On Humanity, Realistically

Posted on July 30, 2012 by kb

I am not fun to watch movies or shows with. My friend Anne will tell you that I begin asking questions immediately and don’t stop. It’s as though I can’t just wait and see. (I can’t. I read the last page of romance novels before I read them even though I know exactly what’s going to happen from the outset.)

I got the new boy started on Game of Thrones this weekend. I am hooked. I love the intrigue, the strategy, the double-crossing, the cliff-hangers. (Just kidding, there’s nothing worse than an episode fading to black just as something critical happens.) I watched the first few episodes with him, and told him to stop where I’d left off. We resumed last night, I slept through the second episode of the second season, and then, revived by my late evening nap, stayed awake through another two.

The show is sort of medieval fantasy, so it’s far removed from our present reality. But it’s a story that is beautifully applicable to our current times (as history and epics so often are). At one point, there are a bunch of prisoners in a terrible situation (when are a “bunch of prisoners” not in a terrible situation?). Daily, one of them is chosen and then tortured and killed.

I find myself blanching at the thought. Somewhere deep inside me begins to feel pain, a singular discomfort. It’s the same reason I can’t watch the Saw movies, the same reason I had to hide the book of 100 Little Murder Stories (or something similarly titled) that I was gifted during my youth, the same reason I will never forget the episode of Law and Order: SVU where the transgendered inmate is brutally beaten and nearly killed: I can’t stomach the thought of a human being doing terrible things to other human beings, for any reason at all.

The idea of murder is so romanticized, our glorification of violence so tolerated and accepted, so expected. James Bond does it so well, he does it for a noble cause, he kills those who “deserve” it. There is something heroic about the whole affair, something so clean and cold and detached that you sympathize with the killer and champion his efforts.

For me, it’s not the just murders that offend me, it’s the sadistic that stuns me. The fact that human beings, for one reason or another, are so able to cause pain and misery, inflicting cruel punishment for little or no reason at all. I can’t imagine what would possess someone to derive pleasure from those actions.

I look at the warning signs: people abusing animals, etc. I look at the black cats that fill our shelters. I look at my own black cat, who was feral until someone decided he’d be an excellent house cat. I think about someone hurting him. (I think about the sad yowl he let out when I accidentally cut his nail too short – the yowl that haunts me and makes me feel terrible.) I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine it for even a single moment.

I think of our disregard for life. It’s a societal epidemic, our lack of respect for others. I am guilty of the same, Chicago-me flipping off cab drivers that zig and zag through the crowded intersections. In those moments, those cab drivers aren’t people. They’re terrible caricatures in cabs, determined to destroy my commute.

Is that how it begins? I wonder. (Obviously it’s not.) But at what point does the casual disregard turn into something more sinister? Is this the ignition point? The gateway? (Again, it’s not.) But as we move toward a more individualistic society, forgoing the “it takes a village” mentality for the “do it yourself, crush all others” mindset, are we losing a vital piece of our humanity? Are we losing shared experiences, community, and ultimately, the true value of this life?

We can study the causality all we like. At the conclusion of our studies, our research, our newly enacted laws attempting to restrict and mitigate their movements, we will still find that people – human in constitution just like ourselves – will go to great lengths to hurt and injure and ruin other people. We cannot stop this.

It will continue in perpetuity. It breaks my heart. It hurts my soul.

I’ve been enjoying the different perspective that the boy (I can hardly bring myself to say his name, I’m so excited about this and I’m terrified to do anything that could potentially destroy it….like getting a lover’s name tattooed right across your chest only to go home and find that they’re leaving you for someone else) brings to my understanding of life as I know it. I’m finding that even though he’s fairly conservative, we have a lot of shared views. We’ve been able to discuss politics without our conversations falling into the traditional tropes that seem to define oppositional discussions. He’ll call me a hippie and I’ll call him a gun-owner and we’ll kiss and continue our conversation. (I guess that is exactly the traditional trope you’d expect…) He’s logical and rational, and I am thrilled by the opportunity to pick his brain and ask endless amounts of questions. I’m thrilled by his responses. I’m open to his ideas and experiences. I see what he knows as an area that I’m lacking in, and I’m determined to understand his mindset and his opinions.

