Old School X-Tina

I'm completely out of new music. I mean, new music to share that is. I have plenty of cd's just lying around the cluster fuck that is my bedroom, waiting to be organized by band alphabetically and my Pandora play list has reached a MAXIMUM. That's right. It turns out that you can only create so many playlists before Pandora is all "You have gotten...how do we say this...out of control. Please delete some of this shit. Do you really need a playlist completely devoted to Iron and Wine? They all start to sound the same after awhile, don't they? Get real, Ashley."

So on top of feeling insulted, I'm at a loss of what to pass on. Give me the weekend, I'm sure it will come to me. In the mean time I came across this movie trailer (my second love, right after new bands I get off of television shows) with Christina Aguilera and CHER. That's right. THE CHER. And she looks even more man-ish in this film than I have ever seen someone look that isn't or hasn't been a legitimate MAN but really, it just looks great.

You know, if you're into that musical movies Center Stage/Moulin Rouge/Save the Last Dance kind of crap that I'm into.


And trust me, I know. Even you dudes are excited. You can't help it. It's THE CHER! And she says sassy stuff in it like "You have to make me believe that you belong on that stage!"

It's so weird how one movie trailer can make me want to be a burlesque dancer. Or Cher. I can't decide...

You Know Me, It's All Or None

If you are in the mood for chic music...and I mean really, truly, red wine drinking at home chic music then you are in for a treat. It's been a while since I've blogged and I can't even remember if I gave you this girl yet but Missy Higgins has been a station on my Pandora for about a week now. While I can't find anyone who really compares to her and this song, I'm not ready to give up yet. I slow dance BY MYSELF at home to this song, it's that depressingly good.



Missy Higgins, Where I Stood, can be found on amazon here but really, if you're anything like me, you just replay this video twelve more times before the day is over and call it a night.

Ashley here, changing your life one musical day at a time.

Stealing Pt, 2

There's something about a really simple piano repeated rhythm that gets to me. The way Regina Spektor can take something really simple and light and make it the base for an entire song is what has me hooked to her music. This weird band, Wakey Wakey, does the same thing and it just makes me bounce while listening. Not to mention their album is titled "Almost everything I wish I had said the last time I saw you..." which could probably not be more spot on. The fact that they recognize it's ALMOST everything is key. Because no matter how many times you think in your head 'This would have been perfect!'...you always go back and think of something more.

There's always one more thing you would you had said.

Stealing

I haven't watched One Tree Hill since Peyton and Lucas left. That's just what loyal fans do...they stop watching a show when they get rid of a main character for no reason!

So I'm currently surfing the music from the website so I can still get the benefits of the show without having to actually watch it. Also, I'm eating Ben & Jerry's Cake Batter Ice Cream. An unbeatable combination. Please enjoy Mumford & Sons. The title reminds me of a mom & pop's mechanic shop, but the music reminds me of something completely different. That might just be the Ben & Jerry's, clouding my mind.

But What If He Has Got Slippery Hands?

I'm not sure what kind of music genre this song falls under. It's a little folk..a little Johnny Cash gospel...but from, like, when Johnny was a kid himself. There's something about the harmonica that I cannot deny. I will not deny. I must learn how to play one myself, in fact.

In the mean time, The Wood brothers don't have anything more official looking than these live performance videos on Youtube. This song was featured in the movie I watched the other night, The Greatest, that I talked about here. And yes, I still do wish I was this chick because things turned out great for her despite the fact that the love of her life is dead. The entire movie featured great songs, now that I think about it. Rent it if you're in the mood to cry. Same goes for this song. GEEZ IT'S BEEN A LONG DAY.

• Lovin' Arms by The Wood Brothers

More The Wood Brothers music on iLike

You Get A Kitten, And YOU Get a Kitten...EVERYBODY GETS A KIIIIIITTTTTEEEENNNNNN!

Remember when you were younger and all you wanted for your birthday was for someone to show up on your doorstep with a pet kitten?

Wish granted, Matt December.

This weekend, my friend Beth (whom you've heard so much about recently!) and I did a 5k with some coworkers of mine to benefit the Dillon Cope Foundation. Turns out the money actually goes to the Children's Hospital to benefit children with leukemia and they raised over $8,000 with this one walk alone. So, you know, we were feeling giving. And tired. And unshowered. As seen here:



After a grueling workout through the Amazon (well, Bloomer Park can FEEL like the Amazon), we had plans to take a kitten from my coworker, Crystal, who's cat had them eight weeks prior. Beth and myself were all "You know who needs a kitten? MATT. Matt needs a kitten."

And thus, we became the Oprah Winfrey's of gift giving.

A few hours later we were in the possession of one very sassy little boy kitten who doesn't like to be held. Seen here:



It might appear that we got the Bram Stoker of kittens, but I swear, he's nicer than he appears here.

In all honesty, buying someone a kitten without asking is irresponsible. It also can go wrong on more than one level. Like the way Matt mentioned at lunch after we had given it to him, "Man. I hope I'm not allergic to cats."

I thought that perhaps the best way to show you how much fun it can be doing something irrational and irresponsible was to tape it. Here you can enjoy us waiting impatiently because people who don't know to expect a kitten at their doorstep might leave haphazardly to go to the gym. Which makes giving you a gift difficult.



And here you can watch as he STILL DOESN'T KNOW and therefore, doesn't rush to answer his door when we realize he is not, in fact, at the gym at all. He's just ignoring us.



And last, but not least, the reason we're here. Little did we know that by the end of the day he'd be named Gene Wilder The Cat and head bumping Matt to show his affection.



Everybody needs a kitten. Ashley & Beth can make it happen.

A Great Loss

My mother washed my iPod.

She didn't mean to. I mean, really, it was my fault. I had it in the pocket of a sweatshirt and she had no idea it was in the laundry on my floor and bam. She pulled out a pair of headphones from the washer and the dreaded "Oh God...something more expensive is in here with these" feeling hit her stomach.

She's been trying to dry it out with a hair dryer for about two weeks now. I think we've finally pulled the proverbial plug on it's life.

You wouldn't think losing your first iPod to such an accident as this would be detrimental, but it is. It's like a piece of me is missing when I walk through the aisles of the grocery store, trying to avoid "helpful" staff. I can't fathom going to the gym alone anymore, or walking the dogs in the summer evenings. Listening to it illegally in the car is gone. And yesterday, when Beth and myself participated in the 5K, I wished more than anything I had it in my pocket, because this song has been begging for me to listen to it while I exercise. It's get me moving, like so many other weirdly great songs do.

So add it to your iPod for me. And protect that little guy...he's more valuable to you than you realize. It's VV Brown's "Shark In The Water" and I had to use a fan video because the company that owns her music video disabled embedding. Which is a shame, because she's a sassy strutter and I wish I could show her skills to you.

The song will have to do for now.

Best Friends Forever...Especially When I Need Fashion Advice

Today is one of my best friend's, Kelley's, birthday. She is 27. She's going to send me some sort of horrified message through email today about how I told the world her age, but I don't care. She's sassy and smart and beautiful and talented and the world should know that today is in recognition of her.

May 26th was my other best friend's, Beth's, birthday. She is 26. She is also sassy and smart and beautiful and talented. Recently, I've realized, I only associate with the fabulous. It makes every day run much more smoothly.

I just wanted to take a moment to say without them, who knows exactly who I would turn to at the end of everyday for whatever it is I may need.

Lord knows that Kelley has taken one too many "What kind of shoes do I buy with this??" phone calls at inappropriate times of the day. She knows how to bake and cook and drink all at the same time, which is quite a feat, let me tell you. She can take any task and make it look easy, like you're over thinking it when, really, she's just a genius and we're just all a bunch of dummies. She can find the humor amongst sadness. She can find beauty in destruction. She taught me how great wine and cheese together are. She taught me how to embrace myself.



