Footloose + Fancy

I have been lucky enough to have had some amazing teachers influence my understanding of the world: my English teacher senior year of high school, Mr. Krill. My Scottish grandmother, manners coach and fireside companion, Kathleen Bennie. My Post Modernism professor/ Vermont state senator, Phillip Baruth. But the teacher that stands out in my mind as someone who taught me how to appreciate education as it applies to life and living and joie de vivre, was Marybeth Browne. Initially she was my fifth grade teacher and later, my sixth grade teacher—a transition my fellow classmates and I attributed to our charming influence and addictive personalities. We assumed she wanted to teach us so much more that she couldn’t bear to let us go on to another teacher, another year, another set of readings lists. And despite our arrogant pre-teen temperaments, we knew that we were relieved, elated to have her for another year. We, a small group of wry, outspoken and welcoming Mainers, loved her. Memory is such a strange thing, the way it operates. I am willing myself to think of classroom lectures or projects we may have worked on, books we may have read—but instead I just remember small, little details about my time with Marybeth. I remember what her hands looked like: long, elegant fingers that were always cold and sometimes coated in chalk dust from writing on the board. I remember the long straw on her water bottle and how much water she drank on a daily basis. I remember the layout of each classroom, I can see her talking in my mind and I can see myself listening, smitten. I remember she treated each and every one of her students as if they were important people, people who had something to say, people who had emotions that were just as real as someone 10 years our senior. And, I remember her laugh. She seemed as if she was always laughing or smiling or happy about something. Throughout the two years that our circle of classmates spent with her, she got engaged, she became pregnant and she talked often about her cat Scout. One of her milestones was announced via a hangman game, but I can’t recall which one. I realize now, that I can’t remember if a certain spelling test or math problem changed the way I thought about education. What I do remember is how I felt about learning, how much more I wanted to know when I was in her classroom, how much I could appreciate in her presence. “Joie de vivre” doesn’t quite cut it for Marybeth. It was more like an intense passion for everything, seeping out through her eyes and ears and mouth and voice. Having kept in touch with a few classmates from this inner circle, I know they too, feel the same way about her: she came into our lives for brief, fleeting moment, but changed them forever.

I have been lucky enough to have had some amazing teachers influence my understanding of the world: my English teacher senior year of high school, Mr. Krill. My Scottish grandmother, manners coach and fireside companion, Kathleen Bennie. My Post Modernism professor/ Vermont state senator, Phillip Baruth. But the teacher that stands out in my mind as someone who taught me how to appreciate education as it applies to life and living and joie de vivre, was Marybeth Browne.

Initially she was my fifth grade teacher and later, my sixth grade teacher—a transition my fellow classmates and I attributed to our charming influence and addictive personalities. We assumed she wanted to teach us so much more that she couldn’t bear to let us go on to another teacher, another year, another set of readings lists. And despite our arrogant pre-teen temperaments, we knew that we were relieved, elated to have her for another year. We, a small group of wry, outspoken and welcoming Mainers, loved her.

Memory is such a strange thing, the way it operates. I am willing myself to think of classroom lectures or projects we may have worked on, books we may have read—but instead I just remember small, little details about my time with Marybeth. I remember what her hands looked like: long, elegant fingers that were always cold and sometimes coated in chalk dust from writing on the board. I remember the long straw on her water bottle and how much water she drank on a daily basis. I remember the layout of each classroom, I can see her talking in my mind and I can see myself listening, smitten. I remember she treated each and every one of her students as if they were important people, people who had something to say, people who had emotions that were just as real as someone 10 years our senior. And, I remember her laugh. She seemed as if she was always laughing or smiling or happy about something.

Throughout the two years that our circle of classmates spent with her, she got engaged, she became pregnant and she talked often about her cat Scout. One of her milestones was announced via a hangman game, but I can’t recall which one.

I realize now, that I can’t remember if a certain spelling test or math problem changed the way I thought about education. What I do remember is how I felt about learning, how much more I wanted to know when I was in her classroom, how much I could appreciate in her presence. “Joie de vivre” doesn’t quite cut it for Marybeth. It was more like an intense passion for everything, seeping out through her eyes and ears and mouth and voice. Having kept in touch with a few classmates from this inner circle, I know they too, feel the same way about her: she came into our lives for brief, fleeting moment, but changed them forever.

