sky machines

It changes

2012-02-17T09:03:00.000-06:00

TIME MACHINE POSTs are things I wrote in France and then never published because of ~~laziness~~ something besides laziness. Here is one of them.

Every Friday I go to a literature review session for college students who apparently have nothing better to do on Friday nights. Last week when it was over and everyone was leaving, the teacher asked me where I lived and how I was getting home. When I answered that I lived by the train station and was going to take the metro she told me that was a horrible idea and she would give me a ride. I said that was very nice of her, and I put on my coat and my backpack and was ready to go.

"Woah, don't put your coat on! We're having a picnic."

I looked around, even though I already knew what I was going to see. It was 9:30 at night. There was no one else in the building. She pulled a picnic basket from underneath a table.

This is something that happens a lot in France. Someone says something very clearly, and I understand every word, but I don't UNDERSTAND. Yes, I caught that you want to have a picnic with me at 9:30 at night. I was able to grasp every word in that sentence. And yet... it's 9:30 at night. And you want to have a picnic?

Dinner was a bag of tiny chicken drumsticks that you can put in the microwave, gluten-free bread because she knew I was allergic to wheat, and a package of garlic cheese. There was a ton of chicken in the bag, but she kept telling me to eat more, until finally they were gone. Then she pulled out a second bag of tiny chicken drumsticks, barbeque flavored.

"Barbeque is a different flavor that regular," she announced in case I had never had flavored food before. "So, it changes."

"It changes" (or ça change for people who wish I didn't translate all the dialogue on my blog) is a sentence that I UNDERSTAND does not mean the same thing as it does in English, but it's impossible for me to think otherwise. In French ça change means "It's kind of different, but there you go." France is kind of different. It changes. But I like it.

I can make it on my own

2012-02-15T09:12:00.000-06:00

The other day my friend and I tried arepas at a gluten-free bakery.

Three years ago I would have eaten dirt before arepas, but dirt is really low in nutrients and I get so, so hungry. Arepas are actually great, and it's cute when they try to be a sandwich. Like a three-legged puppy just scraping along.

my job is lucky it's so fun

2012-02-13T09:17:00.000-06:00

Someone with apparently more random knowledge than I have told me that the 9-5 workday was originally designed for 8 hours of work, 8 hours of sleep, and 8 hours of free time.

My workday this year is 14 hours of work, 8 hours of sleep, 1 hour of running, and 1 hour of free time. Sky's the limit on this hour of free time though. I can eat something, call my family, do laundry, or even take a shower.

when life gives you lemons you move to the red light district

2012-02-10T10:12:00.000-06:00

One night last year after ten pm, one of my flatmates knocked on my door an invited me to come have soup with everyone.

I had just moved into a new apartment building - a former 18th-century brothel that had very recently been turned into awesome studio apartments. There were about fifteen people on my floor and only one of them loved telling jokes about bordellos. She has a blog. You're reading it. We all shared a toilet and I only walked in on someone once all year. And we each had a little kitchen in our room, but there was a communal kitchen on the floor below us, and every day someone made a dish from their home country and everyone ate dinner together before smoking cigarettes in the unlit spiral stairwell all night while the homeless men did their homeless thing just outside, leaving a fresh coat of Heineken bottles on our doorstep every morning.

Anyway the ceiling of the kitchen was really low and the room was tiny and packed and the soup that night was from Brazil. It had olives, chicken wings, and giant chunks of lemon in it. Nothing else.

After everyone had asked me if I liked Johnny Cash and told me they had a friend who lived in New York, things died down, and I looked around at us, all eating our soup. We were all from different countries, all wearing crazy clothes, all speaking horrible French with wild accents, all avoiding squirming when we bit into a chunk of lemon and we were all laughing together.

Like the cheesiest and worst tv show in the world.

But then I thought back on roommates I've had that would have made really great tv. As you read this filler sentence, imagine them. And I thought, sometimes the best television material makes the worst roommates. And I think the opposite is also true.

My thoughts while eating dinner with you.

2012-02-07T21:32:00.001-06:00

Ha! This piece of chicken looks like a fetus! I've got to show this- wait. Is that dinnertime conversation? Probably not.

