A gorgeous photo shot by my amazing photographer friend, TW. This is a small park near the river, where an old pump house from the early 20th century stands.
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1 month ago
Monday, June 05, 2006
pump house park
A gorgeous photo shot by my amazing photographer friend, TW. This is a small park near the river, where an old pump house from the early 20th century stands.
ok, weirdness
Well, my week is starting off to a weird start with crazy dreams and Rue antics.
Ok, now I don' remember the dream that I had last night in its entirety, but it featured me and a friend of mine from church - we'll call him Harvard Lawyer. In this dream, Harvard Lawyer and I decided that we were going to go to Wintergreen . . . by foot. So we set off on this massive hike of hundreds and hundreds of miles and after say, Mile 8, I'm about ready to collapse. Then (and I don't know who's brilliant idea this was) we decided to steal money along the way. OH and I forgot, my brother ended up joining us for the whole stealing of the money part. I know that we stopped a lot of different places and rationalized our crime spree in a variety of different ways, but I do remember that we stopped at VCU (a university in Richmond - I don't know how it got on the trail to Wintergreen). In the attempt to capture the money that was rightfully ours, my brother and Harvard Lawyer got caught by a bunch of nurses. Bro and Harvard Lawyer then pretended that they were Catholic and as punishment for stealing, the nurses made them convert to Protestant Christianity. I didn't get caught, though. Because I am amazing. Once they finally escaped, we decided to give all of the money that we'd stolen to charity.
Yeah, weird.
And then this morning, I was sitting in my recliner, drinking my coffee and watching the news like I do every work day morning, and all of a sudden, Rue starts running and pouncing around the living room like she's chasing something. I thought she was just being psychotic like she normally is . . . but then I realized that she actually WAS chasing something. And although it looked like a fly . . . it wasn't. It was a freakin' wasp. A WASP. So I freak out and am yelling at Rue to leave it alone because all I can picture is her smacking the heck out of it and getting stung in the process and I was also taking notice of the wasp's increasingly agitated state as it was being chased and swatted at by crazy Rue and I just had a feeling that it would take its anger out on me, as well. So, I yell "NO RUE!" and she stops for a millisecond to stare questioningly at me before she attacks it again. So, I bolt to the kitchen, grab a massive wad of paper towels and kill the wasp myself before disaster strikes.
Wasps. Rampant dream crime sprees. I hope this isn't an indication of what the rest of my week is going to be like.
Ok, now I don' remember the dream that I had last night in its entirety, but it featured me and a friend of mine from church - we'll call him Harvard Lawyer. In this dream, Harvard Lawyer and I decided that we were going to go to Wintergreen . . . by foot. So we set off on this massive hike of hundreds and hundreds of miles and after say, Mile 8, I'm about ready to collapse. Then (and I don't know who's brilliant idea this was) we decided to steal money along the way. OH and I forgot, my brother ended up joining us for the whole stealing of the money part. I know that we stopped a lot of different places and rationalized our crime spree in a variety of different ways, but I do remember that we stopped at VCU (a university in Richmond - I don't know how it got on the trail to Wintergreen). In the attempt to capture the money that was rightfully ours, my brother and Harvard Lawyer got caught by a bunch of nurses. Bro and Harvard Lawyer then pretended that they were Catholic and as punishment for stealing, the nurses made them convert to Protestant Christianity. I didn't get caught, though. Because I am amazing. Once they finally escaped, we decided to give all of the money that we'd stolen to charity.
Yeah, weird.
And then this morning, I was sitting in my recliner, drinking my coffee and watching the news like I do every work day morning, and all of a sudden, Rue starts running and pouncing around the living room like she's chasing something. I thought she was just being psychotic like she normally is . . . but then I realized that she actually WAS chasing something. And although it looked like a fly . . . it wasn't. It was a freakin' wasp. A WASP. So I freak out and am yelling at Rue to leave it alone because all I can picture is her smacking the heck out of it and getting stung in the process and I was also taking notice of the wasp's increasingly agitated state as it was being chased and swatted at by crazy Rue and I just had a feeling that it would take its anger out on me, as well. So, I yell "NO RUE!" and she stops for a millisecond to stare questioningly at me before she attacks it again. So, I bolt to the kitchen, grab a massive wad of paper towels and kill the wasp myself before disaster strikes.
Wasps. Rampant dream crime sprees. I hope this isn't an indication of what the rest of my week is going to be like.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
the greek festival
I have found heaven on earth. And it is in the form of baklava.