Today is my very first birthday—well, my blog’s very first birthday. Though this isn’t exactly a momentous occasion or one that even requires a cake (but you can bet I will get one later), I’m excited that I’ve been blogging for 365 days and that people stuck it out with me and continued reading even when the writing got shitty and the cake jokes became rampant (see above). It’s exciting in a way. Looking back on my notes and posts and pictures, there are some that are slightly cringe-worthy. But, I guess writing is an evolving process and we’re all bound to make mistakes along the way. I think it’s alright as long as I resolve to try harder in the future and brush up on my grammar and stop talking about gin and cake, because it seems like I’m either hugely fat and drunk all the time or have little to write about. Browsing through my posts from the past year, a few stuck out. Some are good, most are bad and some are just senior-yearbook-picture-ugly. Let’s start with the terrible and then end on a good note: This little post is so disorganized and there are waaaaay too many commas and I say “y’all” and it’s so embarrassing, but it’s my (blog’s) birthday so I can cry over my bad writing if I want to! This post is terrible. And the outcome is even worse. This post may be a bit on the rambling-side of things, but I enjoy it because it’s true and makes me smile and also makes me loathe those people all over again. I love this post just because I still love this feeling and think about these little moments from my childhood and was daydreaming about this very thing this very morning. And this, people, is just good advice. Here’s to another 365 days and better writing.

Today is my very first birthday—well, my blog’s very first birthday. Though this isn’t exactly a momentous occasion or one that even requires a cake (but you can bet I will get one later), I’m excited that I’ve been blogging for 365 days and that people stuck it out with me and continued reading even when the writing got shitty and the cake jokes became rampant (see above). It’s exciting in a way.

Looking back on my notes and posts and pictures, there are some that are slightly cringe-worthy. But, I guess writing is an evolving process and we’re all bound to make mistakes along the way. I think it’s alright as long as I resolve to try harder in the future and brush up on my grammar and stop talking about gin and cake, because it seems like I’m either hugely fat and drunk all the time or have little to write about.

Browsing through my posts from the past year, a few stuck out. Some are good, most are bad and some are just senior-yearbook-picture-ugly. Let’s start with the terrible and then end on a good note:

This little post is so disorganized and there are waaaaay too many commas and I say “y’all” and it’s so embarrassing, but it’s my (blog’s) birthday so I can cry over my bad writing if I want to!

This post is terrible. And the outcome is even worse.

This post may be a bit on the rambling-side of things, but I enjoy it because it’s true and makes me smile and also makes me loathe those people all over again.

I love this post just because I still love this feeling and think about these little moments from my childhood and was daydreaming about this very thing this very morning.

And this, people, is just good advice.

Here’s to another 365 days and better writing.

You could do a few things this weekend:

1. Paint a picture of some cacti.

2. Watch the rain fall.

3. Sip on a drink, seductively.

4. Host a dinner party for two, in your cool green house (alternative: in your home, duh.)

5. Hang out with like-minded people.

6. Explore the great outdoors on two wheels.

Whatever it is, have a good one.

Recently I’ve been obsessed with finding prints to adorn the walls of my apartment. So far, I’m smitten with funny and vibrant illustrations. Delicate strokes of pen on paper, paint and pencil, humorous subjects and bold colors draw me in and keep me smiling every time I look in their direction.

Above are just a few illustrations that make my insides hum and my brain start ticking.

The Larice Barbosa (“You’re not leaving me) makes me think of the movie Dirty Dancing, and people getting low and wild on the dance floor. It’s entirely possible that this isn’t the direction the piece was going for, but I rented that movie more times than any 12 year old should and this is the end (creepy) result.

The Ruby Taylor illustration, people grooving, makes me want to get out of my office chair and dance (sensing a theme?). I’m really digging the clothes and accessorizing these stylish dance fiends have going on, as well as their polished dance moves. This seems like the perfect print for summer/a dance-challeneged individual (me).

Ping Zhu is amazing. The color choices alone in this jump-roping illustration make me sigh with meaning. There is something so, YOU KNOW about this piece that reminds of camp, and ice cream and my first crush and orange crush soda. And it reminds me that I don’t like to wear colored tights because they make my legs look lumpy. But not this lady, her legs look great.

