestate. I don't think he got her joke, but I was glad she merely smiled at us and continued walking down the stairs.
The night was beautiful in all sorts of ways. From where we were sitting we had a perfect view, cut through the trees, of the White House. Husband sat there looking at it and I began to tease and sing, "I love to see the White House, I'm going there someday, to govern all the people, to listen and to pray . . ." He only thought it was sort of funny, but the tune was stuck in his head all night and we got a good laugh out of it.
Finally, here is another postcard picture, in honor of our Mothers who are wishing there is a person in it. You get enough of our faces. Promise.
Philly
After our day in Valley Forge and our fabulous sleepover in the twin bed, we were down for breakfast at 7:06am and on the bus before 8am on our way to Philadelphia. We took a drive around downtown and initated our day in Philly by going to a live production of "We, The People" at the visitor's center. After we mosied around the museum (spending most of our time watching Supreme Court cases and debating the outcome) until our tour time at 11:45.
I pointed the camera up to take this picture of Independence Hall and Husband said, "I could by a postcard of that, get a person in it." After I called him rude he used his mother as a scapegoat and said, "That's just what my mom says." I think he deserves a swat.
Later we saw a group of Asians crowding around an American baby taking turns getting photographs with her. I wish I would have taken a photo of that. You couldn't get a postcard of that classic scene.
This room was Husband's favorite, not only because of it's extreme hisorical significance in that the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were drafted here, but because of it's simplicity. It reminded both of us that America truly comes from a humble background.
After our tour we were nearly starving so we made our way over to Reading Market, located on 11th and Market St. and nestled in an old train station. The atmosphere was so cool with live market, vendors yelling and selling, bustling patrons . . . I've decided I'm a market junkie and could make a career out of visiting them and writing an opinion column. But only if I was supplied constant cheese samples.
At a stand called, "By George" we got, what the vendors around the corner dubbed, "The Best Philly Cheese Steak in town." We ordered two, not knowing they were made on 18" long baguettes. It was the largest, drippiest sandwhich I had ever consumed. Husband at all of his, I got sort of close.
Mmmm greasy onions and seasoned meat. My idea of a dream meal . . .
We decided that the Liberty Bell looks fake and took an obligatory, touristy picture here because everyone else was doing it. Oh to be touristy. Also take note of our little "bun in the oven." We're expecting next January.
One of our favorite places that afternoon turned out to be Washington Square. We were with our married friends again (of course, we're shunned by the single folk) and simultaneously fell asleep. Except for me, who spent my time fiddling with my video camera and getting some possibly usable footage to incorporate in my grant project.
It wasn't until we were boarding the bus to go to dinner that we found out we were on the Special Bus. No wonder we got so many stares driving through the ghettos of Philadelphia on our way to Marra's Pizza.
We watced National Treasure on the way home and relished in it like never before. Half the movie was filmed in the places we had spent our afternoon and I felt curiously celebrity-like after watching the movie.
I pointed the camera up to take this picture of Independence Hall and Husband said, "I could by a postcard of that, get a person in it." After I called him rude he used his mother as a scapegoat and said, "That's just what my mom says." I think he deserves a swat.
Later we saw a group of Asians crowding around an American baby taking turns getting photographs with her. I wish I would have taken a photo of that. You couldn't get a postcard of that classic scene.
This room was Husband's favorite, not only because of it's extreme hisorical significance in that the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution were drafted here, but because of it's simplicity. It reminded both of us that America truly comes from a humble background.
After our tour we were nearly starving so we made our way over to Reading Market, located on 11th and Market St. and nestled in an old train station. The atmosphere was so cool with live market, vendors yelling and selling, bustling patrons . . . I've decided I'm a market junkie and could make a career out of visiting them and writing an opinion column. But only if I was supplied constant cheese samples.
At a stand called, "By George" we got, what the vendors around the corner dubbed, "The Best Philly Cheese Steak in town." We ordered two, not knowing they were made on 18" long baguettes. It was the largest, drippiest sandwhich I had ever consumed. Husband at all of his, I got sort of close.
Mmmm greasy onions and seasoned meat. My idea of a dream meal . . .
We decided that the Liberty Bell looks fake and took an obligatory, touristy picture here because everyone else was doing it. Oh to be touristy. Also take note of our little "bun in the oven." We're expecting next January.
One of our favorite places that afternoon turned out to be Washington Square. We were with our married friends again (of course, we're shunned by the single folk) and simultaneously fell asleep. Except for me, who spent my time fiddling with my video camera and getting some possibly usable footage to incorporate in my grant project.
It wasn't until we were boarding the bus to go to dinner that we found out we were on the Special Bus. No wonder we got so many stares driving through the ghettos of Philadelphia on our way to Marra's Pizza.
We watced National Treasure on the way home and relished in it like never before. Half the movie was filmed in the places we had spent our afternoon and I felt curiously celebrity-like after watching the movie.
Forge
We took a weekend with the entire Washington Seminar group and headed north for a little time in Revolutionary Era sites.
We stayed on the Freedoms Foundation's campus which is adjacent to Valley Forge National Park. It was beautiful. The campus was founded during President Eisenhower's leadership and he served as the chairman until his death.
