Working out

I like working out, to some extent.

By that I mean I like the way it makes me look and feel. My muscles are tighter. They feel more powerful and thus I feel more powerful. Plus it makes me look all sleek and svelte (as sleek and svelte as I get) and helps me do stuff like fit into that size 6 dress I bought from Target last year. Then there's stuff like the pink cheeked glow that I try to recreate with blush every day, or the satisfaction that comes from knowing I got up and moved instead of just sitting around, pretending that extra hour of sleep actually did me any good. Plus, sometimes I just need to move, need to work out the restless kinks in my body and mind, push the bad feelings out with every pound of my foot on the pavement or cycle of the elliptical.

So I think of these things, and then I go to work out. Like today when I tried to work out in my backyard with the Nike Training App on my phone. I felt like an idiot, but did it anyway, in full view of my mom, sister, and neighbors. Not to mention my dog, who decided to gleefully run toward me and sit on my phone, turning off the app as I struggled to do modified push-ups. Which brings me to my next point....

I also hate working out.

I'm not sure if it's the same for me as it is for everyone, because I feel like "omg I hate working out" always comes from people who cannot possibly hate it as much as I do. First, I look stupid doing it. I know this. I know that a lot of people also look stupid trying to run, but growing up with a sister like mine who looks like a freaking gazelle every time she begins running (seriously, all graceful and natural-like) and going to the gym and seeing similarly graceful athletes is enough to make me supremely self-conscious of how much effort it takes for me to avoid looking like...well I don't even know what. But it's very awkward, I'll tell you that. Combine how dumb I look with how bad I am at performing any physical activity and you get step two of why I hate working out. I can never get the breathing quite right, and thus have very little stamina. My muscles can handle the exertion, my lungs can't. Take today, for example. My chest hurt, my stomach hurt from all the panting, and since it was outside and I was cold that part of my mouth below my tongue was throbbing like crazy. I couldn't catch my breath. For the trifecta: I give up too easily. I start to feel crappy, wonder why I'm even work out in the first place, then throw in the towel.

Today was salvaged by a power walk around the park. Not sure what I'm going to do about tomorrow.

Till then...

Hello, Blog

I'm being a lame-o and not really blogging as much as I should. And of course, this "should" is self-imposed and in no way reflects any actual blog rules or regulations. Are there even such things? Probably not.

I think my main problem is that I self-edit too much. When I think about stuff to write, I end up thinking about how embarrassed I'd be if someone I knew read it, or if someone I blogged about read it, or....well you get the idea. Basically, I have a fear of not fitting into the blogosphere. I have anxiety about something, who'da thunk?

But really, though, I'm going to try to change all that. Starting right this very second. This is an empty promise, as you know, because I've made it a million times before. But this time I'm not promising to be a better blogger or a better writer or a better friend or anything FROM NOW ON or any other delusional grandiose statements. I'm just going to write a lengthy post right now and see what I feel like doing tomorrow.

This weekend was strange, mostly because it's the weekend before finals and I'm doing that thing where I feel like I should be stressing because everyone else is...but I really don't have anything to be nervous about until probably Tuesday or so. My only test is on Friday. I'm not really one to study for something WEEKS in advance, a few days will do. Tomorrow (today, I guess...) I have my fiction portfolio due. I finished my short story and compiled all my drafts and my short shorts for my portfolio. I'm not sure I'm 100% proud of my stories or not. But I've learned that with both painting and writing, I am too much of a perfectionist. But not in a good way. I work things until I kill them. My painting professor actually has to come up to me and say "Stop. You're done. Put the brush down." Oy. I went through my story today and changed the name of one of my character's dad's colleagues. This character appears in one sentence. I decided it really was important that his name be Richard instead of Jack. How silly. But despite my crazy, I have finally declared it finished. I will print it out in the morning, turn it in, and then hopefully go to the gym. We'll see how that goes.

I feel like that's good for one post. I was going to wax poetic about crushes (and current lack thereof) and various awkward things I've gone lately and maybe even this really cool piano mashup that involves Rebecca Black's "Friday" ...but I think instead I'll watch an episode of "Arrested Development" and go to bed. Fascinating, yes?

My online presence....or lack thereof?