Beth, on the other hand, can turn something funky and old into beautiful and new because she's just that creatively talented. She can paint and sing and dance, though she downplays her skills so much so that you would never know what lies beneath that serene face that listens quietly when you cry at Pei Wei over the mess that is your life. She can play sports like a dude. She can play video games like a dude. She can make calories disappear in the most fabulous tasting food. She can find hope in chaos. She can hear my thoughts. She taught me that wherever I might be, whatever I might be doing,I'm never alone.



Happy Birthday, my best friends. Thank you for all you do.


And please forgive me for the horrible pictures I just posted of you on the internet.

Good Things For Good Causes

Tomorrow, my coworkers, myself and my good friend Beth are teaming up at 9am to participate in the 5K for the Dillon Cope Foundation in Rochester Hills. All proceeds will benefit students at the University of Michigan or something in memory of one of their students. I wish I had more details other than that, but really, it will involve bagels, coffee and running shortly thereafter. Do you need to know much more?

And if that's not enough to tempt you, I'm not sure what is.

Pictures and stories of how Ashley fell down only forty steps into the race and had to be carted off on a gurney soon to follow.

Hopefully. Everyone loves a good "Remember that time you almost died exercising?" story. Almost as much as a "Remember that time you almost died DRINKING?" story.

"You're Gonna Need A Bigger Frame"

I don't need to remind any of you that I'm a Master these days. Completing something as fantastically wonderful as your Masters program gets you all kinds of cool perks. Your family lets you have the remote control more often because you can make executive decisions. You get better at playing Jeopardy when it comes on. The cat respects your personal space more at bedtime. Someone starts doing your laundry for you.

JUST KIDDING. None of that crap happens. And isn't it sad that I can acknowledge that happiness would come to me in leaps and bounds if only I could play more competently when Jeopardy came on or if someone would clean my underwear on a regular basis?

I didn't, however, get to go to my graduation ceremony last month when I received the title of MASTER. It's in Philadelphia and my family was busy and I had to work and trips to Philly don't just fly by the seat of your pants. Thus, I had to contact the school to have them mail my diploma to me. And Scott, in a moment of consideration and kindness, bought me a frame so that when it arrived I could hang it proudly on my wall and people could start to bow to it when they came for tea or to pay me their taxes. You know, the norm.

However, during one of my many crazy Spanish lessons my mother texted me several times with cryptic messages like:

"Where are you? Komos estas!?"

"You got something in the mail."

"What did you order online?"

"KOMO. ESTAS."

"I think it's your degree. You're...gonna need a bigger frame."

"Pick up Spaghetti on the way home. Pretend I said that in Spanish."

and so on and so forth. You can see my frustration at times towards whoever taught my mother to text.

Thanks for that, kind stranger. Truly. THANKS.

So I head home and pick up Spaghetti (in Spanish) and walk through the door and there she stands, smile on her face with what can only be described as the largest degree man kind has ever seen. Seriously, I don't think it's necessary, SJU. I appreciate the excitement and yes, now my mother who can't read close up anymore can actually tell what it says, except it's also IN LATIN.

THE WHOLE THING.




And you might think that the picture is a weird angle. I'm just holding it away from my body. It can't POSSIBLY be as large as her torso.

And that's where you would be wrong. Again. Don't worry about it. Before I became a master, I used to be wrong all the time.

Who Is In CHARGE?

I really need to turn off the Breaking News by CNN on my Twitter because every hour on the hour it informs me how many have died during the flooding or how many people are missing in Kenya after an explosion. Just today alone a plane has crashed, people are FLEEING Uzbekistan and Spirit Airlines had a strike. Today. You want to know what I did today? I ate a bagel sandwich, went to Meijer and applied for a job in Paw Paw. What is happening?! Who is in charge here?

It got me to thinking about Mother Earth. Partly because I recently watched the documentary Babies and they feature the song "The Earth Is Our Mother" and I was all "oh for pete's sake you bunch of hippies, the earth is not my MOTHER. The earth is like, a close friend. Someone I hang out with occasionally. She certainly isn't ODE WORTHY" which is actually kind of sad and sheltered of me. Just think. If we had been born even one hundred and fifty years earlier, a large portion of our lives would involve being outside, tending and killing animals, cutting down trees and trying to figure out how to make running water a feasible option. That's right. NO RUNNING WATER. That means pooping outside.

Pooping outside?! Are you kidding me? The biggest question I have today is how to get my laptop cord to stop unplugging itself randomly so I don't lose power while I'm in the middle of a rant. Think about how awful it is whenever you lose power on a grander scale! No running water? They might as well inject us all with Ebola and wish us adieu. That's exactly what losing electricity is like. Contracting Ebola.

So what does pooping outside, losing power and Uzbekistan have to do with an explosion in Kenya and poor Mother Earth?

I'm not good enough to her. I don't appreciate her enough. And this year she is definitely trying to tell us something, and that something is that she is PISSED. Epically, tragically, "you crashed the family car while I was out of town and you didn't even have your license" kind of angry that only a true mother can possess. Think about it. The natural disasters are abundant. Nashville and Little Rock are drowning. Haiti and Chile are shaken to destruction. Iceland has exploded. Sink holes are showing up in California and Guam.

The earth IS our mother, in a really bizarre way. And perhaps you forgot to get her a card on Mother's Day or didn't take the trash out or maybe even something really, really bad like forgetting to put gas in the tank after you borrowed her car. Whatever it is, you need to jump on it. We all do. I don't know if this means we need to plant more trees or buy cork shoes or what. But start thinking and think hard. Perhaps we can put our heads together long enough to stop a spill or prevent the next tsunami. For everyday something hasn't shown up on my door with 'destruction' spelled out on it's forehead is one more day that I'm just lucky. Because it could get here any minute now. And I'm nowhere near ready.

But then again, I'll bet Arkansas wasn't either. And they're only 764 miles away. I got lucky by 700 miles.

And so did you.

Hablo Espanol

I'm currently taking Spanish lessons with one of the mothers at my job. This means that every Monday night after an intense two hours of private tutoring and Spanish soap operas to help me practice, I come home with a heavy accent and start demanding things of my family...like, immediately. En Espanol. This also means that my mother picks up maybe one out of every twenty phrases I say and texts me haphazardly "Komos estas!" which is actually NOT how you spell "como esta" at all.

Lastly it means that my inner Colombian is clearly making an appearance. I've started taking up spicier foods and shaking my thing when I walk around the house. I speak English with an accent now. I tell my cat "vamos!" in the morning when we both have to leave the room so I can lock up and guarantee that she doesn't crap on my stuff while I'm gone.

My point is that being multi-cultural suddenly in a life where I'm not actually even a tiny bit of the culture I'm choosing to represent is kind of funny. Or awkward, you can take your pick.

And I'm not saying that because of this you need to go out and get the Lawson Rollins cd. All I'm sayin' is that there is a reason women fall in love with Spanish men as they make their way through the country side, sipping sangria. Sure, it's a tiny part Sangria. But it's mostly the dark hair, the accent...and the fingers.



Aye dios mio.

Like A Bastard On The Burning Sea

Does anyone remember that movie that Diane Keaton did a long time ago where she inherited a baby that she was TERRIBLE at taking care of and she ended the two hour fiasco by living on a farm in the middle of nowhere making her own apple-flavored baby food for the same company that fired her for having a baby to begin with?

More importantly, why do I watch that terrible film every time it's only TBS in the early hours of the morning on the weekends? It's not like it ever gets better with time! It's not like it even gets progressively more interesting the older I get. Like, hey, I've suddenly found an interest in making baby food for my own children!