The rooms were dorm style and as a result, Husband was forced (by me) to share a twin bed. I think he was really looking forward to having his own space again, but I wouldn't hear of it. "Bed-sharing is the privilege of being married!" I told him, so he reluctantly cozied up for the entire night. I think I robbed him of some much-needed shut eye, but it was a test of our love. He passed.
We went out and toured the national park which consisted mostly of rolling hills and few stone houses here and there. Our tour guide's name was Nancy. Dressed like Martha Washington, we all expected her to be the sweetie-pie she posed to be, but over the intercom she would whisper commands to the bus driver in a tone like, "you're an idiot for not knowing where to turn," and with an eye-roll she would continue in her high-pitched, sweetie-pie, tour-guide voice to instruct us on the park's history.
At the site of Washington's Soldier's winter camp huts.
Right before we realized our run down the hill embedded dozens of ticks in our legs.
We stayed on the Freedoms Foundation's campus which is adjacent to Valley Forge National Park. It was beautiful. The campus was founded during President Eisenhower's leadership and he served as the chairman until his death.
The rooms were dorm style and as a result, Husband was forced (by me) to share a twin bed. I think he was really looking forward to having his own space again, but I wouldn't hear of it. "Bed-sharing is the privilege of being married!" I told him, so he reluctantly cozied up for the entire night. I think I robbed him of some much-needed shut eye, but it was a test of our love. He passed.
We went out and toured the national park which consisted mostly of rolling hills and few stone houses here and there. Our tour guide's name was Nancy. Dressed like Martha Washington, we all expected her to be the sweetie-pie she posed to be, but over the intercom she would whisper commands to the bus driver in a tone like, "you're an idiot for not knowing where to turn," and with an eye-roll she would continue in her high-pitched, sweetie-pie, tour-guide voice to instruct us on the park's history.
At the site of Washington's Soldier's winter camp huts.
Right before we realized our run down the hill embedded dozens of ticks in our legs.The day rounded out with a visit by Thomas Jefferson himself who came for an hour long Q&A session which was surprisingly good (and didn't force us to liven things up by bringing up his elicit relationships with his slaves), lengthy political discussion with our newly found married friends, chocolate ice cream, and a very cozy night's stay in our dorm room.
Kennedy
Courtesy of Literasar and Cheerolyn, Husband and I got to attend a performance by the National Symphony Orchestra at the Kennedy Center for Performing Arts last Thursday. The top floor of the Kennedy Center is a restaurant we grabbed a bite to eat there and strolled around the balcony before going down stairs and passing time prior to the performance starting.
I had never seen a sanitary toilet cover like this before, and I know it's weird to have rolling footage in a bathroom stall, but I couldn't help myself. You'll understand too once you watch it.
Atop the Kennedy Center with Mr. Lincoln in the background.
We had twenty minutes or so between dinner and the time the doors opened, so we browsed the gift shop and read up on the Kennedy's. I picked up a biography of Jackie O and Husband figured out the timeline of JFK's political career. I think he's calculating a way to be the new youngest president ever to be elected . . .
The show was awesome. We lucked out and our tickets fell during the "Cross Currents - Contemporary Music Week." The program was incredible. Many of the composers and original conductors were there which added a very cool element to the show. They had the opportunity to talk a bit about the work before it was performed. I enjoyed it so much.
The first piece, Imagin'd Corners by Julian Anderson, featured 5 horns that moved throughout the concert hall during the performance, really creating this ethereal surrounding of sound. The title comes from one of John Doone's Holy Sonnets which lend to a powerful vision of the Last Judgement and the Resurrection. The horns seemed like a clarion call, waking the dead and ushering in the newly resurrected Messiah. It was incredibly poignant despite the non-melodic nature of the piece.
We had an incredible time. Thank you so much!
Before entering the Concert Hall
I had never seen a sanitary toilet cover like this before, and I know it's weird to have rolling footage in a bathroom stall, but I couldn't help myself. You'll understand too once you watch it.
Atop the Kennedy Center with Mr. Lincoln in the background.We had twenty minutes or so between dinner and the time the doors opened, so we browsed the gift shop and read up on the Kennedy's. I picked up a biography of Jackie O and Husband figured out the timeline of JFK's political career. I think he's calculating a way to be the new youngest president ever to be elected . . .
The show was awesome. We lucked out and our tickets fell during the "Cross Currents - Contemporary Music Week." The program was incredible. Many of the composers and original conductors were there which added a very cool element to the show. They had the opportunity to talk a bit about the work before it was performed. I enjoyed it so much.
The first piece, Imagin'd Corners by Julian Anderson, featured 5 horns that moved throughout the concert hall during the performance, really creating this ethereal surrounding of sound. The title comes from one of John Doone's Holy Sonnets which lend to a powerful vision of the Last Judgement and the Resurrection. The horns seemed like a clarion call, waking the dead and ushering in the newly resurrected Messiah. It was incredibly poignant despite the non-melodic nature of the piece.
We had an incredible time. Thank you so much!
Before entering the Concert HallCalories
I have learned in my few days of marriage some fundamental differences between Husband and my take on food.
For Husband, the experience of eating needs to be nothing beyond getting calories in his body as a means of functioning, and on an extremely basic (nearly Spartan) level, I'd agree. But for me, eating is a pleasure, an experience unto itself, a chance to let tastes mingle and palate enjoy.