Due to conversations with a very nice professional illustrator I had the pleasure of talking to, it occurs to me that I need to increase my online presence. For the industry I'm hoping to break into, I need all the help I can get. No one's going to promote me; I gotta do it myself.

It's so awkward trying to brag about myself and make up things I could have possibly learned while doing various activities and how those skills would apply to my future career. Or at least what I hope will become my future career. We'll see!

For now I have to be content with finishing up my homework, finalizing selections for the review, listening to throwback Killers songs on my itunes (yay for shuffle...), and trying in vain to avoid giving into the temptation to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's for the second time in two days.

Actually writing a new post...

It's been brought to my attention lately (Liz, Kaitlin...) that I haven't blogged much lately. In fact, I haven't blogged at all for approximately 8 weeks. Which is about how far into this quarter I am. Coincidence? Probably not.
The past eight weeks have been incredibly strange. In good ways, like taking steps to be more of a grown up and in bad ways....like taking steps to be more of a grown up.
What's particularly strange to me is how much everything's changed without anything really changing at all. I've used this analogy before in my writing, but I like it, so I'll say it again: it's like everything is exactly the same as it was before, just moved two inches to the left.
If there was a way for me to sum up the past couple of months in a blog post, I would surely do it. But for now, I think I'll just have to be content with my intent to begin to update this blog more regularly again. Fingers crossed that I'll actually do it...

On Self-Portraits

I'm writing this instead of packing. And because I just went to change the song on my itunes and saw in the next window, my open "Pictures" folder, a sub-folder entitled "self." I was curious, so I clicked on it (sob story of the internet...). I almost laughed at the pictures I found there. Back in the day, I had a brief foray into photography. And by "brief foray" I mean I worked my point-and-shoot canon to the bone in high school and upgraded to a nikon dslr in college. I also mean that I tried really hard to be artsy and took a lot of pictures of flowers. And then went on to upload those pictures to flickr and beg people to pay attention to me. Luckily for everyone I"m over that now (mostly) and tend to opt for taking bazillions of pictures of my unsuspecting friends whenever I re-discover my camera. You're welcome.


Anyway. The point. I found all these old self portraits. I rarely took pictures of myself for various self-deprecating reasons, most of which were simply due to the fact that I was in high school and puberty is a bitch. The rest of them are due to the fact that I hate self portraits, mostly in painting or drawing terms but in photography terms as well. For no real reason, really, other than I hate having to stare at my own face for that long and I hate that everyone can tell when it doesn't turn out as intended. As far as the photography self-portraits went, half of them are too close to my super-smiley face, the other half were me looking away from the camera, being "moody" and "angry" and whatnot. [High school Hallie would be so mad at me right now. Anyway, moving on...] There were also some random pictures of just me that I didn't know where to file (I have an extensive filing system for my pictures that's only half-carried through. Thus I have lots of categories of organization but nothing's really organized into said categories. I'm gong on an awful lot of tangents tonight, my apologies). Right at the end there were two recent pictures of me that I'd taken off my camera and dumped in the appropriate folder.

The difference was both astounding and hilarious; I sat there for a good solid minute just flipping back and forth between a picture of me at probably sixteen and a picture of me from the beginning of the summer. It's not that I look better in either picture, necessarily, I just look different. I remember taking the picture at sixteen. It was supposed to go next to a bio of me for something and thus had to be just me and my smiling face. My mom took the picture. I felt awkward. I didn't know what to do with my arms. Or my hands. Or my face. The result is a shot my mom took of my as I was about to laugh, which I deemed good enough and turned in even though I didn't like it very much. The recent picture was taken this summer, right after I had gotten a haircut. I wanted to send the picture to a friend because the haircut was ever so slightly different than my usual fare and I was feeling sassy and all that. Oh, what a difference a few years make.

That's really the point I'm trying to make here, if I'm trying to make a point at all instead of just aimlessly procrastinating, is that I'm a lot different from the person I was in high school. In a lot of ways. In a lot of good ways. And that's all I have to say about that. 

"Be pretty if you can, be witty if you must, but be gracious if it kills you." - Elsie de Wolfe


Another sample from the aforementioned "Quotes" Word doc...this one came from Matchbook Magazine's facebook page. I recently discovered this charming online magazine and, let me tell you, it has become my guide to life.