I watch him play video games. (I am an amazing not-yet-girlfriend, if I must say so myself.) I do the same gasping and squeaking, nervous for him as I watch his character fight off strange post-apocalyptic demon-creature-things, and I watch as their bodies disintegrate into nothingness, leaving weapons and money and health for his character to pick up. I champion his efforts, and yet, I’m left wondering about the disconnect between this pixelated violence and the violence on a global scale.

Are we hurting our young people by allowing them to perceive these kills so coldly? The real effects of death and war and bloodshed are far greater than these valiant missions in video games. I’m not anti-video game, not by any means; I’m not saying that they are THE social ill, but I am saying that I think they are symptomatic of our cultural neglect of the soul.

They’re just as bad as my willingness to cut off a cab driver who’s trying to squeeze into my lane. They’re just as bad as our neglect of shelter animals, our blind-eyes turned away from the neighbors who punish their children too harshly, our blanket declarations of individualism – the glorification of the “self-made man” in a world that no longer allows for the opportunity of the American dream nor respects the contributions of the global workforce.

Life is everything you’d imagine it to be. Life is personality, drive, hopes, dreams, fears, goals. Of course there’s no way to identify with everyone, but in trying to truly understand people, there is so much to be learned.

How can personal, societal, national growth happen unless there is learning, understanding, community? Every body breathes. Every body desires, wants, needs. It’d be good to remind everyone of that simple fact, especially as the body counts continue to rise worldwide – from all sorts of crime and conflict – and the world continues to struggle between turning a blind eye and striving for peaceful solutions for all. It is far more difficult to work for love and understanding, but I feel that the benefits would far outweigh the alternative.

On Being a Twenty-Something, Defensively

Posted on July 27, 2012 by kb

I’ve had a blog since I was fifteen. I wrote posts on MySpace, I posted to (and obsessed over) my LiveJournal account, and finally, when I went away to college, I got a Blogspot to document adventures for my family. Three (give or take a few) iterations later, you have the present form of the same thing: a place on the internet to write about my life.

There is something so entirely humbling about reading back to a post that I wrote when I was little.

Stuff like:

“I stood there, in the company of many, but I knew so few.”

and

“I smiled, trying not to make eye contact. I’m sure my dejected look detracted from my approachability.”

“The drive home, in the cool night air, windows down, music up, was immense. No other cars on the road, just me and the night, speeding slowly home. I set the cruise control, just for fun, so that I could just be in the night. I was sixteen again, fresh with ideas, taking the turn to the song, letting the music take me elsewhere.
The lights in Denver have begun their countdown, a simple way of informing pedestrians of their impending restriction, and at night, the countdown simply hits zero and reverts back to the little light man walking. I found myself timing it so that as I drove, I’d be crossing the intersection as the change occurred, the ultimate end leading back to the same beginning.
There is nothing better than the promise of summer, no matter what life is holding for you at the moment, standing outside in the night and smelling the air will change your life. Floral scents intermingle with the city’s hot fresh air and the animals of the night seem to be more alive.
We saw a skunk mosey past, on his way somewhere fast. As I drove away into the night, rolling down the windows, I passed the skunk again, still running, still on the street, getting somewhere.
We’re all getting somewhere, even if we have no idea where we are.”

These posts become a place for me to mark my growth. They remind me that I’ve always been some things, and they reinforce that I’ve always been others. Sometimes I am struck by how insightful Past-Me is, and others, I cringe at her insecurity and wish her all the self-assurance in the world.

I’ve been reading posts about my generation. We’re the Millenials, the ones who are supported by their parents, who have no work ethic, who are vapid and shallow and marked by their sense of entitlement. All of those authors are so wrong.

Yes, we’re wallowing, wandering, lost, and afraid. (And yes, some of us are total dicks. But your generation had some not-so-pleasant people in it too, admit it.) What we were raised to see as our future is crumbling in front of us, as though arriving at the desert mirage to find more and more of same, too-hot sand. We’re thirsty. As I’ve said before, we’re the Next Lost Generation. We have no idea what to expect, because the expectations change daily.