Today, The Cyclist and I experienced one of the many festivals that Richmond has to offer - The Greek Festival. The festival was just a few blocks over from our church, so right after the service, we walked on over. Picture this: tons of white tents, Greek flags flying all over the place, the smell of amazing Greek cuisine, wine flowing like water, little children in traditional Greek dress running around, a stage with Greek performers and musicians . . . it was awesome.
It was also ridiculously hot and the lines were ridiculously long. I had prepared well for this adventure, in my little black dress because I figured why wear a color that reflects heat when you can wear one that absorbs heat? (The Shamana - btw, The Cyclist says "kudos" on the dress selection). But seriously, the food was good enough that I would have gotten back at the end of the line just to have some more. I refrained from getting some wine to keep me company in line due to my heat headache, but there were people walking around drinking from whole bottles of wine . . . now talk about a party!
Once The Cyclist and I got our food from some very nice Greek women, we sat down under one of the tents, at a table across from an old married couple - the husband of which was a graduate of the same school as The Cyclist. Naturally, as does everyone in THE ENTIRE WORLD, they assumed that The Cyclist and I were married. They were a sweet old couple, married 50 years (how great is that?). Anyway, the old guy at one point asked me if I worked outside of the home. I looked at The Cyclist, laughed, and told him that yes, I do in fact work outside of the home. The Cyclist and I didn't feel like crushing this couple's impression that we were married. But it was pretty funny.
After lunch and my first experience with baklava (incredible), The Cyclist and I checked out the section where they were selling jewelry and art. There were gorgeous gold cross necklaces, shawls and bangles. There was this mannequin with skimpy belly-dancing type clothing on it, with lots of gold bangles . . . I told The Cyclist that he should get that mannequin for his future home. Hehe.
Anyway, it was good time. I have decided that I'm going to go to Greece for my honeymoon now. Or Greece & Italy. Or Greece & Italy & Ireland.
The conversation on the way back from the festival:
Me: Thank you for being gracious enough to let me work outside of the home.
TC: Well, you know, I am taking a risk here . . . the guys at work give me a hard time.
Me: . . .
TC: Hello?
Me: Oh, sorry. I was, you know, thinking about the stuff women are supposed to think about - grocery lists, what I'm going to make you for dinner . . .
TC: . . . the excitement of polishing my shoes . . .
Me: . . . exactly . . .
TC: . . . because, you know, I've had a hard day at work.
Me: Exactly. You deserve a woman waiting for you in the kitchen.
Yay Greek Festival!
Today, The Cyclist and I experienced one of the many festivals that Richmond has to offer - The Greek Festival. The festival was just a few blocks over from our church, so right after the service, we walked on over. Picture this: tons of white tents, Greek flags flying all over the place, the smell of amazing Greek cuisine, wine flowing like water, little children in traditional Greek dress running around, a stage with Greek performers and musicians . . . it was awesome.
It was also ridiculously hot and the lines were ridiculously long. I had prepared well for this adventure, in my little black dress because I figured why wear a color that reflects heat when you can wear one that absorbs heat? (The Shamana - btw, The Cyclist says "kudos" on the dress selection). But seriously, the food was good enough that I would have gotten back at the end of the line just to have some more. I refrained from getting some wine to keep me company in line due to my heat headache, but there were people walking around drinking from whole bottles of wine . . . now talk about a party!
Once The Cyclist and I got our food from some very nice Greek women, we sat down under one of the tents, at a table across from an old married couple - the husband of which was a graduate of the same school as The Cyclist. Naturally, as does everyone in THE ENTIRE WORLD, they assumed that The Cyclist and I were married. They were a sweet old couple, married 50 years (how great is that?). Anyway, the old guy at one point asked me if I worked outside of the home. I looked at The Cyclist, laughed, and told him that yes, I do in fact work outside of the home. The Cyclist and I didn't feel like crushing this couple's impression that we were married. But it was pretty funny.
After lunch and my first experience with baklava (incredible), The Cyclist and I checked out the section where they were selling jewelry and art. There were gorgeous gold cross necklaces, shawls and bangles. There was this mannequin with skimpy belly-dancing type clothing on it, with lots of gold bangles . . . I told The Cyclist that he should get that mannequin for his future home. Hehe.
Anyway, it was good time. I have decided that I'm going to go to Greece for my honeymoon now. Or Greece & Italy. Or Greece & Italy & Ireland.
The conversation on the way back from the festival:
Me: Thank you for being gracious enough to let me work outside of the home.
TC: Well, you know, I am taking a risk here . . . the guys at work give me a hard time.
Me: . . .
TC: Hello?