Oh. Hi, Blog.

So I haven't been around much lately. I'm not sure whether you noticed or not but I'm going to pretend that I did. I''m not really sure why I've been gone or where I've been. I thought when I started this blog that it would sort of be the dumping grounds for all my super great thoughts. Turns out, I don't have that many great thoughts that I'd like to share with the whole wide internet.

I had some thoughts today, though. I'm not sure if they're internet-worthy, but I'm going to write them down anyway. I'm starting school again in a week. I went to get Chinese food for dinner tonight and as I drove back, with the windows down and the cool summer evening rushing around me and the baseball game on the radio, I thought about my summer. It's been a weird one, not necessarily because anything has or hasn't happened, but because of that blank space in between the two extremes. I'm trying to be deep here and it's not really working, but basically I'm glad that I finally seem to be accepting the fact that everything moves forward, myself included.  

Stay tuned for the remainder of my summer posts...I've been crafty lately and I want to share the stuff I've made with you. :)

More about Baseball

  When America's favorite past time is used as a parent-child bonding experience, its powers typically extend to fathers and sons. Maybe fathers and daughters as well, but mostly, I think (and I'm stereotyping here as well as using way too many commas for one sentence), it's a father-son thing. Not in my family. For me, watching baseball is strictly a mother-daughter activity.
  My mother's love of baseball goes way back. She used to be a die-hard Dodgers fan. In the early phase of my parents' courtship, my dad would suffer through hours of Dodger games, detesting the activity but enjoying the company. Then the Dodgers went on strike (something about demanding higher wages...I'm not really in the know on this one) and my mom became disenchanted with the sport. Thus, I grew up exposed to football fandom instead. That one never really stuck.
  I'm not sure how this happened, but my mom fell in love with baseball again right around the same time I was falling in love with it for the first time. [See my post on the Giants]. When I came home from school for the summer, we really got the fever (baseball, not Bieber. just to clarify). Whenever the Giants played, we were watching. Or listening. Or trying to find the scores online while on vacation.
  Mom taught me the rules, suffered my questions, corrected me when my "coaching" of the TV was a little off. Thus, some of my favorite memories from this summer are watching baseball with her. During night games, late in the 7th or 8th inning, after my dad and my sister have gone to bed, my mom and I can be found telling at the TV in unison, calling out, "you have got to be freaking kidding me!" with identical intonation and inflections.
  The boys of summer have given my mom and I one more thing that we share, one more common trait to add to the long list of reasons why I have earned and proudly wear the nickname "Laurie Junior."
  Is this post corny? Yeah, but honestly, which of my posts aren't? I love my mom and I love baseball. And I am very much okay with that.

On Writing

Source

I just finished reading Stephen King's On Writing. "Just," as in I put it down five minutes ago, got on the computer to write, then got distracted by Facebook (my eternal problem). But seriously, this book will likely be one of those that I carry with me always, both literally and figuratively. I read the majority of it over a two-day span while at work. The entire time I was itching to write, to test King's theories and ideas in my own way. So, here I go, off to try (once again) to take what I've learned about writing and make it part of my everyday life.
Wish me luck?

NEW YORK

I never thought I’d like New York City. I’ve always wanted to, but let’s look at the facts: I’m quiet, reserved, introverted. Both large crowds and thoughts of having to interact with huge volumes of people tend to stress me out. Traveling and being far away from home usually exhaust me. Am I sounding like a square yet? Possibly your grandmother? Yes, that’s me!

Despite my reservations, and to the great surprise of my mother, I fell in love. It’s strange that I can say that about so many vastly different people, places, and things, but for me it’s all the same. I fell in love with New York in the way that I do frequently with movies or books or ideas. I felt that yes feeling in my heart, the one on which I often rely in order to make decisions. That feeling helped me choose what college I wanted to go to. It helps me decide who I want to spend time with (or not). It decides when I actually like something and when I say I like it just to fit in with everyone else. It has helped me choose my path through life thus far, and I trust it to keep doing its job. Too corny? Yeah, probably, but I’m a cheesy person. Slightly irrelevant New York themed example: one of the main reasons I wanted to make it to the top of the Empire State Building is because two of my favorite movies happen to be An Affair to Remember and Sleepless in Seattle. Sappy music? Bring it on. Horribly unrealistic love story? I’m there, baby. I’m rambling now, and I apologize for that, but I needed to post something about my New York adventure before I forgot all that I wanted to say.