Struggling to find the balance between youth and maturity is a difficult one, particularly when any move toward “grown-up” is criticized, and movements to remain “youthful” are equally stigmatized by both my peers and my age-superiors. What I find interesting is that many of these authors criticizing the Millenials are Millenials themselves.

I work three jobs and don’t get financial support (except health insurance premium – Mom, you’re the best), and I make it work. I have work ethic, drive, desire, and passion to create a sustainable and secure future for myself. I happen to enjoy a few gin & tonics and some dancing. So be it. Yeah, I get frustrated at my peers. I find people with no drive infuriating and weak. I am prone to the occasional meltdown of desperate wallowing.

But I’m also not wallowing for the sake of wallowing. This life is a journey. Right now, the age-superiors are controlling a large stake of this world that we live in. It’s hard to get past the entry-level job, it’s hard to ascertain whether or not our place is as adult-equal or child-mentee. It’s difficult. It’s like being seventeen again, being all lost and insecure and afraid.

The reason that there are so many twenty-somethings actively writing about their lives is because they’re finding an outlet.The internet has opened lines of communication that hardly existed twenty years ago, and has fostered equal parts community and isolation by “social networks.” Growing up with access to technology will change – has already changed – a lot of the ways that people example typical milestones. There’s a lot more comparison, more evaluation, but also less of each.

Pressure on young adults to be “perfect” is a very real thing. They want to succeed, and want to be able to do that, but are often so coddled and cared for that they lack the tools with which to do so. Or, alternately, they want to succeed but instead of being coddled and cared for, they’re tough enough to make it on their own but are constantly fighting external circumstances. It’s life, just like you lived it, just like your kids will live it. It’s just always a bit different.

Yeah, some of those blogs are insipid as all hell. Some are lame. Others are personal. Each blog inhabits its own space. It is exactly what it is. And I’ll tell you something that I always tell people: If you don’t like it, don’t read it. (For those of you who think the Millenials are strange, you should delve into the world of middle-aged bloggers, some who are fascinating, wonderful creatures and others who are like reading something reminiscent of listening to nails along a mile-long chalkboard. The grass is always greener, dear Baby Boomers.)

My blog marks my growth from adolescent to young adult and beyond. I’m humbled by, grateful for, astonished by, embarrassed about, aware of, and immensely proud of everything, even the parts I hate. This blog, while both public-facing and well-trafficked, is an account of growth and the stages that mark a life. My life. It is meant to be self-pitying and triumphant in equal measures.

When I look back on my posts, I am able to mark the moments at which I grew and changed. I am able to see how my opinions and tastes have changed and grown. And I am content to see how the journey has progressed thus far, and excited about the glorious future that awaits.

So, remember: If you don’t like it, don’t read it. Problem solved.

On Breakfast in Bed and Bitches, Pragmatically

Posted on July 19, 2012 by kb

I changed my mind about the potential chauvinism deal. I mean, I didn’t change my mind, exactly.

You’ll get your chance to explain where you’re coming from. You will bring over brownie mix, and he’ll make brownies. You’ll watch movies, ones that you haven’t seen but that he thinks you’ll like. He’ll be right. You won’t sleep because you will be too excited. You will talk about everything. You will tease each other. You will make plans. You will talk politics and find some common ground. You will fall asleep and when you open your eyes, he will be walking through the door with the bacon and eggs that he woke up early to make just for you. You will be so happy. You will do the dishes as quietly as you can, since he’s asleep. You think feminist thoughts while you’re doing the dishes. You will leave him cherries in a bowl in the fridge. You will awkwardly say hello to his landlady on the way out, then panic and wonder if you should have made better conversation than “Hi!” as you shut the door.

***

I have been working at the same office building for a year and a half. I have never had an assigned parking spot, but every day, I park in the same spot. For the past week or so, I’ve been noticing that if I don’t get to the office early enough (ha, my definition of early is much different from yours, I’ll imagine), someone will be in “my” spot.

So yesterday, I had to park in a different spot. Our parking system is totally unintelligible and strange, so when you see a spot that has no number painted into the concrete at its opening, you assume that it’s free. So I parked in one.

