My Happy Place

I am sure that at some point in your life you’ve heard people refer to their happy place. It’s the place where we let our minds wander in times of stress or need, and it is often a place of serenity. Most people think of a beach or the woods or some secluded area where they can be alone. It’s usually a vague place, no specific name or locality, more of an abstract idea than an a actual point on a map.

Well, except for mine.

My happy place is real, and I have been absolutely aching to get there.

I present to you Mackinac Island, Michigan. My island.

Located in the Great Lakes off the coast of Michigan, Mackinac has been the summer spot of choice for my family for as long as I can remember. My grandparents own a Bed & Breakfast there. My father worked there for 15 years; it’s where he learned everything about food and business. It’s where he met my mother. It’s where they were married. It’s where they shot the movie I was named for (1980’s Somewhere in Time).

In the early 1900’s islanders shunned that newfound horseless carriage contraption in lieu of the bicycles and horses they’d always preferred, and it stuck. It’s novel, and when you’re 7, it means you have all the independence that the grown-ups do (see picture).

(note my awesome sweatshirt, on the right, which says Mackinac Island. I wore until I outgrew it and it literally ripped.)

It’s the most beautiful place I know; there is magic on that island. I can’t explain it. The best I can do is tell you that sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat at night, realizing that I am not smelling the crisp salty* breeze of lake michigan or tasting smoked whitefish, and it breaks my heart a little. I want to be there so bad.

*It has been pointed out to me that the Great Lakes are freshwater, not saltwater. I stand corrected. But for some reason when I close my eyes I still smell salt. Smoked Whitefish maybe? I am not sure.

Minimal Words Monday – Miss Keima

I propose that monday be dedicated to visual artists. Therefore, I christen today the first minimal words Monday. Now, to today’s pretty thing:

Miss Keima is a deviantartist I’ve been following for a very long time. I don’t know much about her, other than her real name, Mirva Lukkari, and that she’s Finnish. I’m going to make a wager and say she draws inspiration from Edward Gorey. If you don’t know Gorey, then perhaps you should brush up.

Here’s an excellent write-up by Kaitlin Allen.

Now that you’re brushed up on Ed Gorey, here’s a smattering of some of my favorite Miss Keima works.

Note the intensely crazy texture, and minimal use of color. I want to tape these all over my walls.

Violins AND hip-hop? Someone catch me while I faint.

Last week I was introduced to my new obsession by my best friend’s girl, who by that moniker sounds like a failed 2008 Dane Cook movie (she’s awesome and definitely neither a failure nor associated with dane cook), and probably deserves her own things-in-my-life-that-are-amazing post.

Anyway, the new obsession: Miri Ben-Ari

Girlfriend is bringing sexy back to the violin. Her sounds are sharp, and her CD thrusts her tight violin riffs into the middle of thumping beats and famous faces of the world of rap. I heard the first track, and in less than 5 seconds I was hooked.  Plus she looks like Shakira and Isaac Stern (whom she studied under) had a crazy love child.

See? It’s pretty unmistakable.

Also, the more I read, the more I think that there may nothing that Ben-Ari cannot do.

A summary

• When her family ran out of money for violin lessons, she applied for an won the America-Israel Cultural Foundation Scholarship on the reccomendation of Isaac Stern. Thank god, because if she had stopped playing, it would have truly been a travesty.

• She arranged all the strings for Kanye’s “College Dropout” album. Try not to hold the kanye association against her, just appreciate that the string-age on his album was her brainchild, and thus, amazing. Personally, I’ve started telling people that Miri Ben-Ari’s strings are the only reason the album succeeded, however extrapolated it may sound.

• Started a non-profit called Gedenk to promote awareness and remembrance of the Holocaust, garnering a humanitarian award from the Jewish Federation. I think bringing string-sexy back is enough to garner its own humanitarian award. She’s giving hope to geeky classically trained musicians everywhere.

• She had her own story on NPR, which I think is probably the most impressive thing of all. I love NPR. sigh.

Moral of the story: She is awesome, and she makes my little classically trained-singer heart happy while still pleasing the edgy pink-hair wearing art kid in me.

Listen and feel superior: http://www.imeem.com/artists/miri_ben-ari/

Tough Love, you have forsaken us all.