“Forks and Spoons” by Lauren Nassef is a favorite because I really like eating dessert and just eating in general and I’m also very concerned about being polite, so I always use forks and spoons. They are essential, and here, they look lovely as ever.

Finally, Caitlin Shearer makes me long for one of my favorite swimming holes, Honey Hollow in Vermont. It sounds like the place Pooh Bear grew up, but it isn’t. Trust me. Last summer I bought a very risqué bathing suit, like this lovely lady above and had to make sure I was appropriately covered every time I emerged from the water. Oh summer.

Find more here:

Larice

Ruby Taylor

Ping

Lauren Nassef

Caitlin Shearer

When I was younger, I thought I was going to grow up to be a movie star. Though nothing is impossible, I am forever grateful that that dream took a backseat to my other ambitions and passions. At 12 years old, I was a diva and delusional about my skills. Sure, in 6th grade, I was a kick-ass Maria in The Sound of Music. But when the show came to a local community theater, I was downgraded to a lowly nun/party guest. It was a tragedy. When I got the call from the director about the part they were offering me, I cried loudly and smashed the phone into the floor. Needless to say, everyone saw this as an eye-opening moment: my talents just weren’t up to snuff and acting wasn’t something I should devote my life to (and, for that matter, neither was fielding bad news calls with a calm demeanor).

These days I am much more appreciative of other people’s talents and am willing to embrace the fact that I wasn’t cut out for the spotlight. In fact, in my rejection, I found I had other talents, like gurgling salt water and making babies laugh. That’s fine by me. And just because I failed in the theater doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate it and don’t enjoy attending performances. I do. In fact, this summer in the city, I’m looking forward to attending Shakespeare in the Park (if I can get tickets by selling my soul to the Devil/waiting in line for 4 hours instead of working) and a few other Brooklyn events I’ve heard rumors about. The other day, a friend was telling me about a performance series where people are naked and covered in paint and roll around on broken eggs shells, shrieking in pain. Sounds like fun to me!

Here is to our dreams being crushed and finding something better to do with our wasted lives (i.e. watch Mad Men and drink a bottle of Bordeaux a night).

 

When I was a kid, the sign that summer had arrived was obvious: school ended, classes were over, and duffel bags were packed for camp. Thinking back to those glorious days of my childhood, late June in Maine, I feel slightly nostalgic for a world of warm weather and relaxation that I can’t possibly be a part of now. Most of my adolescent summers were spent filtering through various camps of some kind: three weeks at a Christian camp in the woods, two more weeks a basketball camp in the Bowdoin College gym, one at an art camp where we learned to create giraffes out of felt. And so on.

Sometimes I wish there was a summer camp for adults and then I realize that that would take away the magic, the fun, and the innocence of the experience. Instead of unlimited juice and mac n’ cheese dinners, adults would require a daily Happy Hour, an internet connection in order to watch some TV shows and chicken liver pate. Or at least I would.

Since I can remember, I’ve saved my New Year’s Resolutions for summer. Right before the start of every season, I used to lay in bed and day dream about the magnificence that awaited me. This would be the summer I would impress John Mayer with my wit and charm. This would the summer I would learn to surf in the Maine Ocean. This would be the summer I would be discovered by a Broadway agent and sent to sing with the stars. Needless to say, I had high if not completely delusional expectations.

This summer, I plan to be a little less lofty in my dreams and drink a little more gin. Here’s what I have in mind:

a. Read more books, more often and talk about them. Reading my own autobiography “Why Can’t I Stop Eating Cake?” doesn’t count.

b. Get serious about interior design in my own home. No more pictures of French bulldog puppies on the wall. Cute is SO last season.

c. Take a dip in the ocean, the sea, a pool every week. And a pool of my own tears is out of the question.

d. Learn to make music with my hands. Hello Youtube household object musical tutorials (say that 10 times fast).

e. Explore the great outdoors, without complaining about how hungry I am/tired I am.

f. Host a dinner party that doesn’t end in shame (eating frosting from a can while crying about the fact that I can’t afford a design couch).

g. Eat healthy food like kale, vegetables, cheese, fondue, chocolate and ice cream.

h. Do something that scares me every week, like sleeping with all of the lights off in the apartment or drinking whisky or eating sashimi.

i. Learn a language, or learn more about flowers, or learn how to balance a checkbook.  