I went to my car after work to see a note. “THIS IS A RESERVED PARKING SPACE.” Pssh, like hell it is. So I texted my boss and told him that it is probably time to see about getting me a real parking spot. My lovely lady boss went down to greet the very scary building secretary today, and was met with resistance. Lots of resistance.

And, to top off that resistance, the scary building secretary said something to my lady boss about how she recognized my license plate and also the fact that my car had duct tape on it. What exactly does that have to do with anything?

My car took a beating in Chicago. I was the hit part of a hit-and-run, leaving a giant jagged wound in my back bumper. My windows were spray painted. (For like a month, I had to roll down my window to turn left because the word “PAIN” was in my way. I eventually paid a guy $8 to razor-blade the paint off.) My front side bumper was hit. I was driving along a narrow street and a man opened his door, shattering my side-view mirror.

All of these things are parts of Chicago that I will carry with me until my car dies, because even though I pay Allstate a significant amount of money each month in “full-coverage” insurance and have never been in an accident that they had to pay any money for, it’s going to cost me my full deductible to fix each individual incident of damage, which at current count is 2 new bumpers and whatever else they decide that they’ll need. Duct tape, on the other hand, is $4/roll, and every time I buy it, my insurance doesn’t go up.

With the transmission starting to get janky – through no fault of my own, it’s a 3rd gear pressure switch thing, whatever that means – I’m making important decisions and stocking away money to fix that when it goes rather than keeping up with your needless aesthetic expectations.

So, scary building secretary, the reason that my car looks like it belongs to an undesirable is merely because of the financial advantages to not fixing my car (plus, no one wants to steal a car that’s not worth chopping up and selling). Don’t think that I haven’t looked into it, because I have. Stop judging people for what their cars look like. The quality of their hearts and souls is of far greater importance.

The conclusion here? I now have an assigned parking spot. I am annoyed about it. But…the parking spot coupled with my brand new dual monitors (46 inches of computer screen!) means that I am having a great week. I am so blessed to work where I do. I am so grateful. Currently bitchy, but so incredibly happy.

On Male Chauvinism, Attractively

Posted on July 18, 2012 by kb

Let’s say that you’re “dating” someone new. (I’m using the term loosely, just like the rest of my generation. I was going to make a bad pun, but I’ll leave that alone.)

Let’s say that person makes comments that may lead you to conclude that they probably fall somewhere between “Hardcore” and “Might just be a defense mechanism” on the Male Chauvinism Scale that I haven’t made up yet. (Which is why the scale segments are strange. Deal with it.)

Deal breaker?

Usually, yes.

Your analyst/therapist might tell you that you should probably break the habit of dating guys that you want to change. Exactly right, but you might not one to listen to advice, no matter how right it is.

But you’re not one to turn down a challenge, especially not one that attractive. The red flag has been raised. It was raised that night in the bar when he made those jokes that irked you.

It’s not like you’re naturally inclined towards excelling at being a traditional woman anyway, so it’s not like he’ll last very long unless he can learn to love who you are. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get bored first and it’ll be a future crisis averted. But in the meantime, you’re not one to waste an opportunity to learn new things, try new things, and have life adventures, so have fun and remember: don’t let anything slide!

The Crow, Contentedly

Posted on July 17, 2012 by kb

I watched “The Crow” last night, at the recommendation of a friend. Oh man, so amazing. I can’t believe that I’d never seen it before. This morning, googling around, I realized that the actor Brandon Lee had been killed while filming this movie. (I have faint recollections of reading this before…)

And yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, or five times more? Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless…

The quote above is the quote on Lee’s tombstone, from the Paul Bowles book Sheltering Sky.

Life is a beautiful and strange place, even though it’s so hard to step back and look at it as though it’s not yours. There are only feelings and the thoughts of moving forward, the hope of a bright future just beyond reach in the distance. There are the moments of disbelief as you look at the present and realize that in some strange way, fate must be smiling on you. You cross your fingers and squeeze your eyes shut and hope that whatever you do is the right decision.

I’m reminded that life can take turns you never expected, and that sometimes, it might be best to follow them wherever they may lead. When I die, I want to have lived a full life, the kind of life that leaves beautiful memories instead of “what ifs.” I don’t want to die, not yet, but if I were to go at any point, I’d wish to leave a legacy of joy behind. Joy and hilariously awkward stories, mostly.