In one country they do eat chicken fetuses, in eggs. Can I mention that out loud? No, I can't. That makes people really sick even when they're not eating.

Hmmm... I wonder what the weirdest thing everyone at this table has thrown up is? Those will be some interesting stories. And it doesn't involve scabs, death, periods, or feces, or vom- ah. It does involve vomit. As a pretty central theme actually. Not dinnertime conversation.

Man, butter smells the same as urine to me. I bet everyone agrees with that. Wait, urine. Not dinnertime conversation.

That girl over there looks like my friend who had an ingrown - curses, that won't work at all.

I wonder if anyone's ever died at this restaurant.

Woah, what if this sauce were blood instead of cranberry?

Farts.

Have you listened to this song?

2012-02-05T15:36:00.001-06:00

Have you listened to it yet today? This morning? Are you listening to it RIGHT THIS MINUTE?

I Don't Believe You by Magnetic Fields on Grooveshark

So am I, always.

"Tell me everything about California."

2012-02-05T15:09:00.003-06:00

The first words I heard when I answered a phone call from my sister yesterday morning.

She's never wasted time with "Hello."

I told her that it's sunny every day and that I live right by the beach and that sometimes I get free hamburgers, because I want her to know that I'm a rock star and my life is amazing.

Here's the only thing California's missing:

what does it mean, "shake it all about"?

2012-01-18T11:02:00.000-06:00

TIME MACHINE

I don't have terrible work hours in France, but every single one of those hours is spent singing childrens songs and dancing so horribly that even kids with undone flies and snot running down their faces think I'm a bit of a loser. This is fine. I have accepted the fact that, at the age of 23 I have the maturity of a 3-year-old and the coolness of a melted popsicle.

And now that I've accepted it, we've started singing the Hokey Pokey in my classes. Hokey Pokey = a HUGE hit. It's easy, it's fun, and it resulted in one of the kindergarten teachers, who is really cool and always wears super-chic clothes and has her hair all fancy, and who can probably smoke a cigarette in her sleep, coming up to me after class and asking "Eu, qu'est-ce que c'est, 'shak it allabout'?"

I'm not complaining about having the hokey pokey stuck in my head all day. Yes it's an all time low of songs I've had stuck in my head. Yes I sound like an idiot walking around town singing it under my breath. But that's fine.

The thing I'm complaining about is that halfway between the library and the beach yesterday, after I finished the line "that's what it's all about!" somewhere from the depths of my memory surfaces the bridge of that song. The part that has no dance move to go with it.

You do the ho-oh-oh-oh-key pokey! You do the ho-oh-oh-oh-key pokey!

That is not good. That is bad. And that is why, even though leaving France is going to be terrible, it is about time this is over.

what does that want to say

2012-01-16T12:33:00.000-06:00

TIME MACHINE POST
who knows when I wrote this.

I have to be super consistent with my students. If I say "shut your books" and later "close your books," no one knows what's going on. I make notecards for myself so that I always say "I need a volunteer." instead of "Who wants to help me?" or "Anyone want to volunteer?"

So students that ask for random but important translations in the middle of class freak me out.

Last week, during our lesson about liking and not liking things, a student raised his hand and asked "how do you say 'bof'?" The word has this whole shoulder shrug and scowl that goes with it, you scrunch up your face in indifference, lift your arms and hold your hands out awkwardly. Now that I've had hours to reflect on it, I guess the translation would be "meh." But can you respond to yes or no questions with "meh" like you apparently can with "bof"?

Eight-year-olds hate asking for translations of one syllable words and getting a complicated answer.

bof - I don't care
cent - a hundred
et demi - and a half (these two are worse than you would think because French doesn't have H sounds)
bonnes vacances - have a great vacation! (nevermind, I'll just say goodbye)
Suisse - Switzerland (A precious girl from Switzerland came up to me before class the other day and said "Can I be from France? I like France and since I've lived here a year, it feels like home ...also I can't say that long word.")

When I tried to get my classes to say "peanut butter and jelly sandwich" before we ate them they tried for a couple minutes and then got creative: "I think we would get more out of just eating them, than trying to pronounce it."

But they all fare better than the five-year-old who asked how to say "I have a loose tooth" and now greets me with "Hi nah soodooth!"