So here goes. The following is probably the best way to describe how I’m feeling right now: Five days ago I had never been further east than Reno, Nevada. Five days ago I hadn’t been on an airplane in years; hadn’t ever been in a taxi or taken the subway. Five days ago I had fewer blisters on my feet and fewer dreams in my head. I was scared of where my future was going, of how much I was allowing myself to limit my options before they even left my own head, of how I would ever be able to make my grandiose daydreams become reality. Five days ago there was one less thing on my long list of things with which I am, to borrow an infamous phrase from Twilight, irrevocably in love. I’m grateful for those five days, despite the fact that they left me so exhausted I was almost in tears.

I made a brand new start of it in ol’ New York, New York, and I’ve got nothing to do today but smile.  [Is it blasphemy to mash together lyrics from Sinatra and Simon and Garfunkel? Probably.] 

 Approximately 1/3 of my 600 pictures look like this....

 ...Or like this. View from Empire State Building

 View from the Empire State Building

 My favorite building, you already know why

My sister and I hamming it up with Lady Liberty

New York, Baby

I’m going to New York on Friday. I, a girl who has never been further East than Reno, Nevada, am getting on a plane with my family and heading to the Big Apple. Start spreading the news.

I’m at once incredibly excited and absolutely terrified. To me, New York is where the cool kids hang out. It’s the Mecca for artists and writers and creative types hiding behind varying degrees of reclusiveness. It’s the capitol of all art and writing, the hometown of my two first loves and best friends. I have always tried to hang with the cool kids. I have rarely fit in with them. I’m witty and beloved in my head; I’m awkward and shy in real life. You can see how trying to hang with those for whom “cool” comes effortlessly could be a major problem. Not that this matters much in real life, but it makes me think. I have dreams of maybe one day being an East Coast resident, an intern at one of those major publishing companies which reside in that big city full of dreamers like me. I’m afraid my visions, my delusions of grandeur, will get chewed up and spit back out by reality, the way most of my visions do. I’m afraid that these delusions will become crushed by a tidal wave of realization. I’m afraid I’ll run home with my tail between my legs and never want to try my hand at life outside of Northern California again anytime soon.

I’m too safe. I’m too afraid. I’m too easily frustrated by my own failures, my ultimately inconsequential shortcomings. I need to get off the computer. Away from the internet. I need to actually get out and do things. I need to stop sitting around feeling sorry for myself for never having done anything, for never having any proper adventures or doing anything that feels real. This changes now. Or, maybe, in the morning, as it is currently almost 10 PM and old habits die hard. Keep your eyes peeled, though, World. ‘Cause I’m a’coming. 

Updates, etc.

Evidently, I'm a blogging failure as of late. My life is at once too busy and too boring; you could say it's busy, but uneventful, as I once heard somewhere. The simple truth of that statement as it applies to my life struck me when i heard it and has stuck with me. I love it when that happens; someone else (or maybe something in the deep annexes of my brain) gives me the perfect words to describe something I never could before. Now that I'm done gushing about the English language and briefly complaining about summer doldrums, I'll get to the real point here. I promise you I'm still alive, and that I will be updating soon with previously promised posts about books I've read lately as well as newly-cooked-up and as-yet unmentioned posts about things such as my adventures in quilting (if that doesn't have y'all on the edges of your seats, I don't know what will!)

Sometimes...

Sometimes I read something someone else has written and it inspires within me something I cannot begin to describe. I don't cry often while reading books or watching movies. I'm not entirely sure why, yet, but I do know that when I do find something that makes me cry, that touches my emotional core in a way that the only way I can express what I'm feeling is to allow those feelings to escape from my eyes and roll down my cheeks, there's something special about it.
Like this: http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/dont-date-a-girl-who-reads/. I don't even know what to call it. An essay? A blurb? As an English major I should be better at cataloging these sorts of things, but I am not. This thing, whatever it is, made me cry today. And I want everyone in the whole world to read it. Because that's what happens when I fall in love with something; part of me wants to save it, keep it all to myself so that no one else can tarnish its wonderfulness. But the other part of me is so ridiculously excited about whatever it may be that I want to spread it around everywhere, so that I can talk to other people about how great it is and revel in its amazing-ness with an audience rather than alone in my room at 1:30 AM.
Now that I've over-hyped this little guy, I'm going to stop rambling.