Nope. Not even a little bit.

But I watch it. Just like I'm going to watch this delicious hunk of craptastic filmage when it hits the big screen. Because that's what I am. A sucker for Katherine Heigl, Josh Duhamel and a lot of poop.


The only real bonus you might gain from this is the song at the end, found here:



It's Passion Pit's - Moths' Wings. I haven't heard a lot of them yet, but from what I've got thus far, I'm digging it!

However, I'm not sure how much you can trust my taste anymore. I was just listening to Pandora with Scott, when near the end of a song I suddenly scream out "This is a JESUS song!" and Scott was all, 'Yeah I thought you knew that!"

And I'm all 'What?!? When is the last time I listened to Jesus music in front of you? Have you been stomaching this the whole time?!"
and he's all "Yeah, what of it?" and then I had to remind him that sometimes I need to be saved from even myself and that, as his role of the man, it's his responsibility to make these leaps in my honor.

That's right. Some of us even need to be saved from Jesus.

I can't wait to see what kind of results that's gonna pull up from Google Searches. And the comments! Heaven help me!

Ha. Get it? Alright, I'm done now.

Wine Tasting Part 2

I feel like I've been slacking recently. I know that I told you all I needed a few days break and then the car fiasco happened and blah blah blah, I appreciate all of your understanding. But still, there was a portion of me that screamed out in the back of my head "You fool! People get busy everyday! People get overwhelmed EVERY DAY. Why must you be so special you can quit what you do when they can't quit what they do?"
and I'm sorry.

I also feel like I've been apologizing a lot recently. It's just a vicious circle of guilt and confusion, much like family planned events at my house. But those are tales for a different day!

Where did I leave off? OH THATS RIGHT. Wine Tasting in Traverse City many moons ago. I think that we had just departed from delicious wines at Brys Estate and headed straight over to a place called The Jolly Pumpkin after a joyful jaunt in the car to some Lady Gaga.

At The Jolly Pumpkin, we each got a sampler of beer. In case you might be thinking that a sample of beer times eleven people isn't a catastrophe, you would be wrong. Because it looks a lot like the lush table at your local Bingo Parlor where Estelle and her ladies are gearing up to bring home the final prize. Gearing up takes a lot of booze.

As seen here. And this isn't even half of it! This was only four of the eight little beers in and you're so unsuspecting as they come one at a time. "Oh look, a lemon flavored pale ale! Delightful. Oh and here comes an IPA! Excitement abounds!" until suddenly you're elbows deep in everyone else's sampler screaming out, "ATTENTION. ABORT. MUST PEE IMMEDIATELY. MOVE THE BOOZE ASAP."

It would appear that I am suddenly uncouth and without class while out drinking beer and that's just not true. It turns out that I'm actually quite the lady as are Beth and Sarah, the two delightfuls I spent the majority of my time with. Because even when chugging a beer, Beth can hold her own. I believe if you look closely, her pinky might even be up in the video below as she kicks both boy's asses in a slamming contest.



From there, relatively beer'ed out and ready for more fun, we headed back to our lovely hotel. We promptly flopped down onto our relative beds in adjoining but separate rooms where we could call out to one another "What are you doing in there?!" all impatient sounding so that someone could reply "Get ready!" without actually being seen for the nappy napperson they were. This carried on for roughtly half an hour until about thirty seconds before we had to head out the door to our next destination, tapas. This means that the last thirty seconds was spent with items of undergarment thrown into the air calling out "Are these yours or MINE?" and then, after a rough go-ahead trying them, deciding they are in fact, someone else's.

We ended up at Firefly, a lovely tapas restaurant where I had far too much spicy food and Ahi

Tuna of Matt's. However, it was so nice to be somewhere where we could just enjoy food and one another's company. I'm pretty sure this was the kind of stuff I looked forward to as a kid when I went out to my family. Something like "I can't wait until I can go out with people I actually like and order something that's not on the kid's menu."

Little did I know then that the most exciting thing NOT on the kid's menu was wine, and not grown up chicken vs. chicken fingers. Thus, we live and learn the real lessons of life.

After dinner we meandered over to the one busy street of Traverse City where we had EVEN MORE BEER at Mackinaw Brewing Company at the urging of my good Alanna from work. I must admit, they can brew a mean beer. And we played something called The Finger Game which, trust me, we'll talk about at a LATER DATE. It's not as dirty as it sounds. Alright, it might be. But you know that just got you excited rather than nervous. Yes, that kind of excited. Oh and they also offered a wide variety of reading material, as seen below. Clearly we had to take full advantage of that.

After The Mackinaw Brewing Company we hopped into the cab and told our driver "Back to the Holiday Inn Please!" to which he said "Oh you're headed to the club for a little bit?"

What? No. It's na-night time. We would like to put pajamas on and find something fantastic on television to fall asleep to. I've been drinking copious amounts of liquor since eleven am. Turns out, that in silly small towns, places like your local Holiday Inn can house the most hopping venues and we found ourselves standing outside the doors of Shimmers...that's right, they named the downstairs club SHIMMERS, around midnight not sure what to suspect inside.

Looking back, I couldn't tell you what I ended up actually seeing there. I'm pretty sure I saw a lot of terrible dancing that is not even really describable at this point. We saw far too much fondling of one ugly person on another. A little bit too much butt crack and leather on heavy people. Oh and drinking. SO MUCH DRINKING.

I think I lasted about half an hour amongst the Night Of the Living Dead that is Traverse City's night crowd before I called it a night and passed out next to Rob's feet while they watched JackAss into the wee hours of the morning.

It was fantastic though, in every way

that I thought it might be. I love

road trips and can't wait for the opportunity to go on another with those that I hold dear. It has helped me to realize, even with small weekends and events with a only a few people such as these, that I truly am thankful for my friends. They are entertaining and intelligent and good people and every day that I spend in their company is one more day I spend becoming a better person. They make me want to be as great as they are. Thank you Martin Sisters for such a fantastic weekend I'll never forget. Well, that's not entirely true. Thank you Martin Sisters for a weekend I might not have already forgotten if not for all the booze you helped to supply. Thank you, indeed.

Alleviating The Stress

My car broke down yesterday. So while, yes, I'm aware that this isn't the best of timing to be throwing more music at you and less of my exciting life, you'll have to suffice for now. Because I'm currently knee-deep in laundry and tears trying to figure out how something as miniscule as a catalytic converter could ruin my entire day.



So Jason Myles Goss is singing just to me in my own desperate imagination.

Fair Is Fair

I wasn't really paying attention earlier this week when I recommended some Barcelona to ya'll, and for that I sincerely apologize. The fact is that I found the new Black Keys Album, Brothers, and I have had a hard time peeling it from my grasps. What to do, I said to myself this evening as I sat at my computer and had to decide between recommendations for tune-age? WHO DO I CHOOSE?

Clearly, it was a little like Sophie's Choice, if you can imagine the heartache and dilemma I was going through.

Finally, I decided thus: This is my blog, I can recommend how many damn songs as I want. Therefore, please behold The Black Keys singing Tighten Up with a puppet dinosaur:




AND Barcelona singing Come Back When You Can:



and you can send as many Thank You baskets of chocolate and gold as you wish.

Places To Visit, Take 5

I don't know what it is about this song or the Kurushio Aquarium in Japan. Of course it's depressing in a way and maybe that's why it appeals to me, because this is my blog and why wouldn't it be? But really, I had it playing on my computer, made it a full screen play and just sat back and watched.

Because it's beautiful. And I suggest you do the same.