A for effort guys. Thanks for not teasing me because I can't perfectly pronounce the French word for yellow.

you'd better go in disguise

2012-01-10T00:25:00.000-06:00

The best party I ever threw was "teddy bear picnic" themed, the year I turned five. The whole idea was a combination of bears, the woods, and food, which I guess were all things I liked.

This only scratches the surface of the weird things I liked as a child.

The year I turned five I celebrated my birthday a month early because my family was moving to Australia, a place where, my mom informed me, I would have no friends. I knew nothing about Australia besides the fact that no one there was going to want to come to my birthday party and that it was in books. Also in books: bears eating toast and jam in the forest.

After the party when most of my friends had gone, my friend Jonathan and I stood on my porch waiting for his mom to come pick him up. It was quiet, and we were solemnly watching children playing on the swingset across the street, remembering when we were four and enjoyed activities like that.

I remember Jonathan said "Well, another year, huh?" and I said "Another year." And I felt so very, very old.

Do you feel wise beyond your years? Have you ever been to a teddy bear picnic? Or any sort of casual meal with wild animals?

you're welcome, plants I didn't buy

2012-01-04T13:31:00.000-06:00

My freshman year of college, my humanities professor recommended that we all get potted plants. It wasn't really relevant to Humanities. But if the plant is thriving, that means things are under control enough that you're watering it regularly. If it's dead, things aren't good.

Last week I went to the grocery store and bought groceries, and this morning I realized they're all still here, because I've been to busy to make myself any food all week. I think that's a good indicator of whether things are under control.

good luck and good luggage

2012-01-02T23:33:00.000-06:00

Off my flight to LA (is this relevant?) All of the checked bags got lost/late/misrouted. I'd opted for a Hartmann Tweed duffel instead of a checked bag so the checked bag problem didn't concern me, but was feeling bad for everyone else on my flight since we'd already been delayed an hour, and LAX has that screening where they look at you naked instead of going through a metal detector, but for some reason you still have to take your belt off.

As I was walking away a white male (is this relevant) asked me "Hey do you know where our bags are?"

"No, I just have a carry-on." I shrugged my shoulder with my Hartmann Tweed on it and then, because I have a curiosity that rivals that of any cat I know (I know zero because I'm allergic to cats, is this relevant?) I asked, "Is there a problem with the bags?" As soon as the word "bags" was out of my mouth I knew the Minnesoootan accent had come out too strong but I soldiered on, "Did they get sent to the wrong place?"

"Well..." he said. "Well I've had a lot to drink."

Is this relevant? He seemed to think he had answered my question. I wished him good luck.

"AND. GOOD. LUCKS. TO. YOU." he answered too loudly, with emphasis on every word.

After I finished thinking of vocabulary I can use instead of bag (luggage, suitcase, personal items) my Hartwman Tweed, my lucks and I walked toward my Los Angeles apartment where the luckiest girl in the world lives. Can I stockpile those lucks for later? Collect a few more unnessecary lucks and them go buy a lottery ticket or move to Ireland or whatever lucky people do? Ragin'.

Dog Year

2012-01-01T03:02:00.000-06:00

Happy New Year friends and readers and suckers!

Mark your calendars because 2012 is the year I'm finally going to get a dog, teach him tons of tricks and hang out with him all the time. I promise there will be pictures and I promise he will have a great name and I promise this will happen as soon as possible.

My only other resolution is to eat more bacon. Basically this is going to be a really great year. I think it will be a really great year for you too.

I hope there's not a test

2011-12-19T03:28:00.000-06:00

A couple months ago I enrolled in a night class my neighbor teaches, entitled "Things that do not work to calm a screaming baby." I had never been super eager to learn these skills, but the course comes with an apartment, which is something I was looking for anyway. Here are my notes from last night.

shut up
be quiet already
stop it already
shut up already
stop it
quiet
shut up
quiet
shut up
be quiet
quiet
shut up
AAAAAAAAAAAA
shut up
I can't take it anymore!
stop crying
stop it
shut up already
you know better than that
calm down
shut up
stop acting like a crazy person!

not all girls can cook

2011-12-14T08:00:00.000-06:00

You know you've lived in Southern California long enough when you start drinking soymilk instead of regular milk for absolutely no reason. And I do. I'm not ashamed of it and at the same time I am very ashamed.