This is why he had roasted peanuts and tuna for breakfast. And I skipped out.
I think we need to go grocery shopping.
For Husband, the experience of eating needs to be nothing beyond getting calories in his body as a means of functioning, and on an extremely basic (nearly Spartan) level, I'd agree. But for me, eating is a pleasure, an experience unto itself, a chance to let tastes mingle and palate enjoy.
This is why he had roasted peanuts and tuna for breakfast. And I skipped out.
I think we need to go grocery shopping.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Portrait
I take more notes at contemporary art exhibits than at fine art exhibits, so I decided that since my sketchbook is full of notes, I'd just relay the stream of consciousness as it appears on the page.
NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY
Feature Photography
Alec Soth
Jocelyn Lee
NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY
Feature Photography
Alec Soth
Jocelyn Lee
-Untitled (man praying)Martin Schoeller
for some reason the man reminded me of [Husband]. He looks like him in the eyes. He looks like he's at a rest home. It made me wonder what will come of us. It seems retrospective, contemplative. Like I'm looking forward at him and he backward at me. Who will die first? What will the other one do? Where are we to go? The photo looks like the man is reflecting on his life, the one that we have entirely in front of us.
-Angelina JolieKaty Grannan "look at her . . . look at that . . . wow . . . amazing . . ." the lady in front of me won't stop saying things like that. loudly.
the artists takes intense macro shots of these movie stars. The description is that he reveals their intense beauty, but when I look at them, I am struck by how ordinary they seem. We're so used to glorifying these figures, but it seems that once portrayed (just their face at an extremely close proximity) in a straightforward manner, they become so pedestrian. Maybe that's the point. Maybe it's along the lines of the dove beauty campaign; that everyone truly is beautiful, fame and trappings aside.
- influenced by Annie Leibovitz
- " . . . leveling them in an inherently democratic fashion" juxtaposing Piraha tribes people and presidential candidates
Barak Obama
- photo taken for the 2004 cover of Gentleman's Quarterly (GQ) at Democratic Convention. Obama said then, "The reason you do this stuff is not to . . . get your face in a magazine . . . You do this stuff because you care about the epic struggle to make America what it can be" reminds me of the New Deal show.
Billy JoelRyan McGinley
- looks like a bouncer. The talkative lady in front of me keeps talking about his browline, his eyes, photoshop, etc. She asks so many questions and keeps gasping. Here's a taste of what she says,"Oh my gosh. (Gasp!) Audry Wilber (reads the description of the work). Wow. Oh my gosh. (Sigh). "Cover of the magazine . . ." huh. The cover of the New York Times. (Gasp). Ah man. This is unbelievable. Unbelieveable. Perisian. The wallaper in my bedroom is similiar to that. . . by my wallpaper has less open space. My mother chose it. It was beautiful . . . (Gasp!) Look at her expression. It's natural . . . no, that's amazing. Look at the tear! Look at the pillows! No cases. It's dirty. Man (pause) you know what happens when people lose their health insurace? They lose their teeth. (She mumbles something about her son to the man with her who isn't her husband) I don't know. I don't know. But that's talent! Don't you think that's talent David? Oh my gosh. Adult prison. (Gasp!) Oh that's pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. . . (pause) You know what we could do David? We could go get our coffee and come back to look at the rest . . .she makes me tired.
* Morrissey (look up on itunes later)Steve Pyke
* Casa da Musica in Porto Portugal by Rem Koolhaus (look up later, write [Sistaray])
"The way we live our lives is etched into the landscape of our faces. We create the face with which we live"
* John Ashbery --> look up poetry
Chinua Achebe "Things Fall Apart"
Henry Kissinger **one of my favorite portraits of the day. glasses in background are so cool.
PWAP
I've spent every afternoon this week at the Smithsonian American Art Museum and thoroughly enjoyed all fourteen hours so far. Monday Husband and I went to an exhibition called, 1934 A New Deal For Artists and we both came away thoroughly impressed. I feel like it has created the filter through which a lot of the subsequent galleries, articles etc. that I have been absorbing this week are experienced.
The exhibit was comprised of artists who were part of FDR's Public Works of Art Program designed to give work to down and out artists of the depression, but also to, "furnish work for unemployed artists for the "decoration, beautification and genderal embellishment of public buildings, to choose quality artworks that depicted the American scene, and to increase the public's interest in art by placing art in public buildings." In a more global way, it really gave me a sense for America in the 1930s and 40s; what they cared about, what they thought about etc. The picture depicted a sense of hope and a sense of joy, though it was simple joy, not the fleeting joy that ravishing in extravagance brings. It seemed pure.
The project was headed up by Edward Bruce, under the United States Treasury Department and paid for the Civil Works Administration. About the program he said, "The PWAP has been a recognition of the value of culture and the arts in American life. It is a significant example of the President's desire to give the people of the country 'a more abundant life.'"