Oh, the band is Barcelona. I think. I don't even know anymore.

Existence

Do you think the internet will last forever?

I mean, relatively speaking. Obviously there will come a point where we all have little chips in our heads that is able to access the nearby McDonald's to place our order and then a robot will come rocketing to our door right as we're internally Googling how to brew our own beer at home. Clearly, I'm aware of where technology is going to take us.

I guess I should back up a little bit. I found myself wondering the other day as I mulled over blog post after blog post...who really cares? I mean, I have my friends. I have my family and they read me, but if I were to up and run away tomorrow to become a member of a bike league in Vienna, would anyone sit at their computer daily at work and say outloud "Something is missing. Something is wrong. Something is incomplete."

This reminds me, somewhat nostalgically and unnecessarily, of the fact that I don't really know my grandparents. I have the occasional story from my own parents and pictures but no real journals. No tapes where they speak into the camera about the day they fell in love or what they think of their tremendous children or what their greatest part of existing had been. I don't have a lock of hair or a book with an inscription.

This is not Debbie Downer intentional. Really, this is just where my head was as I sat down last weekend, ready to ramble about nothing important and realized that, perhaps, I was rambling to no one. That as often as I check to make sure I'm being read, in the grand scheme - it doesn't matter. And if I don't matter...if nothing is missing from the day of my reader without my existence, is it really worth writing?

Which ties back to my internet question. And my grandparent conundrum. The thing is, I plan on being an active member of my family for a long time. Forever, hopefully. I want someone to carry my picture around someday and talk about their crazy grandma who became a hoarder in her late seventies, but only with her book collection and they found her taking her last breath with her nose buried deep in her signed copy of her favorite Judy Blume novel. I want someone to say "my grandma used to paint my toenails...but she was blind, so it was really like feet painting. And then I would have to take it off without telling her. But she usually fell asleep by then, screaming at her cat, so it was cool. She was cool."

I guess really, I need to remind myself that I hope the internet exists forever. Because maybe I'm not writing for you...you, who don't really care if I write daily or weekly or monthly or ever. I'm writing for the next me...for the next kid who can't remember or didn't know their grandparent. Their great-grandparent. Maybe this blog will exist in a place where the greatest collection of archives exist and instead of a crochety old lady at a library, you ask some newager on the planet Venus for their old blogspot editions from 2010 and the guy working there is all "SNORESNORE" but hands them over.

And you discover me. Who I used to be. Where you came from. And that I wrote just for you.

Hiatus

This week, I'm going on vacation. I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to listen to your whining...I just want you to know that this week is well deserved. Much needed. Demanded on my soul, if you will.

I'll miss you greatly. Not that you'll really miss me, or even notice that I'm not part of your daily internet loop while pretending to work at your job...but still. I felt like you deserved a fair warning. No, I have not forgotten about Wine Tasting Part 2. But if I'm going to be able to finish it and the many, many, MANY other things I'd also like to articulate to you, my faithful readers, I'm going to need this week. Before this blog ceases to exist altogether.

Before I go out of my mind.

Before I lose all faith in humanity.

That's right. Blog Vacation can restore ALL THOSE THINGS. You know the one other thing in the world as powerful as Blog Vacation? Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips. And trust me...they go hand in hand.

See you in a week kittens.

You Are Forcing Me To Remember

I swear when I saw Rachel Yamagata on a particularly heated episode of One Tree Hill years and years ago, she didn't look like this. Perhaps I'm wrong but I'm just gonna go out on a limb and say that in that episode, Nathan wasn't the only one in that car who ended up with physical deformities as a result of a drunken Rachel and a runaway limo on a bridge drive into the local lake. Because YEESH Rachel Yamagata. Yeesh.

However, this song is so TTRRRAAAGGIIICCC. So slow and deliberate and SAD. The poor elephants. That's all I can think the entire time I listen to it. POOR, POOR, ELEPHANTS. And now, I have to look into adopting one which is going to be rough considering the cat and I are already having bed-space-sharing issues. I can only imagine what an animal who's poop can be weighed into the double digit pounds is going to do to the equation.

Wine Tasting Part 1

Here at Ash in Pitt, I've realized I talk a lot. And yes, yes, you enjoy the CRAP out of it, but really, I should be utilizing these skills to create more productivity on the factory line of writing.

I.e. when I start a post, why make so many so lengthy? Why not break my long stories into several short stories so that I work less and you enjoy more?! I'M A GENIUS. On the teacher front, unemployed, yes, but GENIUS ALL THE SAME!

Thus the tale of how eleven kids went to Traverse City for 36 hours for a wine tasting they'll never forget.

Ahem.

One of my best friends in the entire world, Beth, and her sister Kelly attended a silent auction last year where they apparently bogarted the one item they bid on by pretending to debate about HOW MUCH to bid on it until the auction was over and SURPRISE, won a wine tasting at the lovely Brys Estate in Traverse City for 12 people. Almost a year later they frantically threw together the people that might be available for such endeavors when they realized it was about to expire any second and all their hard (conniving) work was about to be deleted forever.

Thus I found myself early this past Saturday morning in my mother's Trail Blazer with Beth, Sarah and Matt on our way to meet Rob, Kelly and five of her closest friends for good wines and good foods.

Have I mentioned that Traverse City is four hours from my home? And that I drove there during what can only be described as El Nino Dos (YEAH Spanish lessons) just for some free cheese and twenty four hours of friend-fun?

I should also totally mention, for the record, that it was fantastic.

By the time we got to the estate, the skies and totally opened up and we were left with scenic views of the bays on both sides of the Peninsula such as this:



LOVELY.
We felt so grown up! We dressed for the occasion. Here are three of us looking dapper and adult. We also acted like we did stuff like this all the time. As one of the actual members of the Brys family gave our tour and talked to us about growing the grapes, harvesting the grapes, what yeast does and the fact that Wine School for Wine Makers is a REAL THING (fact checked!) we asked intriguing questions and paused our fingers to chins. Yes, the same kids that did this while driving on said beautiful peninsula:


Do not judge. When the Gaga comes on, even things like traffic laws go right out the window.

Moving on. FINALLY it was time for boozing after exhausting education and unauthorized machine touching when the tour guide wasn't looking and ludicrous inquisitions such as "Do you think I could fit inside that wine barrel?" that we sat down to a lovely setting like this one. Our server, Erick, was fantastic to say the least. Our tasting was supposed to include 5 different bottles. He opted for 10. He gave everyone quirky nicknames like "The Professor" and "Cali" and was kind and gracious to all of us, even the kid who wore a tuxedo t-shirt.
After a wonderful while of fine dining, we put the icing on the proverbial cake by having a taste of Iced Wine with cheesecake. Iced Wine, if you did not know, is taken from grapes during the winter months because they must stay at 18 degrees for three days in a row. This allows the machine to separate the juice of the grapes from the water (which is now in ice form) so you are left with something so truly sweet and alcohol filled it should be illegal. It was the greatest thing we've ever tasted. It was like drinking liquid gold. Rob bought some and, turns out, it costs the same as gold actually might. But who's looking at prices while drunk? Certainly not us. Really, after taste number 8 from our new friend, Erick, I wasn't paying attention to a whole lot anymore. Good thing I captured the rest on camera.

To be continued....

I Think This Is Called A Crush!

I cannot get ENOUGH of this Matt Wertz kid. Seriously, I stalked both my local Target, Meijer AND Walmart and cannot, for the life of me, find his album. Pandora mocks me frequently with how awesome he is by getting all "Oh, you want someone a little like John Mayer? How about my new friend, Mr. Wertz? Have ya heard of him? Look at how dreamy he is. You like that white jacket? Isn't he a dream boat??! New song, you say? WHY NOT MORE MATT??" until I'm humming his stuff in my sleep or to my coworkers who are all "What IS that noise?" and I'm all "The copy machine, obviously, singing Over You by Matt Wertz. Weird, eh?"