Me: Oh, sorry. I was, you know, thinking about the stuff women are supposed to think about - grocery lists, what I'm going to make you for dinner . . .
TC: . . . the excitement of polishing my shoes . . .
Me: . . . exactly . . .
TC: . . . because, you know, I've had a hard day at work.
Me: Exactly. You deserve a woman waiting for you in the kitchen.
Yay Greek Festival!
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
animals that make it difficult to play the piano
When I refer to "animals" that make it difficult to play the piano, I am really just referring to one specific animal, of the orange tabby cat variety, who goes by the name of Rue.
Rue, Dearest,
It was a joy to have you in my lap, arching your back under my arms and walking over the keys of my keyboard, but you've got to understand my love, that it makes it extremely difficult to play the piano well (or at all) when I have a nose bumping my fingers off of the keys or a head lifting my arms so high that I can't reach the keys. In the "Allegro Burlesco" that I was playing, the key words are "Allegro Burlesco," which means that the notes are supposed to be played quickly and preferably, accurately. Unless your paws can contribute the correct notes at the correct time, perhaps you should just be an astute listener. And dearest Rue, when I was trying to sing the Italian aria "Sento nel core" while playing the piece on the keyboard at the same time, the keys you ended up pressing weren't quite (or at all) in the same key. Playing an instrument while singing in Italian isn't easy on a good day, and although "Sento nel core" means "Sorrow Unending" or something similarily depressing, it's not an entirely contemporary piece, so constant dischord is not the way to go.
I realize that you are a cat, and as a cat, it is your duty to walk all over whatever it is I am in the middle of doing. And yes, most likely you can't tell the difference between the incorrect d minor chord and the correct d minor diminished chord, but I propose a compromise. How about next time I try to play or sing at my keyboard, you sit on the floor near me and just meow along? I think that I can handle that. I still love you, Rue.
Rue, Dearest,
It was a joy to have you in my lap, arching your back under my arms and walking over the keys of my keyboard, but you've got to understand my love, that it makes it extremely difficult to play the piano well (or at all) when I have a nose bumping my fingers off of the keys or a head lifting my arms so high that I can't reach the keys. In the "Allegro Burlesco" that I was playing, the key words are "Allegro Burlesco," which means that the notes are supposed to be played quickly and preferably, accurately. Unless your paws can contribute the correct notes at the correct time, perhaps you should just be an astute listener. And dearest Rue, when I was trying to sing the Italian aria "Sento nel core" while playing the piece on the keyboard at the same time, the keys you ended up pressing weren't quite (or at all) in the same key. Playing an instrument while singing in Italian isn't easy on a good day, and although "Sento nel core" means "Sorrow Unending" or something similarily depressing, it's not an entirely contemporary piece, so constant dischord is not the way to go.
I realize that you are a cat, and as a cat, it is your duty to walk all over whatever it is I am in the middle of doing. And yes, most likely you can't tell the difference between the incorrect d minor chord and the correct d minor diminished chord, but I propose a compromise. How about next time I try to play or sing at my keyboard, you sit on the floor near me and just meow along? I think that I can handle that. I still love you, Rue.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
the dialogue of bonnie and clyde
I spent last night helping The Cyclist pack for his move this weekend. It was great. My hands were completely black from newsprint by the end of the night and I left crazy messages on the boxes that I personally packed; for example, "Packed by The Hot One (Kelly)" and "Packed by the Smart One (Kelly)." I found those messages extremely amusing, but The Cyclist did this whole grimacing/whining thing (afraid that his new roomie would give him a hard time) which I didn't quite understand. Who wouldn't want boxes with comments about how great I am? I know, I know . . . it's hard to fathom.
But this is not the story that I intended to tell you. I have to share with you the experience of obtaining the newspapers that we used to wrap The Cyclist's stuff:
Now, The Cyclist and I are poor and do not have a subscription to the newspaper. Therefore, we had to take matters into our own hands. The Cyclist's great solution: Go scavenging through recycling bins. I raised my eyebrow at this idea, but went along with the plan.
THE FIRST ATTEMPT:
Location: The recycling dumpster outside The Cyclist's apartment.
The Cyclist climbs into the dumpster.
Me: Um, are you sure that we're allowed to do this?
TC: Yeah, of course.
Me: Huh.
TC: Here, hold these *hands me a stack of newspaper*
Me: Ok.
TC: Gross. Someone's thrown their trash in here as well. They aren't supposed to do that.
Me: These newspapers smell.
TC: Do they really?
Me: *wrinkles nose* Yes.
TC: Hmm, ok, we're going to have to go somewhere else. I don't want the newspaper stinking up my stuff.