On Almost, Miserably

Posted on July 10, 2012 by kb

Clouds over Denver International Airport at Sunset

(That’s what half-relief looks like.)

It’s a touch melodramatic, but whatever.

No one wants to fail. Or even come close to almost failing. But brushing the sharp edge of great accomplishment and even greater ruin is something that must be done. It builds character.

This particular task was a big project at work. We didn’t have to do it, but I pushed. I wanted to prove that it could be done. And we almost had it. I was there. I spent my Friday night typing answers into spreadsheets (damn you, spreadsheets!). I emailed updates to my team, as we had previously discussed, so that everyone would be on the same page. I was ready. I sat down this morning and I started the remaining pieces. I was prepared. I coordinated work efforts. I printed ahead to avoid the same conflicts we’d run into previously.

But as it always does, time slips away when I most need it to linger. The final pieces didn’t come together until way too late. The printers are like prehistoric beasts that amble on at their own speed (well obviously, they’re machines. You can’t make them go any faster). The humans who feed them (imagine me as zookeeper here) are caught up in the middle of a million things, and so the beasts spit out the wrong pages, printed on the back of the right pages, or worse yet, you survive printing only to meet a downfall somewhere else.

I hate team efforts. In theory, they’re so great. Everyone will work together, and it will all be good. But in the end, something always goes wrong. Then there’s the inevitable finger-pointing and attempts to come up with new plans. (Not that I’m saying that happens all the time to all people, I’m generalizing. But I’m also not wrong.)

Not that I’m so afraid they’ll fire me. I mean, I live in a constant state of fear of termination – even though I’ve never been fired from anything in my life – so much so that every time my boss emails me and says, “Come into my office,” even if it’s a meeting I’ve called, a jolt of panic shoots through my heart. I imagine that by the time I finally quell that fear, I’ll be called into an office somewhere only to enter entirely nonchalantly and given the news that I’m being let go. So instead, I think I’ll just keep letting the tiny panic happen. It’s reassuring.

I so desperately want to prove that I can handle it. I like it. I like challenge and projects, and being busy. I so desperately want to be able to handle it. “It” is the crushing weight of projects right now. I want to think that they’ll all be perfect, that they’ll be shipped off quietly and early, that we’ll manage to finally get one done where no one has to stress, but I don’t imagine that will ever be. That’s the problematic nature of team efforts. They don’t get easier with more hands, but they don’t get easier with fewer hands, either.

For my part, I swear I’m trying. I’m trying so damn hard. I worked so hard to avoid any of these problems this time. I corrected. I made adjustments. I thought ahead, but apparently, not far enough.

I found myself driving to the airport at 7:30 pm, pushing the accelerator down with abandon, gripping the steering wheel and staring intently into the distance, wishing that I could somehow close the gap between my location and my destination with sheer will.

[Of course, my gas light came on. With 50 or so miles to go, the gas light is a terrifying thing. I never let the tank get low. I’m the type of person who fills up at a quarter tank. This was, of course, just another inconvenient error in a month that’s seemed to be an endless tragic comedy of all things unintentional and yet so disheartening. Think of the new tires immediately after Las Vegas. Another example? Yesterday, I put my ice cream in the fridge instead of the freezer. Perhaps it’s early-onset dementia, but perhaps it’s just life overload. On the plus side, I made it back to my neck of the woods without running out of gas.]

I arrived with time to spare. For the second time in as many months, I got free packaging. The address checked out. Everything fit neatly. In less than five minutes, I was on my way out the door, finally headed home. So that’s a relief. We made it. Hectic and hellish, but done.

Through a series of misfortunate events (both of my own making and of the kind that fate likes to throw in just for fun), I keep coming up short lately (in life, too, not just work). Tomorrow, I’ll walk in there and take responsibility for everything, and I’ll feel like a failure. I’m just so frustrated. With myself. With this summer. With all of it.

But at least now I can look forward. Hopefully tomorrow will bring something wonderful. Tuesdays are usually such good days.