While I finally found his album on Amazon, here, I hate to admit that I've been so anti-everyone else this week. Like, I refuse to see another artist on my Pandora Playlist because I just can't bear to cheat on this poor boy so early into our relationship. Really, I blame this all on my hormones. I'm clearly out of control with the crushing and the pms and the screaming and crying over music at the drop of a hat.

So because it has been such a rough week, I've just been looping this kid's musical nonsense over and over again when I came across a radio show he did for Live 100 for a Haiti benefit with his pal Dave Barnes who is equally delicious. Crap, I mean talented.

I came across this song, by Dave Barnes, in one of my lowest points this week. Probably right around the peanut butter, chocolate chip ice cream midnight snack fest, but just after the unprovoked crying from watching a tender moment during The Little Chocolatiers.

Christ, I'm a mess. You will honestly listen to this song and say to yourself "OH BARF gag, blah blah blah, guitar and sappy lovey-slow songs, is this from a Disney movie?!" and to that I would say, yes. Yes it is. From the continual Disney classic playing in my heart about a young girl in a land far, far away who was so in love with a musician that she was almost inappropriate about it.
Alright, fine.
She was inappropriate about it.

AND EMBRACED IT.

What I Used To Want To Be

It's funny to think back today about what I used to want to be so many years ago. Actually, not even that many years ago in the grand scheme of life timelines.

It was only two years ago that I thought I was going to be an audiologist...two years before that I was obsessed with a kid in the majority of my classes with a great set of curly hair and a terrible smoking habit.

Two years before that I didn't even have my current best friends as close as they currently are today, no matter how many miles between us that, when I think about living without them, I find it hard to breathe.

And two years before that I was a young girl who just got her braces off, heading off to college with a monkey alarm clock in tow, because it reminded me so much of my childhood and I wasn't ready to leave that behind yet.
One thing that I have to admit has stayed constant is my taste in music. I guess what I mean is that songs I loved ten years ago are still songs that make me smile in the car today and that I look for similar artists, new artists...artists that remind me of who I used to be and who I still am.

And knowing that, I refuse to judge this poor boy named Matt Wertz who, according to his bio, wanted to be a shoe designer before he got to college and began strumming this beautiful, beautiful guitar. .

Denial

Earlier this morning my sister and I had a knock down, drag out fight against my brother. Something essentially about him being insensitive and us being over sensitive and it isn't a great mix in my household. The conversation, to top it off and really ADD to the super sensitive portion was my mother reaffirming in me, 'you're just upset because you're premenstrual' and she said the world "premenstrual" all covertly. Secret like. Like old ladies do when they ask for the feminine products at Target. Hushed voices and shame.

WOMAN I AM NOT PREMENSTRUAL.

I've always hated when women were characterized by their potentiality of menstruation. Like, yes, I might be going through that or near that or have breached into that realm of possibility but that doesn't actually make you any less of an asshole. You're still an asshole. Tomorrow or the next day or the next day when I am NOT premenstrual I will look at what you did and say "Yup. Confirmed. Ass-holish." Menstruation does not impair my ability to determine if you suck.

In a fit of rage after said "premenstrual" comment I left the house to rent a movie and hit Walmart for flashcards (for my Spanish lessons. More on that later. Or...manana? Crap. Spanish lessons are not going well) when I had the sudden urge for Salt and Vinegar Potato Chips.

Mind you, I am not a chip person. I've never bought them while grocery shopping. I don't look for them at lunch, I don't buy them at gas stations for movies and I always opt for the apple at Panera instead of the chips. I am not a chip-chick. But today, I wanted some. No, needed some. And lo and behold, I could not find the chip aisle to save my life. Why must Walmart suddenly start selling pickles in bulk but hide their chips like covert ops to stalk Obama?

So, picture me if you will, with my post-workout clothes on and a bag of Weed 'N Feed in one arm for my mother, angrily chomping at the bit into the phone with Scott over the missing chip aisle. Where did they PUT it? Why would they HIDE it? Doesn't anyone care about me and my OVERLY SENSITIVE FEELINGS AND NEEDS, YOU BUNCH OF ASSHOLES?? when I suddenly stumble upon it. In fact, I stumble upon MULTIPLE chip aisles and while Lays has recently come out with a brand of "Garden Tomato and Basil" chip as well as "Carolina Barbeque" they don't have a single Salt and Vinegar. ANYWHERE. AT ALL.

Fuming, I go home, Spanish Flashcards in hand, slam the Weed 'N Feed on the table and scoop the mail awaiting me. A letter from one of the many schools I applied at that says AND I QUOTE:

Dear Ashley,

Thank-you for applying for our high school English position. We hired a qualified teacher. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,
Sally M. Crowser


FIRST OF ALL, Sally M. Crowser: Thank you is not hyphenated. Secondly, thank God you conned your way into a Principal position at some podunk school in Wyoming where you obviously had to sleep your way to the top because obviously you didn't get there with your WRITING SKILLS. "We hired a qualified teacher"??? Fantastic! I needed to know that about as much as I needed to know if you scratched your ass on Tuesday, which I say to my mother all through pursed lips and a handful of the Hot Wing flavored Pretzels I had to settle for instead of my blessed chips.

That's right. Picture me now tearing through a bag of equally awful for you junk food, letter o'hate clenched in my fist.

Was it me just an hour ago trying to convince her I wasn't overly sensitive?
Because I'm not. Sally M. Crowser, Walmart and Lays are just a bunch of assholes.

They Call Her Hostile, Hostile, Hostile, Hostile, Hooossstttiiillleeee.....

Does anybody else sit back and say out loud, to no one in particular, "When is someone gonna write a love song about ME?"

Every love song was about some person at some point and if you haven't listened to the radio recently, there are a lot of f'ing love songs out there. Songs of breaking up and getting back together...slow and fast love songs, about her booty and his eyes and her golden hair and COME ON ALREADY. Where all my musician friends at? Where is the love song about how nerdy I am, it's almost too cute to deny? About how every Friday I shave my legs, but only on Fridays? Isn't that kind of shit endearing? Isn't that the kind of crap guys fall over themselves for?

I've been listening to Parachute the past few days with my friend Mark. I think "She Is Love" has been on the radio recently but I really like this acoustic version found here:


and if you're looking for something a little more upbeat, I like them here too:


Coincidentally called: She (For Liz).

Of COURSE it's for Liz. CONGRATU-FREAKIN-LATIONS LIZ.

Addictions of the Weakest Kind

I got a new bookshelf! It's so beautiful. Beautiful in the sense that I am methodically going through each and every book that I own so that I can alphabetize my books by both author and title. It's a tedious process that will occur over the next several days. I'll just be laying in bed when from across the room I'll see on my old shelf my copy of The Blithedale Romance by Nathaniel Hawthorne and OBVIOUSLY if I don't move it next to my copy of The Scarlet Letter immediately,also by Hawthorne, Nate will start rolling around in his grave with all his disappointment in my lack of book organizational skills.



The things we bookworms do for the sake of the dead and our own sanity.

Can I just say that the bookshelf was necessary because I've gotten out of control? Spilling onto the floor, out of control? So out of control that I picked up a used copy of "German Romantic Stories" and thought to myself, "Hoorah for love stories!" all while forgetting that SMALL SMALL detail "Boo for not knowing German." It's on my shelf next to "Hiking through Europe" (also on my to-do list after learning German) and Gone With The Wind (have you SEEN Gone With The Wind in book form? It's like a eight and a half pound weight but square. With no handles and lot's of Southern aggression).