PS: please excuse the quality of the source, there...the link is semi-crappy but it gets the job done

Little Women

I promised you a separate post about Louisa May Alcott's Little Women, so here it is. It's somewhat belated and will likely be wildly inadequate, but here goes.

Little Women (the abridged version) was one of those books I would carry around with me everywhere. I loved the main characters Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy March. I frequently lost myself in their world, and loved every minute of it. I bought several cheap spin-off books aimed at audiences my age and considered myself a connoisseur of all things Little Women. In fifth grade I attempted the real deal. No more "junior" abridged version that left out all of the important parts. I was a big kid now, I could certainly handle it. I hauled that 500-page paperback around with me for weeks. It took up too much space in my backpack, was unwieldy in my small hands, and moved far too slow for my usually quick and now impatient reading pace. I gave up on the book then, put it back on my teacher's shelf to be revisited another time. That time was this summer.

For some reason, the subject of Little Women came up everywhere in the weeks before school ended, from a movie suggestion in my Netflix queue to a random conversation with a friend. I found a cheap copy of the book on amazon.com and eagerly awaited its arrival in my mailbox. Finally (read: 2 days later) it came. When I tore open the cardboard packaging, however, I saw that I had actually received another copy of the children's version. The dreaded abridged version. I laughed at the mistake, but decided it was time for serious business. I was reading this book no matter what.

I picked up a copy from Barnes and Noble (still one of my favorite places in the world, by the way. Every time I pass the huge one in Oakland's Jack London Square on my way to or from school, I have to fight the tremendous urge to jump off the train and explore it for hours. anyway, sidenote over, back to the pointed rambling). Once I started reading, I couldn't believe I hadn't read the book in its entirety much earlier on in my life. It's simple, but quite lovely. I can see how it wouldn't be something that everyone would like, and I'm by no means suggesting that whoever has gotten this far in this inane rambling post should go out and read this book. However, reading Little Women reminded me so much of my childhood. I recognized the roots of many of my dreams, ambitions, mannerisms, and thoughts in the pages of this book. I remember doing (or trying to do) some of the things the characters do. I look back on my childish actions with a sense of irony, realizing that I was doing the things the March girls did with the same sense of naivete and tunnel-vision that young people often maintain. Reading Little Women was for me not meant to be a journey into a classic work of literature or a way to study the writing of other authors in an effort to improve my own. Rather, it was simply reading for the pleasure of reading, for the joy of re-visiting old friends and seeing them in an entirely new light.

If you read all of that, I thank you. I think you're either a little nuts or a lot bored, but I won't ask questions. Do you have a favorite book from your childhood that you'd like to re-visit? or have you already? These things always fascinate me.

I haven't watched any movie versions yet, but the best two (supposedly) are in my Netflix queue 

Reading

I am a big fan of the books. If you know me at all you know I love to read. This infatuation with the written word started early; my parents made time to read to me every night when I was a child. I soaked up every word like an eager sponge, ready to consume and be consumed by what was, at the time, great literature (read: Berenstain Bears and Angelina Ballerina. The true classics). As I grew older and able to read on my own, I started carrying books with me everywhere. I wanted to read all the time. On the way to the grocery store five minutes away my house, at sporting events, on the way to school, in the backyard; the phrase "book-free zone" meant nothing to me. I read every book I had multiple times. Going to Barnes and Noble was a special occasion, allowing me the chance to meet new characters, become immersed in new lives and places and times. The summer I got my first library card was joyous. I would check out huge stacks of books and scoff at the librarians' earnest admonishments to please return my new friends within three weeks. Three weeks? I would think. Try three days. I'll be back for more soon! 