My diet consists mostly of soymilk, edamame, coconut water, Greek yogurt, organic dried mangoes, homemade gluten-free granola, and spinach leaves. Eighteen-year old Brooke hates me. Actually every age of Brooke except twenty-four hates me.

Actually twenty-four-year-old Brooke hates me as well. But it's the purest, most organic soy-hate. It costs three times as much and only stays fresh for two days. Every time I shake my fist with hatred, proceeds go to an attractive turtle in the Galapagos Islands.

The next two pictures were taken while listening to this so they'll probably look best if looked at while listening to it as well.

Macaroni and cheese with chocolate milk instead of regular: good idea or bad?

At least I still eat Kraft macaroni and cheese? Sorry attractive turtles. But I just buy it so I can mix that orange "cheese" sauce with chocolate soymilk and gluten-free brown rice pasta. Sorry people trying to respect me.

can your lipstick do this?

2011-12-11T17:19:00.000-06:00

Today I had nothing on my calendar so I wrote "wear red lipstick" and I walked around town for three hours in silent protest of my shin splints that don't let me run anymore. No word from the shin splints yet but I think they go the message.

About once a week I wear my hair in a weird freakish-looking bun on top of my head, which makes people do this hilarious thing where they say "Hey Brookeeeeee..." When they hit the Br we solidly lock eyes and by the ee's they've trailed up six inches to the top of my head and just kind of rest there.

I feel like I owe it to the rest of my sex, who are greeted with eye contact and a glance twelve inches down no matter how they wear their hair. It's the least I can do.

But today I did the lipstick. Nothing exciting happened except that THREE people asked if I could read things for them because they had forgotten their glasses. That's three more than usual.

One woman asked me to read the size on a shoe she was trying on. She couldn't figure out why all of the shoes were so big. I pointed out she was in the men's section and she got very flustered and thanked me. She really should not be leaving home without her glasses.

One woman asked me to read her horoscope to her. It said she should take more time to herself. Is it just me or are horoscopes and fortune cookies getting fluffier than they used to? What happened to the horoscopes that said things like "If you wear red lipstick on the 10th you will get hit by a car? And if I can't trust a horoscope to let me know something like that, who can I trust? Scary times.

If I do get hit by a car, I have a feeling the woman in the men's shoe section will be driving it.

what did I do to you

2011-12-05T15:29:00.000-06:00

There are a lot of stray cats in the area I run in. And while I still have a lot to learn about them, I have finally gotten to the bottom of one thing: I know why people started thinking that a black cat crossing your path is unlucky.

Cats give you this look, pretty much all the time, and especially when you pass them, a look that says "Oh man, you are NOT going to like what's going to happen to you now."

This is what a thousand words of that looks like:

And now that I'm on the subject of cats I'm so tempted to add some cat videos.

This is what restraint looks like.

my computer doesn't think saggy is a word.

2011-11-28T08:59:00.000-06:00

Last week at the grocery store the lines were a nightmare - about fifteen minutes long, and the worst sort of fifteen minutes, where you get stuck behind a lady buying a decade's worth of shampoo because there was a newspaper special. But I struck gold in aisle three. Even though it wasn't labeled "Express" or "No Shampoo-Hoarders," the only person in front of me was an old man covered in tattoos, who I guess no one wanted to stand behind.

A lot of my friends have awesome-looking tattoos, and given the permanence of tattoos I'm assuming they'll still have them when they're old. People always say "oh you think tattoos look cool, wait until you're old and saggy and covered in tattoos - what will your grandchildren say?

Here's the thing about that.

A lot of my friends have awesome-looking butts.

Which will also become saggy. A lot of my friends have awesome-looking hair, which will either turn white and inexplicably short and fluffy, or just disappear. And did you know that your nose keeps growing your entire life? According to my albeit limited research, none of these things are caused by tattoos. You can get old and saggy with tattoos, or old and saggy without them. And I don't know about you, but I don't much care what my grandchildren have to say. I'm going to have things to tell them.

I'll use this paragraph to mention that I don't have any tattoos and don't plan on ever getting any. Yet I will still age.