Finally my mother comes into my room one night, late before bed and stops to stare at the shelf. I look up just in time for her face to reflexively change from slight grimace to awkward smile and she says:

"We should probably talk about that shelf."
"What about the shelf?" I grumbled. I don't appreciate being interrupted during The Little Chocolatiers on TLC.
"The shelf...it doesn't look good, Ash" and she said it in such a way that I felt like she was talking about my cat. Like, the same tone of voice you might use if you were telling your young child that Fluffy is on his way out. You crashed your best friend's car. Brad Pitt has passed on.


It was hesitant and nervous and rightfully so. I take my books very seriously. I can't stand discovering that a book is missing. I don't like when people don't return items they never bothered to read in the first place and if you fold down the corner pages well then may heaven have MERCY ON YOUR SOUL.
So I answered, "It's FINE mom" because, like a good little addict, I was in denial.

"Honey...the shelves are all...buckling" and as she ran her hands over the edges of it, it suddenly stood out to me. My bookshelf...made of WOOD or at least something like it, had rows upon rows of shelves that were so concave in the middle they were smiling at me. My bookshelf. The bravest little soldier of them all, marching on under the weight of my obsession with a smile upon its face.

I got a new bookshelf last weekend and I have to admit, everything looks much better round these parts. My shelf has corrected it's weight straining smile. My Jodi Picoult books are standing straight and tall next to one another, instead of being jammed into any available space I might be able to find.

And me? I now feel free to buy as many books as I wish in German. HOORAH!

Keeping It Fresh

We've been a little heavy around these parts recently, what with the crazy Russian Religion and a little bit of politics, not to mention Patty Griffin's uber-depressing tune-age. We need something light hearted and happy. We need more parmesan cheese!


P.S. Would not recommend acid trip while watching this video.

Everybody Wants To Be Loved

Let's hear it for Ingrid Michaelson who is adorably quirky and a fantastic singer. She held a contest recently for her fans to cover her work and while I would love to post her original version, because she's just that fantastic and upbeat, these girls who cover her are just ADORABLE. You really have to pay attention to the girl on the right in the very beginning because the joy on her face is beyond what I think Ingrid was trying to portray when she first wrote this song.

I love a song with a good message. And when clapping is an instrument.


**UPDATE: Oh F. I found another that I really love and felt like sharing. This contest is probably over too. Only I could sit on Youtube and listen to forty different versions of the same song.

Keeping To Myself

I don't know if you've heard, but now that I'm almost a MASTER at something, I've got all sorts of opinions about things. Politics and health care are only the tip of the iceberg. I've got something to say about EVERYTHING, being educated and all that.
Bagel flavors. Recycled paper. The iPad. Tennis shoe brands, laundry and wet versus dry cereal. I have an opinion about it all!

And I've come to see recently that having an opinion and being a teacher don't exactly go hand in hand. That, essentially, I have to teach our youth how to have an opinion and to think for themselves without instilling on them what those opinions should be...A.K.A. the RIGHT way to think.

And it's hard. It's extremely hard. You don't realize how different the way you feel about things is from the person next door...the parents of your best friends...even the mail guy has opinions about stuff and if you're not careful you could find yourself elbows deep in your Capital One Bills and Pizza Coupons, telling him that NO, it's not in your opinion that only the elderly and mentally ill should receive benefits at a decent price to get that heart transplant they need so desperately.

It also worries me though, that my own opinions were not built by myself, but maybe my own parents, just like everyone else's ideals were. They can't help it. They're parents. It's one of the few perks about the job, besides having a warm basement to live in when you get older...pushing your political opinions and ideals on your children is a RIGHT.

And it's not just with that. My mom and I were driving in the car the other day, on our way home from the grocery store or something like that, when she told me the most fascinating story I had ever heard about her father, the grandfather I never got a chance to meet because he passed away so young.

It turns out my mother's parents were both married and had children with other spouses...aunts and uncles existing somewhere of mine that I don't know which, trust me, is something that freaks me out all together and we'll discuss that some other day. My grandfather was extremely religious....belonged to the Russian Orthodox Church with his own family and when he began having an affair with a married woman, one that he divorced his own wife for and started a new family with (hence the creation of my mother! Ta-Da! Nice work gramps) he was expelled.

That's right. Expelled from the church. Thrown out on his butt, like in old stories. Though, now that I think about it, those old stories really aren't from so long ago. And like any normal guy, he was bitter about it. He had been a faithful member for so long, for so many years! He had grown up with these people, devoted several aspects of his life to them and their rules and their expectations and just like that, with one wrong move (albeit, a kind of big one) he was disowned.

Understandably, my mother explained, my grandfather had a huge problem with organized religion from that point on and while his own children took themselves to church and had their first communions all on their own, he simply refused to be part of any of it. Sure, he supported them and still believed in the possibility of God himself. It was just that he had come to realize that perhaps, if there is a God, he's the only one who can really determine who should be punished and who shouldn't. And if he ended up happily married to that same woman for several years, with four additional children and a passion for each of them that really can't be contained to a simple blog posting...what is there to punish anyway?

It was this story (that is probably a bit too heavy for the internet and for that, I'm sorry) that has founded every way my mother has raised us. That everybody is equal. That everyone deserves their own part of religion. That if there is a God, he loves us all despite the mistakes we make and that is up to us and him to decide if these are mistakes at all.

This isn't about religion, I promise and really, if you disagree with what's written above, I don't blame you. You were raised differently. Your parents had different ideals. You don't believe in God or you hate organized religion because of those stupid songs or you're such a devout Catholic, reading this blog is your biggest sin of the week. And that's ok.

It's just helped me to see...and maybe to wonder as well...what opinions are my own? What things will I give my own children...what stories from my own life shape my personal politics and the rights and wrongs of how I see the world? How much of who I am today is because of a decision my grandfather made that pissed off the Russian Catholics sixty years ago? And how much of it is me?

And how much will I give to others?
Perhaps I haven't Mastered anything at all.

Perhaps I've just begun the true process of learning.

Master Patty Griffin

I'm currently plowing through my many, many, MANY assignments left before I am officially a Master of my Craft.

My craft being education, duh. Not simply being awesome. I mastered that long ago, doctored it, taught it to others and have several texts published on it found only at Ashinpitt's BlogSpot. But you already knew that.

No, what you didn't know, or maybe you did, is that I am mere weeks away from receiving my Masters degree from school in Secondary Education. That's right. A MASTERS. Only professionals in really nice offices have those. Only those dudes with the glasses and sweater vests and chicks with terrible haircuts have MASTERS degrees. And while I haven't informed my family yet that for at least two weeks I will insist upon them referring to me as Master Ashley around the house and on the telephone, I am practicing my regal bow and list of demands. Yogurt with no fruit on the bottom being a top priority. That shit is just gross.

Blah blah blah, I am avoiding the fact that the only thing that keeps my coffee high to a calm and constant work buzz is my complete collection of Patty Griffin looping on iTunes. She's calming. She's old and wise and needs to do something with that hair, but really, that's her deal. I don't have to look at the hair while her very talented bass player lulls me into the work zone.

And sure, there are certain songs of hers that can cause me to have complete meltdowns in the car on the way home from work, but that same song can later give me the strength to scream "MASTERS MASTERS MASTERS" over and over again at the top of my lungs as an exercise in futility to get this work done.

The finish line is so close, I can almost taste it. Then you'll all be sorry. And if you think I'm above getting a crown made and marching around my house with that little piece of paper for an entire day while eating chocolate eclairs that I insist someone feeds to me bite by bite, well then you would be wrong.

MASTERS!