Maybe you’ve noticed a prevalence in my blog for posts about VH1’s Tough Love, with Steve Ward. I almost neglected to write this, as this is not a free-publicity-for-VH1 blog. I will say, however that the reports from my cohorts (I no longer have cable) of this season’s Tough Love 2 were extremely disappointing.

Tough Love is a show that bases itself around the words and wisdom of a man by the name of Steve Ward. An attractive male matchmaker whose sometimes brutally honest bits of truth are hard to swallow by his otherwise clueless compatriots.

I longed to be on this show. Having watched the man do nothing short of rehabilitate several wack jobs, I decided I wanted in on the action. I wanted to be told that I was/am able to love and all those sappy things that come with therapy but from a much more lovely individual who could also find me a quality boyfriend.

So I applied. I blogged. I waited. No avail. Tough Love rejected me, ironically enough. The show I wanted to prove to me that I would not always be rejected, rejected me. No time to dwell on that however. For this is one of the jems of joy they cast in my place.

Rocky.

Rocky, whose legendary weave made history as she continued to proclaim it as real hair despite sitting at the bottom of a drain.

Rocky, who may be one of the worst stage parents of the world. Rocky, whose leather-like skin, boobs of unmistakable fakery and lips of collagen consistency make her resemble a walking taxidermist’s experiment.

Rocky. I got rejected for Rocky.

Forget you, VH1. For a moment there I had actually deluded myself into thinking that you were actually trying to help women.

Goodbye Dollhouse, my weekly dose of Fran Kranz Deliciousness.

Once again, Fox gives a great big middle finger to the whedonverse and with it great, original television. Granted, I didn’t think Dollhouse would last past season one. It was slow to start, and the very nature of the show made it extremely difficult to make a sympathetic bond with the characters. We all stuck it out, in a sick loyalty to Joss Whedon, the ruler supreme of all geekdom.

Season 1 laid it all out on the line. Pseudo-nefarious organization presses people into service as ‘actives’ wherein their brains are wiped clean and new personalities are implanted with every episode (see I told you it was a difficult concept to bond to). Little by little we, as the audience, learn about the past live of our actives before they became barbies for billionaires. Slowly but surely, I got hooked.

And then, Season 2 happened.

The dolls started getting sentient, Felicia Day made a guest appearance, there’s  all kinds of love affairs and then, oh god, the teaser for the next episode featured this:

Summer Glau. Summer I-played-River-Tam Glau.

P. and I were literally screaming and writhing in girl-geek delight at the end of the last episode. B thought we’d lost it, as did Gigi (the cat) who ran in terror from the foaming-at-the-mouth scene.

Want to know what I will miss the most? My weekly dose of the geekily adorable Fran Kranz as amoral mad scientist Topher Brink. He can wipe my brain any day as far as I’m concerned.

Goodbye Topher, we hardly had time to fantasize about thee.

Dear English Guests, stop picking my brain.

I’m sitting here working at fancy schmancy hotel and there is THE most beautiful wedding I’ve ever seen unfolding in front of me.

The family is English, specifically hailing from Stratford-upon-Avon (Shakespeare anyone?). Everyone is wearing hats. with feathers. Feathers, dear god, feathers!

There is a cake that consists of cheese. Actual cheese. It’s just wheels of gourmet cheese. with crackers. and homemade English Jam!

There is a swing band!

I’m literally swooning at work. It’s really hard not to take out my phone and take photos for future reference in wedding planning.

To sum up: feathers, gourmet cheese, Shakespeare references, hats, swing band, English accents.

It’s like they made my fantasy wedding. Can’t wait to see what the bride looks like!

UPDATE: The Bride walked in to jazz music. She had a white strapless gown, and black elbow length gloves. I didn’t care for the gloves, but it did tie the black in the carpet in nicely.

My head actually hurts. I don’t think I’ve been this sentimental in months.

Amy Astley = New Hero

Yesterday I spent the better part of an hour trying to decide what to wear. Although this is not an unusual happenstance, it is an unusual event for 4 in the afternoon. The reason? Amy Astley lecture at the student center.

Astley, the EIC of Teen Vogue, and BFF (well, at least BAF..That’s Best Assistant Forever..) of Anna Wintour gave a highly enlightening lecture that resulted in several realizations:

1 – I love magazines. As if I couldn’t figure that out from my recent purchase history. I love magazines. I want to work in magazines. I had nearly forgotten, what with the bad quarter and my mishaps at my last internships. This is the goal: Magazines.