Tattoos when you're old just mean that when you were younger you were awesome. Or I guess this guy could have gotten them last week. He didn't tell me. He did tell me that the groceries I was purchasing were all available at the dollar store a couple blocks over for just a dollar. I thanked him, and then hid my shame with pretend fixation on a National Enquirer cover. It said Demi Moore was trying to commit suicide. I wonder if Demi Moore ever thinks "Wonder what the National Enquirer is saying about me!" Probably not.

Then I walked my overpriced groceries next door to the drugstore to get band-aids.

Unnecessary detail coming up: I needed them because I have a scab the size of North Carolina right between my eyes, that would have healed weeks ago if I could stop touching it. I've been considering a dog cone or constantly wearing mittens, but then I thought of band-aids, and decided to pick some up a the drugstore.

For reasons I no longer remember I ended up in the first aid aisle, absentmindedly picking up all of the creams and reading the labels. I jumped when I heard a voice behind me.

"If you're looking for hydrocortisone don't waste money on the name brand! Look on the back - they've all got the same ingredients!" The man who owned the voice picked up a box and deftly flipped it around "This one's 3%, cheap, perfect, that's what I want!" and threw it confidently in a basket already filled with medications.

This is actually one of my favorite topics, so I jumped right in. "It's all a marketing game," I explained. "I bet you anything there's just one big factory out there making one kind of cream, and all the companies need to do is decide how they're going to package it and market it to make the most profit."

He liked this idea but topped it: "I got bitten by a poisonous spider last night and now my body is filled with its venom." I asked whether it had been in his house or whether he had been out in the wilderness, and crossed my fingers and silently chanted please say wilderness please say wilderness please say wilderness please say "Right in my own home!" he answered and the drugstore changed the radio from oldies to sinister without missing a beat. "It bit me while I was sleeping. You don't like thinking about THAT when you go to bed at night."

I can definitely work with the topic "Things you don't like to think about at night" and specifically remembered a youtube video I'd seen where someone put a vibrating machine in an old house. The vibrations bothered the spiders who were hiding unseen in the thick hollow walls and came pouring out of air vents and cracks by the thousands.

But I was obviously playing way out of my league and couldn't imagine the stories this guy would tell to top my spiders-in-the-walls video, so I bit my tongue. The momentary pain reminded me why I was there, and I picked up a box of bandages.

"Ah, Band-aids!" (what a great way to start a sentence!) "I buy a lot of those." he continued. He explained that he was 62 and bruised very easily, and pointed out a large raisin-colored spot on the back of his hand. "I'll just be doing things..." (he half-heartedly mimed reaching for a box of band-aids) and if my hand gets tapped it will bruise." I asked if band-aids helped prevent bruises - as soon as I said it the idea seemed stupid, but I couldn't think of any other reason.

"No, I wear them to cover my bruises when I go out, because I don't like people having to look at them." He looked down sadly at his hand, and the excitement of talking about spiders and how marketers were screwing with us was gone. My raisin-friend sighed. "I hope that doesn't happen to you when you're older."

Something about a man hoping a complete stranger would be able to avoid all the inevitable pitfalls of age, just because she had interesting opinions on pharmaceutical products and a healthy respect for spiders was so sweet to me that I couldn't think of a better response besides something stupid like "It happens to everyone." Would you hope the same thing for someone so clueless and naive? I remember when I was 15 my younger sisters would always tell me how disgusting my pubescent self was. "You're so gross! You're covered in spots!" and I would think just you wait. Just. You. Wait. The point is I'm not half as good as this man is.

And then I wished my scab were twice as big, because even though that would make it so large it would obscure my vision, it could remind him that these things don't matter. I had a scab the size of a state known for its fantastic wood furniture right in the middle of my face, and now that I'm at home typing I have an off-brand band-aid in the middle of my face, and at the end of the day that is not the most important thing about me. It's a shame that people see our bruises and our tattoos and our horrible self-infliced facial disfigurations before they have time to ask us what we know about spiders or what we're most scared of or what our favorite aisle in the drugstore is. Everyone has things they're not proud of about the way people see them.

And according to most people, all of these things are caused by tattoos.

Hello everyone who skipped to the bottom. Here is a song by the Magnetic Fields. If you're waiting for some water to boil you might want to watch that instead of the visuals in this video.