The phrase "a more abundant life" really stuck with me. It suddenly gave art so much value again. Not a monetary value, but a deep, stick to your ribs, nearly palpable value that simply can't be attained any other way. It was like art in America could have died, and these artists were determined not to let that happen. They worked voraciously. Over 3,000 artists nationwide produced 15,663 works of art in just six months. One of the artists, Harry Gottlieb reporting his experience to Edward Bruce said, "Every artist... is so keyed up to the importance of the situation, amounting practically to a revolution for him, that he is without exception putting every ounce of energy and creative ability into his work as never before."
I felt so revitalized and inspired as an artist by the exhibit. I loved that even in a time of economic unsurity (sound familiar?) art wasn't put on the back burner, but seen as a vital means of enriching lives and giving Americans a sense of what they were living for.
The exhibit was comprised of artists who were part of FDR's Public Works of Art Program designed to give work to down and out artists of the depression, but also to, "furnish work for unemployed artists for the "decoration, beautification and genderal embellishment of public buildings, to choose quality artworks that depicted the American scene, and to increase the public's interest in art by placing art in public buildings." In a more global way, it really gave me a sense for America in the 1930s and 40s; what they cared about, what they thought about etc. The picture depicted a sense of hope and a sense of joy, though it was simple joy, not the fleeting joy that ravishing in extravagance brings. It seemed pure.
The project was headed up by Edward Bruce, under the United States Treasury Department and paid for the Civil Works Administration. About the program he said, "The PWAP has been a recognition of the value of culture and the arts in American life. It is a significant example of the President's desire to give the people of the country 'a more abundant life.'"
The phrase "a more abundant life" really stuck with me. It suddenly gave art so much value again. Not a monetary value, but a deep, stick to your ribs, nearly palpable value that simply can't be attained any other way. It was like art in America could have died, and these artists were determined not to let that happen. They worked voraciously. Over 3,000 artists nationwide produced 15,663 works of art in just six months. One of the artists, Harry Gottlieb reporting his experience to Edward Bruce said, "Every artist... is so keyed up to the importance of the situation, amounting practically to a revolution for him, that he is without exception putting every ounce of energy and creative ability into his work as never before."
I felt so revitalized and inspired as an artist by the exhibit. I loved that even in a time of economic unsurity (sound familiar?) art wasn't put on the back burner, but seen as a vital means of enriching lives and giving Americans a sense of what they were living for.
Squirrels
Today while walking to meet Husband for lunch I saw squirrels chasing each other around trees. I'm pretty sure they were reenacting this:
F
I had quite the range of experience yesterday while walking down F St. NW. Husband and I had just had lunch and my afternoon to-do's included going to the Kennedy Center for Performing Arts and changing our tickets. (We got some from two of my most brilliant friends at a bridal shower, but turns out we're going to Philly for the weekend, so we changed them to tomorrow night). I had the address, 2700 F St. I was already on F St., so I figured I'd just walk the straight line to the Kennedy Center and enjoy the city. Enjoy I did. On my way there I saw:
- Bagpipers outside the grand opening of some tall building
- While I was walking a man was nearly by my side for blocks muttering, "You lookin' at the devil? Devel's lookin' at you" repeatedly for minutes on end.
- The National Bank
- The White House. As I was finishing my walk past it I saw numerous security and police personel filing out, so I hunkered down on the closest bench because I could feel something big was about to happen. The sound of sirens came into earshot, and preceeded by the Presidential Motorcade, Mr. Obama himself came home. Welcome Mr. President.
- A man waiting at the crosswalk a few blocks later decided then would be a good time to put on deodorant. Arm and Hammer.
- George Washington University
- Watergate
- A man fully dressed in a suit complete with briefcase riding a souped up razor scooter to work. I had to stifle my giggles.
Misting
The rain won't stop. It hasn't been raining for this entire week. No, it's simply been misting. Constantly. To be honest I'm getting a bit tired of it. It's like the air is so thick and wet you're just perpetually damp and soggy.
So I take refuge in the museums.
The National Gallery of Art. And mist. And Me.
So I take refuge in the museums.
The National Gallery of Art. And mist. And Me.Monday, May 4, 2009
Hallelujah
Church was an experience for two life-long Utahns. Sure we've had a few encounters with wards outside the state and even the country (see: Husband, Two hour church in Chile), but it was crazy to sit down and think, "This is my home ward for the next 15 weeks."
It seemed pretty normal at first, besides the fact that they were upholstered stackable chairs rather than pews, Sacrament meeting seemed nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until Joyce sat down next to me. I didn't know her name was Joyce until Sunday School, but by the end of the day, she was one of the members I was sure not to forget. I first noticed her because when she walked in late and I looked up, my eyes met a black baseball cap with the words, "Jesus is my Boss" on the front. Classy.
She seemed comfortable in the ward which made me think she wasn't an investigator (or maybe an eternal investigator) but when the sacrament was being passed and she kicked up her leg to rest on her knee and started browsing the full-sized newspaper grocery store adds indescreetely, I began to wonder. After she had enough of them, she pulled out a red folder that matched her cherry fleece zip-up and began looking at health care plans. It was hard to think about Jesus when all I wanted to do was see what she would read next.