So there you have it. Nothing crazy. Nothing out of reach. I’ll keep my “DREAMZ” list to myself, thank you very much.

Dave and Maggie. A portrait.

(Credit: David Lindsay: http://dav-eed-lihn-sahy.tumblr.com/)

You could do a few things this weekend:

1. Bring some flowers to a friend, or if you’re considerate, YOUR MOTHER. (It’s mother’s day, but hopefully you know that unless you’re motherless). :(

2. Decorate your lawn.

3. Contemplate your options and calculate risks.

4. Get a little tipsy at brunch (hopefully with inlaws!)

5. Fuel your workouts with thoughts of sweet treats you can consume.

6. Get lost. No, seriously, GET LOST.

When I was seven years old, my father took me on a road trip that lasted for seven weeks. The idea was simple: we would fly-fish around the United States. We packed our things, our fly-fishing rods, a tent, some books and journals and our old dog, Amos. Atop of the car, sat our green L.L. Bean canoe. We planned to drive our way across the country, learning about poetry, the great outdoors and to see how long a seven year old can go without her Barbie dolls. The funny thing is, I don’t remember the trip that well—at least, not all of it. Instead, I can recall strange little blips, little moments that stick out in my mind like a sore thumb. I remember eating ice cream at Niagara Falls and sharing licks with Amos. I remember the smell of the campfire, my clothes drying after a dip in the water, the feel of the canoe and the baked beans with hotdogs my Dad sometimes made for dinner. I remember visiting the home of a relative of Jesse James and how she made me try on her vintage dresses and they all smelled like mothballs. I remember riding horses, galloping through open fields filled with daisies and bobbing for apples. But, I can’t recall interesting conversations, or big moments or things that acted as a turning point in the trip for both my father and me. I wonder why that is. Why do I remember what the grilled cheese tasted like at a diner but not how Mt. Rushmore looked, glimmering in the sun? Since college, or when I took a fabulous film theory class, I’ve been obsessed with the concept of memory and what we choose to remember. Why do some things make such an impression and others do not? When I’m home visiting family, I tend to watch home videos. I’ve done this so many times in my life, I can recite lines from them. Later, after I’m done watching them, I try to force myself to remember the moments captured on film. At times, I think I’ve done it—but then, after careful contemplation it seems that I’m only remembering the video and not the moment itself. Maybe, Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) should create a “service” that allows you to access your memories like a film reel, where you can pull up a memory of your grandmother on her wedding day, or a family vacation to a desert island. This way, you never lose them. A random musing, yes. But interesting, I think. Memories have been on my mind recently, since I stumbled upon some old photos from our trip across the country. Beautiful photo by the talented Trevor Triano. See more of his work: here.

When I was seven years old, my father took me on a road trip that lasted for seven weeks. The idea was simple: we would fly-fish around the United States. We packed our things, our fly-fishing rods, a tent, some books and journals and our old dog, Amos. Atop of the car, sat our green L.L. Bean canoe. We planned to drive our way across the country, learning about poetry, the great outdoors and to see how long a seven year old can go without her Barbie dolls.

The funny thing is, I don’t remember the trip that well—at least, not all of it. Instead, I can recall strange little blips, little moments that stick out in my mind like a sore thumb. I remember eating ice cream at Niagara Falls and sharing licks with Amos. I remember the smell of the campfire, my clothes drying after a dip in the water, the feel of the canoe and the baked beans with hotdogs my Dad sometimes made for dinner. I remember visiting the home of a relative of Jesse James and how she made me try on her vintage dresses and they all smelled like mothballs. I remember riding horses, galloping through open fields filled with daisies and bobbing for apples.

But, I can’t recall interesting conversations, or big moments or things that acted as a turning point in the trip for both my father and me. I wonder why that is. Why do I remember what the grilled cheese tasted like at a diner but not how Mt. Rushmore looked, glimmering in the sun?