And here is me with a band-aid on my face. You probably don't get the reference.

I brought you something special

2011-11-24T11:04:00.000-06:00

It's Thanksgiving, which means a year ago I was explaining to my French flatmates what early American settlers did to the Native Americans while they stared at me in horror and disbelief.

"I'm sure they didn't know the blankets had small pox. I'm sure there was some sort of... misunderstanding. Americans would never do that on purpose."

"They would." I answered. "And they did."

I just realized this might explain why all the candy I brought back for my flatmates after the holidays went uneaten.

And we've arrived at Reason You Should Travel #51: if you don't give the world a way to see Americans, I'm going to do it for you. And you might not like the way I do it.

The best turkey in the world would be a sorry consolation for not getting to spend Thanksgiving in France with amazing flatmates who put up with my antics. But the best chicken in the world would be just fine.

He just wants to be close to you, but he can't, because his legs don't work so well.

2011-11-19T14:44:00.001-06:00

Have you thought about enough sad things today?

I hadn't, so I searched for adoptable senior dogs in my area. Life has not been fair to these dogs. And animal shelters keep the trend going by giving them temporary names like Mufasa, Gibble, Laverne, and Rasputin.

No one likes them so they must be good for you.

2011-11-16T12:30:00.001-06:00

Two more running stories.

I was running by a yard that had an unleashed chihuahua in it, who felt threatened enough to start barking and take off running toward me. The exciting thing about an angry chihuahua running toward you is you have no idea what is going to happen, but you know it can't be that bad. The combination of thrill and safety is the best feeling in the world.

The apricot-sized dog latched his lumpy gross self onto my right shoe, and held on for a couple paces before losing his grip and flying off behind me, and once he realized his mouth was free again he kept barking. He didn't even leave teeth-prints.

Goodness I can't stand chihuahuas. I really love dogs, but I've done some research and chihuahuas are actually in the rat family, so not standing them is ok. My research consists entirely of one incident where a chihuahua bit my shoe.

And then today, a squirrel threw a pinecone at me. He missed by a lot, but if I had been wearing my heart rate monitor I'm pretty sure it would have exploded.

why I run fast

2011-10-26T12:18:00.000-05:00

Yesterday on my neighbors' (real) lawn there were no fewer than 100 huge black crows, just staring at me as I sprinted by.

Crows here are about the size of dogs here.

how I manage to embarrass myself before seven am

2011-10-24T12:16:00.000-05:00

Last night one of the girls I babysit (a lot of people have been asking if it's cool or not cool for 24-year-old college graduates to babysit so I'll clear this up right now: it's very cool.) asked if I would read her a bedtime story. Since I love reading and since I was pretty exhausted from an hour pretending to be a money-laundering vegetarian FBI agent who worked at a five-star restaurant, I said I would read any book she wanted.

So she she pulled out the big guns and grabbed High School Musical: Our Yearbook!. Usually when asked to read a book this terrible to a child, I'll make up my own improved story that loosely follows the pictures. But there was something so train-wreck fascinating about a multiple-chapter book that followed a Disney movie so religiously that I read every single word to her. With voices. This isn't the embarrassing part yet.

This is not the cover but it looks just as bad.

Then last night I dreamed the entire plot of High School Musical: Our Yearbook!. For those of you who haven't read the fabulous book or seen the movie it's supposedly based on, Troy (played by Zack Efron) couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to try out for the musical, because theater rehearsal would really cramp his style when he should be practicing basketball (Go Wildcats!) and it would really be such a devastating loss to the world of theater and the world of sports if he quit either, and if you're wondering if I'm at the embarrassing part yet, I'm not.

When my alarm went off, I HIT SNOOZE just so I could go back to sleep and see if Troy would follow his heart and try out for the musical.

And that's how you embarrass yourself before seven am.

see people they don't understand

2011-10-24T10:12:00.000-05:00

What if there were a prostitute that was really good at magic tricks? And she would say "Is THIS your card?" and she would light the deck on fire and pull your card out of the pile of ashes, completely intact, but people would just yell "Take your clothes off!"

It would be too bad because I bet they're really good magic tricks, she's just got the wrong audience.

is there grass in heaven?