On Marriage, Trepidatiously

Posted on July 7, 2012 by kb

The man I once thought I was going to marry got married last weekend. By all accounts, it was a beautiful wedding. (This is one of those thank-goodness-for-facebook moments. Some of my friends are still friends with him, so I got to see pictures. Pssh. You wouldn’t be a little curious?)

When we met in 2007, it was instantaneous. The beginning of summer crept over Chicago and I fell in love. When I saw him before I moved back to Chicago, the feelings came flooding back.

When I moved back to Chicago, I was naive enough to think that it’d be easy for us to be together. It wasn’t.

There was a big fight, the fallout, and then the gradual rebuilding of what would be one of the greatest loves of my life.

I was patient (not a state of mind I’m entirely used to). I played it cool (again, not something I’m familiar with). I was awesome (of course).

Our tentative embrace of the potential relationship resumed. I knew it was officially unofficial when, after a party at their new place, I fell asleep in his bed. Just as I was drifting off, I overheard someone asking about me, and clear as day, I heard his response, “Katie? She’s my main squeeze.” I fell asleep smiling.

The next summer, he drove with me out to Colorado. I remember driving into Rocky Mountain National Park with him, thinking that I wished I could bottle the happiness that I felt. It was the swell that you fill in your core when you’re so full of beautiful emotions. It was everything I knew would never last.

(ahh! and there’s Simon on the right. That’s one love that will never die.)

As the summer faded to a close, things began to crack. There was the gradual frustration that I felt with everything. There was the future. We began to talk about the future, and I stopped seeing us and started seeing my parents (hint: not a good thing). We fought. We broke up. The anguish was drawn-out, peppered with those moments of hope that all would be salvaged. It ended badly.

I am thrilled for them as they begin their lives together as husband and wife. But I am so relieved. I don’t even feel bad saying that: I am so relieved. About a lot, but mostly the fact that I am not married.

I want to be married someday very badly, but I am very much willing to wait until it’s a thousand percent right. (Even if that means I end up 45, single, and find myself “accidentally” adopting cats from shelters and taking them home to keep me company while I drink Malbec and wait for my pineapple curry to be delivered from the Thai place.)

But damn, this world can be a very lonely place. Even when you’re not alone. But even so, the thought of getting married as a means of ensuring companionship is terrifying.

In the very immortal words of Outkast, “Forever never seems that long until you’re grown.”

On Black Bathrooms, Magically

Posted on July 6, 2012 by kb

Oh my goodness, I love black. It’s one of my absolute favorite colors. After my parents’ divorce, we spent a lot of time moving around – rentals = white walls – and I promised myself that when I got a house, I would paint every room a color.

This home, done in blacks and whites and other neutrals is beautiful. There are parts I’m “meh” on (like the horns; not a big fan of horns), but check out that black and white striped bathroom and tell me that’s not amazing.

While I’m no closer to owning a home than I was at twelve, I’m definitely excited for the possibilities of painting and decorating; although based on the looks of our apartment now, I’m not going to be the most amazing decorator ever. I’m sure that KatieBarry-chic will be its own blend of clutter and color and homeyness and it will be wonderful. (and!….a bathtub with claw-feet!)

Also, I’m realizing that since all I really own are clothes and books, I’m going to need extensive shelving. Either that, or I’ll have to pare down my possessions. (Pssh, not going to get rid of my books, even the romance novels. They’re the best things for rainy days and cold winters.)

I have some free time this weekend (read this as: I am babysitting too much to really have a life), so I think I will begin the process of digging through my closet and trying to donate/sell/eliminate excess clothing. Anything from college (oh dear, or even high school) must go if it doesn’t fit, looks weird, or hasn’t been worn in ages.

This is such a difficult process for me, because I find myself crippled by the “What ifs” as I go through things. “What if I need this?” “It’d be great for a costume party.” – That’s the weirdest thought possible, I think. Who actually goes to that many costume parties that often? I haven’t been to one in at least a year. “This might fit me someday!” – Again, a terrible thought. If it’s more than two sizes too big, it’s got to go. (Which means that most of my man-pants are out. Bummer.)

Ah, well. I assume that I’ll come back to you on Monday only to report that I’ve stared at the closet, become overwhelmed, and bailed on the plan to organize. But one can always hope for great change, right?