Me: *gives him papers back* Um, how are you going to get out of there?
TC: I'll just . . . uh . . . climb up here . . . ack *falls back into dumpster*
Me: *smirks* Looking good. Haha.
TC: Shut up punk. *finally gets out of dumpster*
THE SECOND ATTEMPT
Location: Recycling dumpster outside of a fire station.
The Cyclist climbs into yet another dumpster.
Me: Of ALL the places to go climbing into dumpsters, you pick one outside of a fire station!
TC: So?
Me: There's a fireman standing right there outside of the building. He's going to see us and then we're going to get arrested.
TC: He's just a fireman. He's not a policeman.
Me: But he knows policemen.
TC: What's he going to say, "Sorry son, you're under arrest for taking those old dirty newspapers that nobody wants anymore?"
Me: Yes.
TC: Here, hold these.
Me: I see how it is, give ME all of the incriminating evidence to hold.
TC: That's right. I can see it now, "Um officer, I don't know this crazy woman . . . I uh, dropped my keys in the dumpster and had to go and get them."
Me: Gee. Thanks.
TC: Alright, I think that's enough.
Me: *laden down with newspapers, can't move*
The Cyclist and I head back to the car, putting the newspapers in the trunk.
TC: We're like that famous crime duo . . . even though we took newspapers that we were allowed to take.
Me: You mean, we're like Bonnie and Clyde?
TC: Yeah!
But this is not the story that I intended to tell you. I have to share with you the experience of obtaining the newspapers that we used to wrap The Cyclist's stuff:
Now, The Cyclist and I are poor and do not have a subscription to the newspaper. Therefore, we had to take matters into our own hands. The Cyclist's great solution: Go scavenging through recycling bins. I raised my eyebrow at this idea, but went along with the plan.
THE FIRST ATTEMPT:
Location: The recycling dumpster outside The Cyclist's apartment.
The Cyclist climbs into the dumpster.
Me: Um, are you sure that we're allowed to do this?
TC: Yeah, of course.
Me: Huh.
TC: Here, hold these *hands me a stack of newspaper*
Me: Ok.
TC: Gross. Someone's thrown their trash in here as well. They aren't supposed to do that.
Me: These newspapers smell.
TC: Do they really?
Me: *wrinkles nose* Yes.
TC: Hmm, ok, we're going to have to go somewhere else. I don't want the newspaper stinking up my stuff.
Me: *gives him papers back* Um, how are you going to get out of there?
TC: I'll just . . . uh . . . climb up here . . . ack *falls back into dumpster*
Me: *smirks* Looking good. Haha.
TC: Shut up punk. *finally gets out of dumpster*
THE SECOND ATTEMPT
Location: Recycling dumpster outside of a fire station.
The Cyclist climbs into yet another dumpster.
Me: Of ALL the places to go climbing into dumpsters, you pick one outside of a fire station!
TC: So?
Me: There's a fireman standing right there outside of the building. He's going to see us and then we're going to get arrested.
TC: He's just a fireman. He's not a policeman.
Me: But he knows policemen.
TC: What's he going to say, "Sorry son, you're under arrest for taking those old dirty newspapers that nobody wants anymore?"
Me: Yes.
TC: Here, hold these.
Me: I see how it is, give ME all of the incriminating evidence to hold.
TC: That's right. I can see it now, "Um officer, I don't know this crazy woman . . . I uh, dropped my keys in the dumpster and had to go and get them."
Me: Gee. Thanks.
TC: Alright, I think that's enough.
Me: *laden down with newspapers, can't move*
The Cyclist and I head back to the car, putting the newspapers in the trunk.
TC: We're like that famous crime duo . . . even though we took newspapers that we were allowed to take.
Me: You mean, we're like Bonnie and Clyde?
TC: Yeah!
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
one little kelly, two little kellys, three little kellys, FOUR
So, there is this huge phenomenon going on right now amongst women in their teens and twenties . . . and that is the selling of their eggs. And not the type of eggs that you eat . . . I am referring to the type of eggs that contribute to the production of human beings. It is ridiculous how much money us women can make off off selling our eggs . . . seriously, $3,000 - $5,000 per donation. True, you have to give yourself shots of hormones and go through extensive physical and psychological tests, but you're reimbursed for everything and you make thousands of dollars. Then all you have to do is wait to heal and then you can do it again.