Church continued to get more interesting. One of the first testimonies was from a black man with one front tooth who talked about a special friend in the ward, Stephanie. Aparently she had fellowshipped him when he was baptised over 8 years ago, and he still remembers what she wore to the first single's party she invited him to, "A white t-shirt, black pants, and I think black shoes . . ." Okay, okay. Not super weird. Until he unzipped his electric guitar and rested it on the pulpit while telling us that he has named his guitar Stephanie. Why? Why, you ask, did he name his guitar Stephanie? Well, the guitar has a clear body and a clean shape and aparently, Stephanie is as clean and pure as his guitar. A touching tribute to Stephanie.
Amen.
(We're looking forward to the weeks ahead in the Capitol Hill Ward).
It seemed pretty normal at first, besides the fact that they were upholstered stackable chairs rather than pews, Sacrament meeting seemed nothing out of the ordinary. That is, until Joyce sat down next to me. I didn't know her name was Joyce until Sunday School, but by the end of the day, she was one of the members I was sure not to forget. I first noticed her because when she walked in late and I looked up, my eyes met a black baseball cap with the words, "Jesus is my Boss" on the front. Classy.
She seemed comfortable in the ward which made me think she wasn't an investigator (or maybe an eternal investigator) but when the sacrament was being passed and she kicked up her leg to rest on her knee and started browsing the full-sized newspaper grocery store adds indescreetely, I began to wonder. After she had enough of them, she pulled out a red folder that matched her cherry fleece zip-up and began looking at health care plans. It was hard to think about Jesus when all I wanted to do was see what she would read next.
Church continued to get more interesting. One of the first testimonies was from a black man with one front tooth who talked about a special friend in the ward, Stephanie. Aparently she had fellowshipped him when he was baptised over 8 years ago, and he still remembers what she wore to the first single's party she invited him to, "A white t-shirt, black pants, and I think black shoes . . ." Okay, okay. Not super weird. Until he unzipped his electric guitar and rested it on the pulpit while telling us that he has named his guitar Stephanie. Why? Why, you ask, did he name his guitar Stephanie? Well, the guitar has a clear body and a clean shape and aparently, Stephanie is as clean and pure as his guitar. A touching tribute to Stephanie.
Amen.
(We're looking forward to the weeks ahead in the Capitol Hill Ward).
Oneway
It was the second time pulling onto the street that our driveway is on. This time another car was at the four-way stop. We had our blinker on to turn right and we couldn't figure out why the car was in the dead center of the road we were trying to turn onto. Husband had to drive on the sidewalk a bit to squeeze by and our pass was accompanied by honking and a dumbfounded stare from the girl driving the other car. She motioned to the sign above her car which read in bold black letters "One Way" accompanied by an even larger black arrow.
Oops.
Luckily our driveway is only 200 feet from the intersection, so we quickly dodged in, but we decided we need to find an alternate route home. Just in case we cause a head on collision.
Driving in the East is full of surprises. One ways, speed "humps," 8-way stops . . . we're learning new things every day.
Oops.
Luckily our driveway is only 200 feet from the intersection, so we quickly dodged in, but we decided we need to find an alternate route home. Just in case we cause a head on collision.
Driving in the East is full of surprises. One ways, speed "humps," 8-way stops . . . we're learning new things every day.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Backhand
Mikimber have been champs while we've been out here. They invited us for dinner and Husband and I couldn't have been more excited to get out and see their place. After a delicious kabab dinner Husband played with the kids and does what he does best: ran them until they couldn't stand.
Already impressed by his running skills, Husband decided to (literally) strike while he was hot and show off his magic skills to the kids. Chowie and Sweety-J were huddled close as Husband vigorously rubbed a penny into the back of his neck in preparation for pulling it out of his mouth. With his head tilted back and reaching his fingers into his mouth, he suddenly flung his hands from his mouth and rather than hold up the coin victoriously, caught Chowie square on the forehead. The force of the blow was such that in a split second the kid was flat on his back. And screaming.
Unphased by the whole thing, Sweety-J's response was, "What happened to the penny?"
The aftermath.
Already impressed by his running skills, Husband decided to (literally) strike while he was hot and show off his magic skills to the kids. Chowie and Sweety-J were huddled close as Husband vigorously rubbed a penny into the back of his neck in preparation for pulling it out of his mouth. With his head tilted back and reaching his fingers into his mouth, he suddenly flung his hands from his mouth and rather than hold up the coin victoriously, caught Chowie square on the forehead. The force of the blow was such that in a split second the kid was flat on his back. And screaming.
Unphased by the whole thing, Sweety-J's response was, "What happened to the penny?"
The aftermath.Saturday
Here's a tragedy for you: Saturday morning my camera was dead. I had no idea until we were at the Eastern Market and I wanted to take a picture of the little man behind us in line. I saw him when we were waiting for breakfast and I thought then, and still believe now, that he is Santiago (i.e. The Old Man and the Sea). So I wanted to take a picture of him.
But Saturday was far from tragic. After sleeping in Husband and I walked a few blocks to the famous Eastern Market and had the much-talked-about breakfast (which was no let down, let Parley tell ya . . . ) The guy taking orders is jovial and good humored and has a real loud bellowing voice that he uses to shout, "Two orders'a blueberreh!" After literally eating until I could eat no more, we headed out to the street to look over the flea and farmer's market. One of the coolest things I saw were these cutting boards (yes, I must be a married woman if I start salivating over a hand-crafted cutting board), but honestly, they were more like works of art. I've never seen such manipulation of the grain to make patterns and designs. It was incredible.