A Friendly Visit Of Sorts

This week I've been visiting with some dear friends in Kalamazoo while I get some much needed stuff done (shush up, I'm very busy and important). It's important I remain vague with details because I want to seem more intriguing and mysterious to you. Just know that all day today, and for several days to follow, I'm all over the place being busy. And important. And I'm putting on real pants several days in a row.

SHOCK AND AWE.

While I'm here I've been staying with the family I used to live with. They're fun and crazy, just like myself, which makes us a great fit. They have three daughters who are all old enough to carry on a decent conversation but just young enough that they're not obscenely boring and self centered yet. You know how that happens for chicks right around sixteen. It's all about the right pants and cell phones then. Right now, they're still cute and naive. Also, much like myself.

I offered to take them out last night for dinner and a movie for some serious girl gossip. I mean, it had been months since I had heard about the 10 year old's dramatic relationship with Justin who's also in her class at school. And I won't even go into how much of a YOU-KNOW-WHAT this girl in Madison's ELA class is with her low cut shirts and flirtacious behavior. If you spent one evening with these kids you would think that they were all for lynching to come back in style, but only if it applied to the threatening and cute girls in their schools who are after the same men they also are.

I'm sorry, did I say men? I meant pre-pubescent boys with boogers and dirty hands. However, when you're 10 1/2, you can't exactly be picky. Unless you go to the same school Justin Bieber does.

So we go to Chili's where they completely ignore their mother's pleas before we left the house of "can you please just get something mildly healthy so you don't die tomorrow on the soccer field?" and ate more chips and salsa than their little bodies could handle. They then proceeded to say the most bizarre shit that I have ever heard come out of their mouths.

It was then that I realized the only naive one was me. These were not the same girls that I had left! They had BECOME the kids obsessed with cell phones and the correct pants. Even the little one was all "You should have SEEN what she was wearing Ashley...I wouldn't be caught dead in it. Can I have another root beer?" while my gaping jaw just hit the table, trying to keep up with the flow of conversation.

They had been corrupted by middle school. My precious, sweet girls who two months ago didn't know what half of the things in the world really were when they were mentioned on TV.
Here's an example of what I mean. The hostess asked us how many and our smoking preference when we first came in and, of course, I said non-smoking please. The ten year old turns to me and puts her hands on her hips, big sarcastic smirk on her face as she says to me "Yeah, Ash, didn't you know? I started smoking Pot!"

FIRST OF ALL: WHAT? How do you even know what Pot is? And secondly, THAT'S NOT WHAT SHE MEANT WHEN SHE ASKED SMOKING OR NON. Please don't ever assume you can pull out a blunt at your local Applebee's because, trust me, you can't. Settle for the brownie sundae and wait until you get home.

After the longest dinner I've probably ever been through and a book store (lots of vampire/teen fiction...like, a lot more than I'd ever be willing to dig my way through and I am ALL ABOUT the teen fiction. And sex! Holy cow are teens in books having a lot of sex. A lot more than I am, anyway) we finally make it to How To Train Your Dragon where the 8 year old gets motion sickness from the 3-D and we end up spending the majority of the movie in the aisle way just outside our theater with a glass of water, not enjoying my lemon heads at all.

It was a rough evening all together. I couldn't really even explain to their parents when we came back just what I had endured, but tried to explain as politely as I could that, TRUST ME, how much broccoli I got them to eat with their dinner isn't the problem here. Not. At. All.

Becoming a teenager is treacherous. For everyone.

Mocking Other People's Children

How disgusting is it that I woke up this morning and thought to myself, if just FOR AN INSTANT, "God I wish I was Suri Cruise?"

Granted, there are plenty of other equally awful people to wish to be. I've seen my sister wish upon a star that she was the lead singer of Greenday and I was all "What? With the hair and the makeup? That would be AWFUL!"
And at least once, in my own terribly naive youth, I wished to be the serious girlfriend of one dream boat, Taylor Hanson. Can you imagine if such wishes had come true? I'd currently be the mother of a billion children, still on tour with Hanson.

HANSON. MMMBOP. DOP DOP BY DOOOWOP. SHOOBEEDOPBYDOOWOP. DOP.BY.DOO.

And sure, there's a portion of me that is very happy God didn't let that little wonder of a wish actually occur.
There does come a point though, I think with everyone, where you look at someone out there in the world who has no issues. Who literally seems to be walking around basking in the glory of fame and fortune with no actual work and know...you just KNOW they will be set for life, as long as they don't fall into the hands of hard narcotics or a gender identification issue.

Like Suri Cruise. Whom I just saw on the cover of some awful magazine eating a cupcake and wearing a tutu and a great pair of heels. And I was so overcome with "Why must I work so hard for so little, when she does so little for so much in return?"

And yes, perhaps it is a little insane and pathetic of me to be jealous of the life of a 4 year old who just had a princess birthday party and who's father is, certifiably if not officially identified as, crazy. There does come a point, with each of us I believe, where we want to say that enough is enough. I'm done working hard with no pay off.

I wish I was Suri Cruise.

And then, because we know these dreams are just impossible dreams, we sit back and make fun of what a boy Shiloh Jolie-Pitt has become most recently and how we're thankful we'll never have to deal with her load of crap. Seriously, brothers and sisters from the four corners of the world, but no one will get the kid a decent skirt and haircut?

POOR POOR SHILOH JOLIE-PITT.

I'm-A-Bite-Chu

This morning I watched my mother wrestle our dog, Bailey, around the living room for a good twenty minutes over a Caffeine Free Diet Coke can she found on the front lawn until the dog was just so plain fed up over the struggle that she growled threateningly at my mother from beneath the coffee table, causing her to scream out in frustration and put the dog directly into her kennel, Coke can and all. I think she even said something like "Tell your internal organs to enjoy that tasty shredded metal treat YOU EVIL GOAT" and then spent the next half an hour furiously vacuuming the kitchen.

My mother vacuums when frustrated. Well, that and drinks but we won't really go there.

This is not the first time one of our dogs has threatened to bite us over something menial either. Barney will growl at you if you scratch his tender spot on the side of his belly too hard. Don't you dare try and go under the coffee table into their 'secret lair' of destroyed Kong Wubba toys and rawhide because you'll come out missing fingers. In fact, don't even approach the coffee table too quickly or tell them that the Shamwow is, in fact, NOT theirs because they get possessive of such things.

So while all of this madness is going on at my house, I go to work last week with the best possible outlook you can have when dealing with ten one year olds on a daily basis. It looks something like "Poop! Let's hear it for more poop! Creamed peas on my pants! HOOORRRAAAYYY! I LOVE UNNECESSARY SCREAMING AND CRYING!!!"

And just as I'm beginning to think that my job is really hysterical (I just watched a little boy run into a cabinet door while chasing a bubble!) I go to solve a fight between two little ones and a board book and one of them BITES ME.

On the arm. With his teeth. And saliva.

And just like that I've realized we're not actually the civilized people on two legs that we all think we are. We're no better than cavemen or laboradors. We're safe nowhere. At your place of employment or in your own living room. Biting is back and in full force and I've decided, screw it. If you can't beat them (especially if you're me) you must join them. I'm going to start biting people as well.

Which means I'll be calling you in about six days to bail me out of prison and stand with me during my temporary insanity trial because I bit the guy at 7-11 over the last cup of blueberry coffee. I won't go down without a fight!

Miss Popular

I got a new follower on Twitter this week. THAT ISN'T A COMPUTER GENERATED SEX-BOT.

Do you know how happy it makes me to generate followers on Twitter?
It's like making a new friend. It's like a small pat on the back that someone out there thinks you're kind of cool. AND THEY'RE REALLY ALIVE.