How do I know so much about this? Well, I had a friend in college who donated her eggs. I found the whole thing rather disturbing. Not that I don't think that people who can't have their own children shouldn't get help and even though I can think of copious ways that I could spend thousands of dollars . . . I'd be bothered knowing that technically, I could have children running around that I didn't even know about. I mean, when I have children . . . I'd like to know about them, you know? On a side note - I heard on the news that this sperm donor guy has 12 children! Seriously, he must have had a very enticing profile to make 12 women choose his sperm. I wonder how many guys lie on those things . . . like "Hi, my name is Romeo and most women call me an Italian God. I'm a doctor and an astrophysicist, as well as a member of Mensa. I have olive skin, dark hair and a very white smile. I have a fabulous physique. In my spare time I like to read, save the world and feed the homeless. I play ten different instruments. I can calculate the tip in my head. I'm amazing!"
How do I know so much about this? Well, I had a friend in college who donated her eggs. I found the whole thing rather disturbing. Not that I don't think that people who can't have their own children shouldn't get help and even though I can think of copious ways that I could spend thousands of dollars . . . I'd be bothered knowing that technically, I could have children running around that I didn't even know about. I mean, when I have children . . . I'd like to know about them, you know? On a side note - I heard on the news that this sperm donor guy has 12 children! Seriously, he must have had a very enticing profile to make 12 women choose his sperm. I wonder how many guys lie on those things . . . like "Hi, my name is Romeo and most women call me an Italian God. I'm a doctor and an astrophysicist, as well as a member of Mensa. I have olive skin, dark hair and a very white smile. I have a fabulous physique. In my spare time I like to read, save the world and feed the homeless. I play ten different instruments. I can calculate the tip in my head. I'm amazing!"
Sunday, May 21, 2006
please. go. away.
I cannot escape them. They are everywhere. And you know of whom I speak - Nickelback and Mariah Carey. Lord help me.
Nickelback,
WHY is it that every single time I turn the radio on, the station is playing you? I kid you not, I risked switching to the Top 40 radio station a handful of times over the course of this weekend and every single time you were there . . . playing . . . and singing . . . those horrific songs - and I end up changing the station back to NPR to regain the brain cells I lost while listening to you. I know that massive radio play is a good thing for you guys, but I swear if I hear that opening riff again, I might just rip the radio out of my car. Oh, and by the way, the song you guys have out right now . . . I could swear it's the same song I heard played overandoverandover at the karoake bar I was at, let's say . . . 3 years ago. That's right. I can't tell the difference. Take that as you will.
Me
Mariah Carey,
For The Love Of God when did body suits and bathing suits (as everyday wear) come into fashion?? And when did "singing" imply minimal sound and maximum breathiness? I swear, everytime I hear you on the radio as I'm driving, I check to see if my tires are deflating . . . or if some 50 year smoker has climbed into my backseat, unbeknownst to myself. I get it . . . you can roll around in skimpy clothing and straighten your hair extensions with a hair straightener AND you can get key hip hop artists to stare at your breasts in music videos (Snoop Dogg, Pharrell) but did you ever consider after making "Glitter" that maybe your lifetime career in the entertainment industry shouldn't be so "lifetime" oriented? The public will forgive you for retiring. In fact, I think a lot of people would help you find a new job. Oh and by the way, I thought I heard your recent single a few years back, as well.
Me
Nickelback,
WHY is it that every single time I turn the radio on, the station is playing you? I kid you not, I risked switching to the Top 40 radio station a handful of times over the course of this weekend and every single time you were there . . . playing . . . and singing . . . those horrific songs - and I end up changing the station back to NPR to regain the brain cells I lost while listening to you. I know that massive radio play is a good thing for you guys, but I swear if I hear that opening riff again, I might just rip the radio out of my car. Oh, and by the way, the song you guys have out right now . . . I could swear it's the same song I heard played overandoverandover at the karoake bar I was at, let's say . . . 3 years ago. That's right. I can't tell the difference. Take that as you will.
Me
Mariah Carey,
For The Love Of God when did body suits and bathing suits (as everyday wear) come into fashion?? And when did "singing" imply minimal sound and maximum breathiness? I swear, everytime I hear you on the radio as I'm driving, I check to see if my tires are deflating . . . or if some 50 year smoker has climbed into my backseat, unbeknownst to myself. I get it . . . you can roll around in skimpy clothing and straighten your hair extensions with a hair straightener AND you can get key hip hop artists to stare at your breasts in music videos (Snoop Dogg, Pharrell) but did you ever consider after making "Glitter" that maybe your lifetime career in the entertainment industry shouldn't be so "lifetime" oriented? The public will forgive you for retiring. In fact, I think a lot of people would help you find a new job. Oh and by the way, I thought I heard your recent single a few years back, as well.
Me
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