We came home after 1 and had a lazy afternoon before readying ourselves to go to the temple. It took a severe battle with the GPS unit to figure out how to get there, but it was well worth the drive. We did a session and spent time together before embarking on the journey home. Somehow we did it without going on the freeway and have decided that the GPS is possessed. Completely. We remembered when we were on the road that the next day was Fast Sunday. Not having eaten since our massive breakfast, I was beginning to get really hungry (it was after 8 by this time) but agreed to let Husband pray and begin our fast. 30 minutes we got home, barely drug our starving carcasses to the Clubhouse and decided to end it. 30 minutes? Not too shabby eh? (We'll try again next week).
We changed our clothes and packed a couple of tuna sandwiches before grabbing our Metro passes and heading to town. We had yet to walk The Mall together and figured that a cool, breezy night would be the perfect time to do it.
It was.
The monuments were lit up in their usual grandeur and we enjoyed the night so much. After walking past the Washington we headed to the fairly new World War II Memorial and sat down to have our late dinner. Tuna sandwiches have never tasted so good. Husband sat pondering his patriotism, the war, the solution to the conflict in Gaza, how to democritize China, how to end the Castro regime, how to end poverty in Africa, the 
origins of man . . . while I fiddled around with the camera and fixed my hair. I do such important things. We took time after finishing to walk around the memorial and read the quotes on the walls together, discuss symbolism and relish being married, living in DC, and having tuna breath.
Wifey and Husband at the World War II Memorial in Washington DC
We continued our walk while Husband told me stories about ElderGrandpa in Okinawa. It was touching to hear how much Husband reveres him and listen to how much he has impacted his life. The walk along the reflecting pool was beautiful. We were nearly the only ones out there and the night just seemd to envelop us in its peace and calm. We went up to the Lincoln and I don't know how it still takes my breath away but it just does. Every. Time.
By the time we got on the Metro we were the only ones there. It wasn't a scary lonely feeling, but rather a special and solitary one. It was like the night was made just for us. And think, we still have nights in the city for three months more!
But Saturday was far from tragic. After sleeping in Husband and I walked a few blocks to the famous Eastern Market and had the much-talked-about breakfast (which was no let down, let Parley tell ya . . . ) The guy taking orders is jovial and good humored and has a real loud bellowing voice that he uses to shout, "Two orders'a blueberreh!" After literally eating until I could eat no more, we headed out to the street to look over the flea and farmer's market. One of the coolest things I saw were these cutting boards (yes, I must be a married woman if I start salivating over a hand-crafted cutting board), but honestly, they were more like works of art. I've never seen such manipulation of the grain to make patterns and designs. It was incredible.
We came home after 1 and had a lazy afternoon before readying ourselves to go to the temple. It took a severe battle with the GPS unit to figure out how to get there, but it was well worth the drive. We did a session and spent time together before embarking on the journey home. Somehow we did it without going on the freeway and have decided that the GPS is possessed. Completely. We remembered when we were on the road that the next day was Fast Sunday. Not having eaten since our massive breakfast, I was beginning to get really hungry (it was after 8 by this time) but agreed to let Husband pray and begin our fast. 30 minutes we got home, barely drug our starving carcasses to the Clubhouse and decided to end it. 30 minutes? Not too shabby eh? (We'll try again next week).We changed our clothes and packed a couple of tuna sandwiches before grabbing our Metro passes and heading to town. We had yet to walk The Mall together and figured that a cool, breezy night would be the perfect time to do it.
It was.
The monuments were lit up in their usual grandeur and we enjoyed the night so much. After walking past the Washington we headed to the fairly new World War II Memorial and sat down to have our late dinner. Tuna sandwiches have never tasted so good. Husband sat pondering his patriotism, the war, the solution to the conflict in Gaza, how to democritize China, how to end the Castro regime, how to end poverty in Africa, the 
origins of man . . . while I fiddled around with the camera and fixed my hair. I do such important things. We took time after finishing to walk around the memorial and read the quotes on the walls together, discuss symbolism and relish being married, living in DC, and having tuna breath.
Wifey and Husband at the World War II Memorial in Washington DC
We continued our walk while Husband told me stories about ElderGrandpa in Okinawa. It was touching to hear how much Husband reveres him and listen to how much he has impacted his life. The walk along the reflecting pool was beautiful. We were nearly the only ones out there and the night just seemd to envelop us in its peace and calm. We went up to the Lincoln and I don't know how it still takes my breath away but it just does. Every. Time.By the time we got on the Metro we were the only ones there. It wasn't a scary lonely feeling, but rather a special and solitary one. It was like the night was made just for us. And think, we still have nights in the city for three months more!
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Introducing
Ms. Lil' Lou, Timpview's new North East Girls Senate Representative.
She had such a rockin' campaign and we couldn't be more proud.
She had such a rockin' campaign and we couldn't be more proud.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Hirshornian
While Husband slaves away in the office, I get to slave away going to museums until my work picks up here in a few weeks. Wednesday I spent the majority of my afternoon at the Hirshorn Musuem (which is the Smithsonian's contemporary art museum).
I decided that I love contemporary art for the way it makes me think. I felt like my brain was zooming for four straight hours while I was soaking in the art.