And sometimes these followers are super neat-o musicians hoping to catch a break in the ridiculous industry known as Show Biz. Seriously...why we're still allowing Ke$ha to wander around without a real name and literally singing the words "blah blah blah" on the radio is beyond me.
BEYOND ME.
But this kid...this sultry boy from London named Colin Macleoud is so adorably charismatic through song that I almost couldn't be distracted by the background expanse and beautiful beach he's walking across.

Almost, though. He's on some place called Isle of Lewis in the UK and it is officially on my list of places to visit right after I figure out where that foot lake is in Asia. You know. Before it completely disappears.


The EP is called The Boy Who Trapped The Sun and when I sent him a friendly message via Twitter(of course) to say how great I thought he was doing, he sent me a direct message back thanking me. Just like Rosi Golan did here! And I'm pretty sure this solidifies my celebrity status on Twitter. I'm basically just waiting from someone from the company to call me to confirm it is THE REAL Ashley Earp so they can put that fancy little "Verified Profile" check mark on it that all the celebrities have.
That's right, a2earp's 38 followers. You're in the presence of a legend.

Only Mildly Refreshing

I don't know about the rest of you but I essentially live out of my car on a weekly basis. Late Friday afternoons I unload from it all kinds of useless crap that I can't even believe is part of my weekly list of necessities....

Cans of Spaghettios. Spare pants. Exercise bras. Homework books. Camera charger. Phone charger that will never actually leave my car and therefore my phone will be near death ALL WEEK LONG. Jet's Pizza Bags. Cat hair from the clothes I'm currently wearing. Magazines I've just received in the mail. Half empty bottles of Diet Coke. The list goes on and on and if you think the show Hoarders is bad there should be a car version because, seriously...peoples cars are nasty. Mine is no exception.

What's even worse, though, is that I will use these items over and over again from Monday to Friday in an attempt to just make it from one place to the next. Is there still some peanut butter residue on that granola bar wrapper? Who NEEDS lunch when you have that? Can I brush my hair with these four pencils I found under my seat next to a discarded cd case that has been smashed to smithereens? Why, yes. If I've learned anything from Obama it is at least YES. YES WE CAN.

The one thing, however, that I cannot stand happened to me just last Tuesday. I was late leaving work because they hate me there and will suck the life out of you at every chance they get and so I was pulling a rather impressive, albeit rather dangerous quick-change in the car before exercise class on Rochester Road. After the great "Sports bra is near the temperature of melting from being in car all day" fiasco I found my water bottle from that morning still sitting in my cup holder and without even thinking, took a giant swig.

It as like drinking molten ass in liquid form. I don't even know what I was thinking. I mean, maybe it was just my basic human instincts kicking in. Water. MMMM. You know, the same way you get when you see Patrick Dempsey on TV every Wednesday. Man Meat. MMMMMMMM. Am I not an animal too??!!

The wretching that ensued...the God-Awful Prissiness of the situation as I hacked and hemmed and hawed and cried like a tiny baby without it's mama is almost too shameful to mention.

HOWEVER. HOWEVER HOWEVER HOWEVER HOWEVER HOWEVER.

I must mention it. Because in one of the earlier mentioned magazines, National Geographic to be more specific (it's more than just pictures of naked people!) they did an entire edition on clean water. How everyone needs it. How we're running out. How we all need to pitch in.

And here I go, getting all Nancy Reagan on you ("Eat your green beans! Don't have sex! Drugs=Yucky!") but in that edition I got to read the step by step process of water purification in Nigeria.

Are you ready for this? Taking old water bottles and filling them with water that is laden with bacteria...cloudy from WHO KNOWS WHAT and laying it on sheets of metal in the sun for up to six hours. It's called the SODIS Water Purification System (that's right...it's real...like Brita, but not as advanced??Oh and yes, their site is written in Swedish or something) and it has helped their students grow from a 10% graduation rate in the sixth grade due to diseases they contracted in water to over 95% passing.

And while I don't want to freak you out, that is essentially what my water went through last Tuesday during my horrified princess bit in the car.

Warm water! Ew! How can I be happy it's purified when it's too hot to drink?!
I'm not saying go out and buy six gallons of water for a child in Kenya today. I'm not saying that I'm a world water activist who is suddenly jumping from one plight in need to the next (although, it would appear that way according to this blog). I'm just saying that world water is a serious problem, regardless of how easily it comes out of our taps.
And that this amazing lake that looks like a foot in Asia, as well as the snows of Mount Kilimanjaro, are slowly disappearing and we're all blisfully unaware as we throw away one half full bottle of water after another.


Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to time myself in the shower and to read more on that whole "Golden Water From the IceCaps" thing Paris Hilton was involved in last year. I'm not saying these things will fix the world. I'm just hoping to become smarter about it overall.

Do I Have The Heart To Go And Try It Again?

I'm currently in bed with my cat (God, Ash. WHAT ELSE IS NEW?) as we fight over my pillow and pad of paper. She seems to think that To-Do List materials are for her reclining pleasure and I'm pretty sure if she flops down on my highlighter one more time and acts like she doesn't know where it is as I tear my bed apart frantically looking for it....because HELLO I can't move on in life if I don't get to cross this one thing off the list immediately....I'm going to wreck her with said unshared pillow.

Did you ever notice how the process of making a To-Do List is essentially a reason to procrastinate even longer on things you actually have to get done? You get your cute pen and matching Hello Kitty stationary out and you think of everything...EVERYTHING you could possibly need to get done for over ten minutes that you could spend actually doing really productive tasks.

"Recap old markers.....God, that has been bothering me for a while....OH and I need to call So-And-So about that thing that I need her to do in July of next year...what else, what else? OH...that's right...come up with shelter plan for post-apocalyptic attack...." and so on and so forth until my To-Do list looks like a receipt from whenever I go to Target and I'm still in my sweatpants with nothing actually done.


This is my long and terribly drawn out way of saying that I am listening to The Rifles at top Laptop Speaker Performance and occasionally pushing my cat off my side of the bed, avoiding all responsibility for today.

And you can too. I give you permission.

Karma Inducing Love

I realized the other day that while I endorse a lot of different things (great clothing, weird music, random boys walking to Miami) I never really do any follow up postings. That's actually very irresponsible of me. Of COURSE you want to know if I actually cried myself to sleep the night after I wore Black and White dress seen here. Of COURSE you want to know if the Easter Bunny will ever reappear in our psychotic household seen here and if Santa Claus is, just maybe, as hostile if not more so as E.B. can be.

I should get a slap on the hand for such ignorance. My readers have needs and I must meet them!

For some updates and perhaps a helpful reminder that love is always welcome, Jordan Dibb has made it all the way to Wisconsin so far with over six thousand people following his journey. You can too, here.

And if you feel like you need to do a little more recently for humanity than contributing a quarter in your local 7-11 for the missing children in exchange for a piece of candy, the Michigan Darfur Coalition raises $10,000 annually for the cause. And considering that Sudan's elections are next week and Omar Al-Bashir or some slime-ball predecessor will be elected because he runs a monopoly on the entire country, any and all contributions would be welcome. Action Against Hunger, as well as nine other major food and health contributors for people in need around the world, have had limited access to the country's regions in need for the last several months due to Al-Bashir's dictatorship.

And while I'm not typically political and all "Activist Ashley" I am a firm believer and advocate for a new game America should consider coming out with.

It's called "Whack-a-Dirty-Worldly-Politican" and resembles something like that gopher game with the mallets you can play at Chuck E. Cheez. Scott recommends I play it with the children I work with but I think this might be putting our talents to better use.

Be better. Love more. Help where you can.
And thank you for reading.