Sadly, I have much less time for reading now than I did when I was younger. Schoolwork takes up the majority of my year, and those carefree summer days spent sprawled out on a blanket in the shade have become replaced with a schedule of places I have to be and things I have to do, all of which take me far away from my beloved pastime. However, I would go crazy if I wasn't in the middle of at least one book at all times. I have stacks of books by my bed and on my bookshelf (plus about 40 titles on my Amazon.com wishlist...) that are all begging to be read. Thus, this summer I'm making a concerted effort to read more, to go back to finding my former joy in pages covered with stories, with characters both foreign and familiar to me. I've managed to finish two books thus far: Little Women and The Things they Carried. Both deserve their own posts and will likely get them in the near future. Be aware that short blurbs on what I'm reading will pop up here from time to time. Immersing myself in words is something in which I never fail to find pleasure, something that has become an essential part of my identity and that likely subconsciously affects my decision-making and the way in which I look at and approach life.

I am a book-lover, and will be for life. And I'm extremely proud of that.

Reading old journals

Reading old journals is one of my favorite things to do. I've been journaling fairly regularly since I was pretty young. I used to read those Dear America books. They were diaries by fictional people who either witnessed or were apart of important historical events or times, and they took up a good chunk of my bookshelf. Because of these books, I journaled prolifically for a time. Also because of these books, I was pretty convinced that one of those journals was going to get published one day, thus I titled them and addressed them to a great audience. Needless to say, they're pretty hilarious. From detailed accounts of how "madly in love" I was with a boy from my class to ramblings that demonstrate to current me that former me was pretty convinced she was going to marry Jake Gyllenhaal, these journals depict me at my finest. Or my worst, depending on how you look at it. There's a lot of teen angst going on in some of the later journals. Eesh. Regardless of how embarrassing these journals are, they are important for me to re-read every so often. They remind me who I was and how far I've come. They show me how much I've grown up, something I may not realize through my day-to-day interactions and thoughts, but that is blatantly obvious when muddling through barely-legible handwritten entries about how freaked out I was about starting college.
My sister insists she's glad she never kept journals because re-reading them would be painfully awkward and embarrassing. I, however, am glad I kept such a detailed record of my life. My past triumphs, failures, worries, and bliss are all at my fingertips. I like that I can refer to events of my past and use these journals as markers of my life, letting me see who I was, who I am, and how far I've come. Good work, past Hallie. Despite your pessimistic predictions, you certainly managed to do something right.

Three of the most recent offenders. Yes, the middle one has the Cat in the Hat on it. Classy. 

There are some things I already know how to love

Among them is good conversations with great friends. Anyone will tell you I'm not a great conversationalist. Especially with people I first meet. If I don't know you, I tend to be shy and awkward around you. That's just how I am. It isn't me being conceited or thinking I'm cooler than you. In fact, it's generally me thinking you're cooler than me, thus intimidating me to no end. That said, my friends are the people I feel comfortable talking to. They're people who know and understand that I say stupid things and am not always as witty as I think I am or hope to be.
I just had a lovely night catching up with a friend I hadn't had a legitimate conversation with in about nine months. She and I talked for hours, and discovered that we had even more in common than we previously thought. She would say something I've thought to myself before. Then I would surprise myself by sharing something I've never told anyone but my journal. Talking to her made me understand some things about myself, and made me feel much more content than I've been in awhile. We went on chatting as if no time had passed, and somehow I understood that we'd be friends for a long time.
That feeling is something I definitely already know how to love. It's something I cherish with the friends I already have and relish discovering with new people. I love knowing that there are other people in the world who think the way I do, who hold similar values dear, who can count on me the way I count on them for love, support, and a helping hand when necessary.
One more thing I love about my friends: they accept that I write cheesy things like this. They're pretty much the best, aren't they?

I'm being quite the prolific blogger this week

...chalk that up to several things, among them: this blog feels sadly sparse, I find myself with very little to do after 10PM, and I have a lot to say, apparently. You're Welcome.

I feel like I should maybe explain my blog title. Because it's become clear to me after some exploration that it's quite cliche. I realized the potential of this before, but decided it would be okay. I just decided, however,that it is not. Not without some explanation, anyway.

I decided I wanted to create a blog. That part was easy. The hard part was coming up with something clever to call it. Something that reflects me; something tasteful and classy and hopefully clever. That's harder than it sounds. I decided to scour my "quotes" Word document for something appropriate. Yes, I have a Word document full of quotes I like. I am one of those people...don't judge me. Inspirational doesn't always have to mean corny...