Since college, or when I took a fabulous film theory class, I’ve been obsessed with the concept of memory and what we choose to remember. Why do some things make such an impression and others do not? When I’m home visiting family, I tend to watch home videos. I’ve done this so many times in my life, I can recite lines from them.

Later, after I’m done watching them, I try to force myself to remember the moments captured on film. At times, I think I’ve done it—but then, after careful contemplation it seems that I’m only remembering the video and not the moment itself. Maybe, Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind) should create a “service” that allows you to access your memories like a film reel, where you can pull up a memory of your grandmother on her wedding day, or a family vacation to a desert island. This way, you never lose them.

A random musing, yes. But interesting, I think. Memories have been on my mind recently, since I stumbled upon some old photos from our trip across the country.

Beautiful photo by the talented Trevor Triano. See more of his work: here.

Two summers ago, I was an intern in a wine cellar in Vermont. I rode my bike from my apartment to the farm where the cellar was located; about a 6 mile ride in each direction. Pedaling up steep hills and careening around winding roads and passing by dusty farmhouses, I used to get so hot and sweaty and sticky. I looked forward to learning about grüner veltliner or the maceration process in a chilly and dimly lit cellar—a place I could rest and cool off. But frequently my delight at the colder cellar temperatures diminished quickly as the trickles of sweat dried on my arms and I began to shiver and get hungry. The summer weeks I spent shelving wine, tasting it and learning about varietals were some of the best memories I have—that period of my life (a recent college graduate, in a new relationship and amidst the Vermont heat and mountains) wasn’t constricted by time or an intense pressure of need/want. Instead, it was a time I spent going to dinner parties thrown by friends, writing love letters and taking bottles of wine to the movies. It was also the summer that I learned to love the olive. Before I interned at Shelburne Farms, I hated olives. I asked that they be removed from my salads and entrees. I shuddered at their presence on my plate. But, on a swelteringly hot day at the farm, one where I was doing more manual labor than learning, my boss offered me a Castelvetrano olive to tide over my hunger until dinner. Briny and crisp, I waited for my gag reflex to kick in as I chewed. And then I waited some more. Nothing. In fact, at that moment, these olives were the most delicious thing that I’d ever tasted. I ate 10 more and went back to work, savoring their salty taste for the rest of the day. Two years later, I order olives by the bowlful. I add them to my salads and my entrees. I eat them for snacks and for dinner. It’s funny to think that at one point in time I hated them, despised them—and all it took to sway my mind, to alter my taste buds was a hot day, a cold cellar and a hungry belly.

Two summers ago, I was an intern in a wine cellar in Vermont. I rode my bike from my apartment to the farm where the cellar was located; about a 6 mile ride in each direction. Pedaling up steep hills and careening around winding roads and passing by dusty farmhouses, I used to get so hot and sweaty and sticky. I looked forward to learning about grüner veltliner or the maceration process in a chilly and dimly lit cellar—a place I could rest and cool off. But frequently my delight at the colder cellar temperatures diminished quickly as the trickles of sweat dried on my arms and I began to shiver and get hungry.

The summer weeks I spent shelving wine, tasting it and learning about varietals were some of the best memories I have—that period of my life (a recent college graduate, in a new relationship and amidst the Vermont heat and mountains) wasn’t constricted by time or an intense pressure of need/want. Instead, it was a time I spent going to dinner parties thrown by friends, writing love letters and taking bottles of wine to the movies. It was also the summer that I learned to love the olive.

Before I interned at Shelburne Farms, I hated olives. I asked that they be removed from my salads and entrees. I shuddered at their presence on my plate. But, on a swelteringly hot day at the farm, one where I was doing more manual labor than learning, my boss offered me a Castelvetrano olive to tide over my hunger until dinner. Briny and crisp, I waited for my gag reflex to kick in as I chewed. And then I waited some more. Nothing. In fact, at that moment, these olives were the most delicious thing that I’d ever tasted. I ate 10 more and went back to work, savoring their salty taste for the rest of the day.

Two years later, I order olives by the bowlful. I add them to my salads and my entrees. I eat them for snacks and for dinner. It’s funny to think that at one point in time I hated them, despised them—and all it took to sway my mind, to alter my taste buds was a hot day, a cold cellar and a hungry belly.