The first piece I absorbed was a video piece by Guido van der Werve. It is called Nummer Acht (#8) everything is going to be alright and at first I didn't connect at all with the piece, but I stayed, looking for something, even if nothing more than a little direction on what I want to do with my video piece this summer. But then it clicked. van der Werve, the man in the film, plods on ahead of a gigantic ice-breaking ship as it crashes through ice burgs and plows through the ocean. He seems oblivious to the craft at his heels. The whole thing took on a romantic notion of isolation. His stride seems ambitious, dangerous, and lonely, yet he seems almost like a stand-in for everyman who presses on despite peril. In this way, the film conveyed a great deal of hope and optimism amidst a backdrop that seems anything but bright.
Next I spent a great deal of time in the Hirshorn's figurative collection which had one work, Ron Mueck's "Untitled (Big Man)," that I studied last Winter in my contemporary art class. It's so gratifying to see things in real life after you study them. What I didn't realize was how absolutely enormous it is.
There was an amazing security guard down there. Some people just relish in their jobs, I wish everyone could. What I loved about him is that he had a passion for art. Most security guards I've come across in Museums know the layout of the show, but nothing much beyond that. Ask them questions about who painted what and when the artist was born and they give you a blank stare. Julian Schnabel? Haven't heard of him . . . But this guard was different.
I heard him first. He was talking to a bunch of inner city high school girls who were dismissing a work by Edward Kienholz and Nancy Redding Keinholz entitled, "In the Infield Was Patty Peccavi." There is deep symbolism in the installation if you take the time to figure it all out, which is exactly what the security guard was helping them to do. After they sussed the meaning out of the work he said, "Art is in your body. It's what you see, it is what is inside of you." A few minutes later I found the same few girls and this security guard looking at another work and I heard him talking about Freud. It was such a "Pass it on" moment I had to stop a moment and jot it down in my sketchbook before heading upstairs to look at the Louise Bourgeois exhibition.
She is another artist we studied in class last Winter, but I never got such a deep feel for her work and her mind than I did while taking in so much of her work all at once. There were a lot of sketches with these women/houses hybrid figures. After seeing so many of them I began to muse on the ways that women are very much like houses. In the act of being homemakers they in effect become the home. The house emotions for the entire family, they house the necessities and needs, the leisure and luxuries. They house everyone's schedules and everyone's hearts. In a very physical way they house their children and become the literal dwelling for these growing souls. It's an incredible; one I fell in love with.
Another of her works also impacted me. It is called, "Cell (Twelve Oval Mirrors" and I was absolutely fascinated by it. Of her own work Bourgeois said, "My sculpture is about the difficulty of communicating. It is about two people encountering each other, with this encounter watched by others. The mirrors do not give an exact reflection but a distorted one reflecting different perspectives of this scenario. It is about confronting yourself, knowing yourself, and liking yourself. We are all dealing with the individual verses society . . ." I thought it was so cool to see how she was seeming to exorcise insecurities, anxiety, fear etc, all of which were a large part of her personal history.
It gives me a thrill to feel like I stepped into the artist's head in someway, figured out their motivation, understood their mindset. This happened again when I saw her piece, "The Blind Leading the Blind." She was dubbed as one of the leading artists early on, and the work seems to be to be about her insecurity in feeling like she is a leader. Her work was so experimental even to her, it seemed strange that she was being any such sort of path breaker. I absolutely fell in love with Louise Bourgeous' work and felt myself infused with a new sense of art making.
I decided that I love contemporary art for the way it makes me think. I felt like my brain was zooming for four straight hours while I was soaking in the art.
The first piece I absorbed was a video piece by Guido van der Werve. It is called Nummer Acht (#8) everything is going to be alright and at first I didn't connect at all with the piece, but I stayed, looking for something, even if nothing more than a little direction on what I want to do with my video piece this summer. But then it clicked. van der Werve, the man in the film, plods on ahead of a gigantic ice-breaking ship as it crashes through ice burgs and plows through the ocean. He seems oblivious to the craft at his heels. The whole thing took on a romantic notion of isolation. His stride seems ambitious, dangerous, and lonely, yet he seems almost like a stand-in for everyman who presses on despite peril. In this way, the film conveyed a great deal of hope and optimism amidst a backdrop that seems anything but bright.
Next I spent a great deal of time in the Hirshorn's figurative collection which had one work, Ron Mueck's "Untitled (Big Man)," that I studied last Winter in my contemporary art class. It's so gratifying to see things in real life after you study them. What I didn't realize was how absolutely enormous it is.There was an amazing security guard down there. Some people just relish in their jobs, I wish everyone could. What I loved about him is that he had a passion for art. Most security guards I've come across in Museums know the layout of the show, but nothing much beyond that. Ask them questions about who painted what and when the artist was born and they give you a blank stare. Julian Schnabel? Haven't heard of him . . . But this guard was different.