2 – Amy Astley is fierce, to borrow a phrase from Hannah and Matt. I spent the greater part of all the times she was adressing fashion major questions eyeballing her delicious shoes. They were spike heels with cut-out-ankle-strappy-type details. Must find a target-priced version for myself. With fierce shoes like that, no wonder Anna Wintour kept her on for 10 years.

3 – Amy Astley is obsessed with 13-year old blogger Tavi . She got mentioned twice, which is only one less than Anna Wintour and one more than LC. After reading her blog, I can see why. At 13, she dresses better than I do at 22. As a side note, I think I was still trying to emulate Clarissa Explains it all at 13, even though the show had been off the air for years.

This girl has the most professional yet fresh look at fashion I’ve ever seen . She needs to be BFFs with my sister who, after reading Tavi, I am going to encourage to blog.

 

3 – I need to “develop my eye” as Astley calls it. I have decided to start chronicling the work my fellow students at SCAD are doing. What do you think?

How I glued my eyes shut or why one should be careful with facial masks

I’ve been breaking out.

Okay, not exactly record-busting news, but I am a girl who does not ‘break out.’ I get A zit. one. singular. Once a month, when I’m all hormonal, I get a zit. It’s one of the things my genes bequeathed me. good skin. I’m not bragging, I’m just saying that when I do get a zit, it’s a big deal. So to get several, or more specifically 4, is enough to send me reeling like a basket case.

I mean, I have to wear foundation now. What the hell.

I decided, that in an effort to expunge myself of said unsightly spots, I would attempt to do a facial mask.

St. Ives Hydroxy Masque, to be precise.

It is a clear goop you spread on yourself, just like a gooey spackle. Once it dries, you peel it off. It’s water soluble, so if you get it on yourself and need it off, it’s easily removed. If you want, you can also wet the mask once it’s dry and it will re-set.

Which brings me to the next step in the saga…I thought my eyes looked saggy, and the mask also helps your skin be tighter, so I put it under my eyes (read: it says on the back NOT to do that). Once my mask was dry, I peeled it off and used a wet rag to rid myself of the excess. Then I went to bed.

When I woke up yesterday, I couldn’t open my eyes. Apparently, I had gotten mask in my eyelashes, and my eyes watered in my sleep, thus re-setting the mask.

I glued my eyes shut.

My tears of terror were sticky, and they peeled off.

January Jones is awesome. (and Anna Paquin ain’t too shabby neither)

 

Do you watch Mad Men?

No?

Up until a few months ago, I would have said the same. But recently, I gave the highly stylized AMC original a try and frankly, I think you should too. May I suggest heading over to alluc.org and trolling their compendium of links to consume this amazing show for freezies?

While we’re on the topic, let me just say that January Jones is epically awesome as Betty Draper, the model-turned-housewife who bears a striking resemblence to Grace Kelly.

*Honorable Mention – Anna Paquin as Sookie Stackhouse

I might let you win if you were a natural blonde, but we all know you’re just a brunette in disguise, Paquin. Nevertheless, your time as the brazen Miss Stackhouse (soon to be Compton, I hope) is still appreciated.

Me and the dishwasher

I’m a sane person. Really, I am. But there is one thing that drives me beyond the cliffs of Dover and that is the dishwasher. Truthfully, it is a pet peeve that I come by honestly, as it grinds down my even-keeled stepmother every time it happens.

Learn to load the dishwasher. CORRECTLY.

Plates and bowls do not go perpendicular to each other.

Bowls go upside down, not rightside up.

On the note of bowls, they can and MUST be leaned on top of one another, lest the fly about during washing and crack.

Beyond that, it also takes up hella room if you refuse to load bowls that way.

Only tiny bowls and cups go on the top shelf, along with plasticware (because plasticware is too light to go on the bottom).

Above all things, four girls do not dirty enough dishes for it to be run EVERY DAY.

it should be, at maximum, done every other day. Unless you have guests, in which case it’s totally fine to run it.

I come downstairs every morning to find that the dishwasher has been run half empty and incorrectly loaded. It makes me so angry that I want to break things.

So, Roommates, this one’s for you. Load it right or I will refuse to pay the out-of-control water bill (or at least threaten to).