Anyway. I settled on the quote in my header up there: "Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart. And learn to love the questions themselves." -Rainer Maria Rilke. I decided when I read this one that it was most appropriate and applicable. There is quite a lot that is unsolved in my heart, and I'm trying my best to be patient with it all. I'm not always successful, but I'm working on it. I've also been on a quest to learn to love those heart-questions for a very long time. There are lots of things to love in this world, and I am definitely one to love wholeheartedly until the object of my love proves itself unworthy, which doesn't always work out to my advantage. So I guess I'm trying to figure out how to love properly, too. Where else to explore these kinds of thing but in a blog? After all, everyone's doing it these days. Why not me too? (Yep, I'm one of those people too. Sorry.) 

So here I am, learning to love. In all my cliched, corny glory. Hear me roar. 

The Sweater Rant

[Copied and pasted from my tumblr blog, a post from a few weeks ago. I figure I should explain my "about me" section. I'll start with the "sweater enthusiast" part. ]

I almost bought another sweater yesterday.

For anyone else, this would be a benign statement. However, for a raging sweater enthusiast such as myself, this is a huge problem. I have upwards of 20 sweaters. I haven’t counted lately; I’m sure I would be appalled if I did. 20 may not sound like a lot. But if you think about the fact that I could go almost three weeks without wearing the same sweater twice, you start to notice the crazy.

What’s worse is that I can’t stop buying them. It really is similar to a full-blown addition. I don’t even notice it, but when I walk into a store, I gravitate toward the knitted. Take yesterday’s sweater, for instance. It was a slate gray cardigan with embellishments. I have cardigans, I have gray sweaters, I have embellished sweaters. But I don’t have one with all three!!

It’s a huge problem for my wallet, for my quickly-diminishing amount of storage space, and for any hope of me ever changing my style. Luckily, I was dissuaded from buying yesterday’s sweater. But I can’t make any promises about a sweater that comes along next month, next week, or even tomorrow.

I am a Giants fan

I am a Giants fan. It’s a new thing, but it feels right to say. It started during the World Series last year. The combination of the excitement and Buster Posey in the squat got me hooked. I guess that means I’m technically one of those infamous band-wagoners, but I’m ok with that. Minus the constant harassment from those who’ve been Giants fans for forever. I apologize to all of you; sorry my fandom came at an inopportune time, but please stop shaming me. The guilt has already been quite enough.  

But really, I do consider myself a fan now. Not just of the Giants, but of baseball in general. I’ve watched Giants baseball almost every day I’ve been able to since the season started. I have the ESPN scores recap page bookmarked in my internet browser. Let me qualify these statements by saying I’ve never been much of a sports person, so this is all quite new to me. When I play any sport, it doesn’t really even matter which one, I inevitably get hit in the face. Literally. It’s like my nose has a special basketball magnet. When I watch sports, I never seem to be as into it as those around me. However, I’ve found myself quite invested in this baseball situation. I suppose you could say it started at the end of last year. I actually quite enjoyed going to watch my school’s games; not just because the players are cute (though that didn’t hurt…) but because I found myself enjoying figuring out the rules, strategizing in my head, being part of the crowd cheering wildly when anything interesting happens and groaning in exasperation when a play doesn’t work out.

Clearly, I’m still learning. I know next to nothing about the sport or any of the key players. But every so often, I find myself able to converse intelligently on the subject and a little surge of pride flares up in my chest. Unless that’s heartburn. Checking up on that. Anyway, the point of this mostly pointless post is that I’m beginning to identify as a baseball fan. And I’m starting with the Giants. And I’m not only okay with that, but I like it very much. Add it to the growing list of things in this world I’ve fallen in love with. 

So I have a blog now

I've had a tumblr for a few years now, but I think it's time to be a serious blogger. Only in 2011 could I say something like "serious blogger" and actually make sense.

I've been reading a lot of essays lately. Sloane Crosley is my favorite as of late  because she's hilarious and relevant and has a lovely way with words (fan girl moment: I emailed her on a whim and she emailed me back! within a week!). I kind of want to try my hand at writing regularly in a more public forum. I don't currently have much about my life that I feel is worth sharing with whoever wants to read it, but I'll work on it.

The end, for now.