If I had an extra $1200

I would immediately buy this chair from Anthropologie. Holy cow.

Shuffle Junkie

View of Utah Lake from Squaw Peak

The trouble with being a shuffle junkie is that sometimes songs you've forgotten about can pop up and what happens depends on whether it's a busy day and it produces just a little twinge, but if it's a sultry fall night just after a rain storm and the windows are down, that's when it smacks you in the gut with a little more oomph. And I remember that one fall Saturday night in 1995 when we went up Provo Canyon for a little wholesome campfire and guitar-playing under the clear, Western sky.

T & I rode up in the back of Korb's Nissan Sentra, with Dave in the front, 1/2 of the four boys of the Briar Avenue basement apartment that we were collectively and individually madly in love with. (Not specifically Korb & Dave for me, and with T there would be an eventual realigning of affection, but that night Korb had a little advantage with her, and our friend Brooke would later capture Dave.) Korb put in the Hootie & the Blowfish disc and skipped it to number 3, which is "Let Her Cry," of course, and he said, "I know I have an economy car, but this stereo was the best thing I ever did." I'm sure it sounded great or whatever, but for me with that song it's more about the tragic first chord and the lonely girl by the lamp post.

We met J & Chris up the mountain, where the fire was already toasty and crackly and J already had his guitar out. There were more girls waiting, too - Kari & cute, ditsy, flirty Kiersta, who were also collectively and individually in love with the Briar boys, and lived across the hall from us. They were a little older, and Kari, anyway, possessed the hippie no-makeup, long blonde hair confidence that seemed very much the right thing to have in that group. I was really jealous of her, despite the Birkenstocks; she was at ease around these boys, who were much older than us. I was wearing a big Eddie Bauer pullover, and whatever the real story, how I felt was that unlike the rest of these girls, I was liked fine but unadored. I felt unsporty and uncool and Kari could run a room in an effortless and breezy way that was never obnoxious somehow.

So the night for me was fun in theory - it was perfect with cute boys and marshmallows and guitars, but the perfect made me crazy and insecure and I like I wanted to go deep in the dark canyon and find my way back alone with no one to see how dumb I felt. I don't hate this memory; Hootie starts singing and I have to close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath, because it's that young and hopeful combination of joy, anticipation, embarrassment, and the overwhelming crush of the moment, long since passed and been replaced for all of us by other people, other friends, other loves. But I can also pretty easily tap into that odd girl out, even if that perception is tainted.

Now that Darius Rucker is trying to start a country career, he pops up with more frequency, but nothing he does can replace the heartbreaking pathos of "Let Her Cry," those first few guitar chords, the sad girl by that lamp post. She's destined to stand there forever. I can hear her tale from high up the canyon, looking down.

B&E

Okay, so you know this commercial, right?



I hate it. It's totally alarmist and awful. But it certainly does its advertising job, because it leaves you unsettled and like you really can't afford to not have Brinks.

So last night at 2 am the downstairs alarm was tripped, and we have the same kind of deal with the calling to see if it's a false alarm or we need the cops. The speaker for the alarm is right outside my bedroom door, so it didn't take long to wake me up, but I got all discombobulated and it became part of my dream for a minute, so by the time I could figure out what was happening, the phone was ringing and I still had my teeth-grinding mouthguard in when I answered it and I had to go outside on my front porch to even hear the woman on the phone asking me for my password. And then I realized that I was outside and possibly unprotected from the possible murderer, so I asked her (um, after I took out my mouthguard) if she would stay on the phone with me while I checked things out.

Mind you, we still weren't communicating well because I actually have to go down the stairs to turn off the alarm, but I was faced with quite a conundrum: knowing that it is very most probably a false alarm, do I still risk going downstairs? What would I have done if I had met a murderer on the steps? Sure, Security Central lady would have sent the cops, but out here that recently meant 45 minutes, so I'm pretty well dead and in the Haw River by then.

With the being not awake, I didn't have the presence of mind to think too long, especially because it was SO LOUD and so I just crept down the stairs, my heart beating like nobody's business, and finally got the thing silenced. Then she told me it was an outside closet door (why it's connected to the system, I don't really know, because it doesn't actually lead to access to the house. It houses the water heater, so we're guarding against shower espionage, I guess?). This particular door doesn't have a doorknob on it, so you can imagine that a little wind can make it blow right open. If I had asked her what tripped the siren, I would have known that there was no murderer, but the truth is that I watch too much Law & Order: SVU and I'm just so suspicious.

And in point of fact, going downstairs without at least a kitchen knife was potentially pretty stupid, but is it dumber to let the Sheriff come out for a false alarm? I guess these are not questions you can ask if you're dead, so thank goodness I don't have to be in the tragic victims section of the Chatham County Record today.

Dear Summer,

Don't let the shade deceive you. It's not cool on the porch.

This is my statement: I am over summer. Over the humidity, the cicadas, the fogged up windows from a/c, over always needing a/c, walking face-first into a billion spider webs. Over the constant sweating, no real breeze, no shade that feels like shade, hazy skies, 80-degree nights.

Summer's not even that fun when you're a grownup; it's just hot. I can't discount the lovely vacation, but it's bookended by two stressful events, so it's hard to relax.

Let's be done already.

I don't get it

Do you?



It does make me want to eat a churro, though.

For Girls Only

Not to perpetuate stereotypes and make any boys feel awkward, but let me just tell the women I know out there to go immediately to mon.thly.info and see what helpful scheduling and reminding it has to offer. The internet is our BFF.