I heard him first. He was talking to a bunch of inner city high school girls who were dismissing a work by Edward Kienholz and Nancy Redding Keinholz entitled, "In the Infield Was Patty Peccavi." There is deep symbolism in the installation if you take the time to figure it all out, which is exactly what the security guard was helping them to do. After they sussed the meaning out of the work he said, "Art is in your body. It's what you see, it is what is inside of you." A few minutes later I found the same few girls and this security guard looking at another work and I heard him talking about Freud. It was such a "Pass it on" moment I had to stop a moment and jot it down in my sketchbook before heading upstairs to look at the Louise Bourgeois exhibition.
She is another artist we studied in class last Winter, but I never got such a deep feel for her work and her mind than I did while taking in so much of her work all at once. There were a lot of sketches with these women/houses hybrid figures. After seeing so many of them I began to muse on the ways that women are very much like houses. In the act of being homemakers they in effect become the home. The house emotions for the entire family, they house the necessities and needs, the leisure and luxuries. They house everyone's schedules and everyone's hearts. In a very physical way they house their children and become the literal dwelling for these growing souls. It's an incredible; one I fell in love with.
Another of her works also impacted me. It is called, "Cell (Twelve Oval Mirrors" and I was absolutely fascinated by it. Of her own work Bourgeois said, "My sculpture is about the difficulty of communicating. It is about two people encountering each other, with this encounter watched by others. The mirrors do not give an exact reflection but a distorted one reflecting different perspectives of this scenario. It is about confronting yourself, knowing yourself, and liking yourself. We are all dealing with the individual verses society . . ." I thought it was so cool to see how she was seeming to exorcise insecurities, anxiety, fear etc, all of which were a large part of her personal history.
It gives me a thrill to feel like I stepped into the artist's head in someway, figured out their motivation, understood their mindset. This happened again when I saw her piece, "The Blind Leading the Blind." She was dubbed as one of the leading artists early on, and the work seems to be to be about her insecurity in feeling like she is a leader. Her work was so experimental even to her, it seemed strange that she was being any such sort of path breaker. I absolutely fell in love with Louise Bourgeous' work and felt myself infused with a new sense of art making.
Hard Culture
Wifey and I are loving our CULTURAL experience out here in Washington D.C. Take the first full-day here, for example. We left the Barlow Center (for BYU interns), and headed to go to the office where I would be sworn into my internship for the Department of Homeland Security. I remember walking past Dupont Circle, with both of us smiling big and Wifey turned to me and said, "You just belong in this city." (Aah shucks.) Then, after following our Google Map output for ten more blocks, we realized that there weren't any Federal-looking buildings around. Where are we?
It was at thist point that I realized that my beautiful new bride, who had been so helpful to get me walking directions from the Barlow Center, had done so by copying and pasting the following into the Google Map:
6333rd St. NW, Washington D.C.
"There is no 6333rd St. here," the woman whom we asked help from said. "It must be a misprint." (Looking back, I think if that address were to exist, it would lie somewhere in Maine.) After realizing this, I thought the best bet would be to get to 3rd St., like eight blocks away. "We'll take a bus," I thought.
So we found one that went to 3rd St. At this point we we're kind of in, to be politically correct, a different part of town. We get on the bus and we realize that we do not have correct change or an appropriate card method of payment. The bus driver, after realizing that we would probably stand there awkwardly for a while, motioned us on the bus.
After a few moments on the bus, Wifey and I experienced what happens when culture mixes with (what was likely) hard liquor--"hard culture." A man got on the bus and immediately began yelling at me with heavily slurred ebonix and explitives, probably because I was white. Many of his friends and people surrounding him told him to calm down, and assured me that he would be alright. But when I made out from the yells, "I'm in your head son!", I wasn't so sure and really wanted to be off the bus.
Luckily, the bus driver came to the rescue, again. He threatened to throw him off the bus. The man calmed down, and we were able to get off at the next stop. Shortly after, Wifey asked me if I felt like a pioneer. I kind of did. A pioneer on the frontier of hard culture.
It was at thist point that I realized that my beautiful new bride, who had been so helpful to get me walking directions from the Barlow Center, had done so by copying and pasting the following into the Google Map:
6333rd St. NW, Washington D.C.
"There is no 6333rd St. here," the woman whom we asked help from said. "It must be a misprint." (Looking back, I think if that address were to exist, it would lie somewhere in Maine.) After realizing this, I thought the best bet would be to get to 3rd St., like eight blocks away. "We'll take a bus," I thought.
So we found one that went to 3rd St. At this point we we're kind of in, to be politically correct, a different part of town. We get on the bus and we realize that we do not have correct change or an appropriate card method of payment. The bus driver, after realizing that we would probably stand there awkwardly for a while, motioned us on the bus.
After a few moments on the bus, Wifey and I experienced what happens when culture mixes with (what was likely) hard liquor--"hard culture." A man got on the bus and immediately began yelling at me with heavily slurred ebonix and explitives, probably because I was white. Many of his friends and people surrounding him told him to calm down, and assured me that he would be alright. But when I made out from the yells, "I'm in your head son!", I wasn't so sure and really wanted to be off the bus.
Luckily, the bus driver came to the rescue, again. He threatened to throw him off the bus. The man calmed down, and we were able to get off at the next stop. Shortly after, Wifey asked me if I felt like a pioneer. I kind of did. A pioneer on the frontier of hard culture.
Home
As promised, here's a little tour of where we'll be calling home for the next three months. Husband has lovingly dubbed it, "The Club House."
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