On Birthday Weekend, Happily

Posted on May 22, 2012 by kb

Walking back to the car from trivia on Thursday night, I came across this sign. And for some reason, it struck me. Autos.

Friday night was amazing. Sushi for ten followed by bar hopping. By the end of the night, I was surrounded by my favorite people and I was sipping Hendricks and tonic in my favorite bar. Life is good. (The facebook caption on this picture reads: We picked the drunkest man in the bar to take our picture. And it’s true, I did. I’m surprised that we’re not more blurry.)

I bonded pretty hard with a girl who was practicing her seductive poses in the bathroom. I was laughing to myself at the sink, and she saw my reflection in the mirror. She hugged me a few times while we laughed.

I love bar graffiti. Sometimes it’s silly, or rude, but sometimes it’s thought-provoking or just pretty.

On Saturday, Anne wanted to go see all of Denver’s weird art installations. So we went and saw the Blue Bear at the Convention Center, the dustpan and broom by the art museum, the red chair and the horse by the library, and the cows by the art museum. I climbed a cow, and while jumping off, nearly fell into a puddle of mud. Quick reflexes saved me by less than six inches.

On Sunday, we drove to St. Elmo, a ghost town outside of Buena Vista.

St. Elmo is not a ghostly as I would have liked. We pulled in and there was a tour group of ATVs preparing to depart. We were able to get out and walk around, though, and the exploration turned out to be just what we were looking for.

It’s creepy to see the fake flowers in the windows of these buildings. Beyond creepy. Anne and I both agreed that the vibe in the town was way wrong for attempting to sneak into any of the buildings.

View from a boarded up window.

Mattress skeleton!

On our way back, we went to Tiny Town. Of course we rode the TIny Town train. The lady at the concession stand asked us if we had children with us. We exchanged looks and said we didn’t.

My five-year old self has an image of Tiny Town that is far more magical than the experience that my newly twenty four-year old self had. Tiny Town is still an adventure, but it’s good for about ten minutes of adventure.

Favorite parts?

The train ride! The temporary tattoos purchased in the gift shop and applied in the picnic area!

After Tiny Town, I drove Anne to the airport. On the way, we were treated to a double rainbow. I’m about to sound like a nine-year old girl clutching her brand-new Lisa Frank folder, but I had forgotten how awesome rainbows were.

Swisher and I cooked dinner together on Sunday night. I was terrified. He’s a good cook, and I’m less than proficient in the kitchen. We made carbonara (my choice and so full of calories!) and salad. We were supposed to make banana bread, but had so many leftover cupcakes that we decided to just eat those instead. He brought me red velvet cupcakes and gorgeous flowers on Friday! I came home to those and a clean kitchen. Is he good or what?

Honestly, I’m thrilled about life right now, but I’m so exhausted. I hate that I look at the calendar and see that it’s already scribbled in for nearly a month. I know that I’m lucky to be so loved and so busy, but oh man, I’d do nearly anything for a free day to lay in the park with a book and a jug of iced tea.

On baseball, begrudingly

Posted on May 17, 2012 by kb

I had never sat in the Rockpile before.

So now I can say I’ve done that.

So bummed, my favorite sandals broke last night. Looks like it’s time to invest in some new shoes. Yesterday at work we were having a Birkenstock vs. Keens discussion. They all like the Keens better, but I prefer the Birkenstock look. (My old sandals were from Target. And I’m super upset that they didn’t do a new version of the style this year. Because the same thing happened to the first pair of favorite sandals that I had – same exact style, but older. The thing between the toes goes. And then you don’t have sandals anymore. Just sadness.)

This baseball game was infinitely better than the last one we went to.

Waking up this morning with a mild hangover, I’ve decided that I hate adulthood. I need my 8 hours of sleep now. I need my alone time. I can’t stay up all night, or do shots of whiskey, or dance until dawn (at least not on weekdays). Sometimes I try, and I’m always swiftly reminded why those activities quickly become best left to the young. And by young, I mean people who don’t have to be at work before 9am.

a mile high and then some…

the space between reality and the rest

Category Archives: life