2011-10-21T13:29:00.000-05:00

Here's a tour very few people have been on: let's visit the disturbed mind of the guy who was evicted from my apartment before I moved in.

The one who scratched his genius musings into the walls of my bedroom.

Sometimes I wonder if they're some sort of code, that if I deciphered would lead me to a buried treasure.

Who knows what sort of things he might have stashed.

We owe the fact that we have brand-new carpeting to him. And I cover the creepiest scratches with my own notes. Like this one for my roommate that will make you glad you're not my roommate:

I changed the name of the place I ran to because it's the best route and I don't want it to get crowded. With stalkers who will tie me to train tracks.

karma police

2011-10-19T22:07:00.000-05:00

What if every time something good happened to you, something bad happened to someone else?

I know it's the plot of countless television shows but here is something almost as cheesy: the other day I was out with friends and smelled burning, and I knew it meant I had left my hair straightener turned on at home. I knew this because I actually don't have a sense of smell, and only have phantom smells when I'm stressed, when someone asks me to smell something and my brain invents what it might smell like, and in this case when I'm using my sixth sense.

I don't believe in many magical things, even though I'm curious about aliens and would love to hear any ghost stories if you know any. But I do believe in my simultaneous inability to smell the chicken I'm eating and ability to smell my apartment burning down a city over, because that is not magic that is just what happens.

When I got home everything was hot but nothing was on fire yet, so I said a quick prayer to the gods of hair appliances, turned off my straightener, and forgot about the whole thing. Until today when THREE fire trucks rushed down my street because an apartment a few blocks over was on fire. I think I used up all the good luck our neighborhood had and now we're fresh out.

Please tell me about any personal experiences you've had with ghosts in the comments.

Also, if you know any names of gods of hair appliances I would love to hear them. The only ones I can remember are Chi, the all-powerful god of volume and Conair, the benevolent goddess of shine. I really should have studied more in high school, you never know when these things are going to come up.

Big hair is the worst. If the god of volume demanded an offering I'd give him a moldy piece of toast with Marmite smeared on it.

who's cool now?

2011-10-18T11:48:00.000-05:00

Here's what I usually look like on my way to work.

I know what you're thinking, "How could she possibly improve on this?" Think no longer:

This is a dramatization of how it would look if my tricked-out helmet somehow hit me in the face. Check out that lightning bolt!

Now maybe fewer children will mock me mercilessly. I would ~~say~~ type that with so much more confidence if this morning two people hadn't yelled "Hey nice helmet, loser!" from the side of the road. Do you not see these lightning bolts? I am made for speed.

I know I'm obnoxious

2011-10-14T16:45:00.001-05:00

It can only be annoying to hear this but, my job is so fun that Fridays don't have the sparkle they used to. Proof: garbage pickup is on Fridays and I remember to take the trash to the curb about once every four weeks.

I still love weekends though, because when I don't have time to do laundry no one has a good week, and because all four of the local animal shelters have adoption events on Saturdays. There's nothing like hitting those up back to back to back to back in a clean shirt.

What is your favorite day? Does it involve homeless dogs?

next time I'll just take my chances

2011-10-12T13:26:00.000-05:00

Is it safe to assume that a friendly, grungy, slightly-intoxicated man camped out at a picnic table in front of a grocery store is homeless? Today I almost bought a sandwich for a gentleman that fit this description, but then I realized I wasn't sure he was homeless, and he hadn't done anything to solicit food donations. In fact maybe he had just eaten a HUGE meal, and was so exhausted from the sheer quantity of food he had just passed out on a picnic table in front of Vons, and the idea of a sandwich would just be insane and disgusting to him?

After typing that I realize how ridiculous it is, and I should have just bought the sandwich.

But, to the countless homeless people who read my blog:
Even if you're too intoxicated to write a sign or you don't want to seem desperate - take it from a girl who stood in line at a homeless shelter for thirty minutes because she thought it was an indie rock concert - subtlety is not always the best option.

And to my non-homeless readers who have been given a sandwich by a well-meaning stranger:
Nothing I've worn has ever gotten me a free sandwich, so you must be doing something right.

Not a super relevant photo but I really need to start adding more pictures to my blog. This was one of my top ten meals in Marseille - my sister and I ate outside at a sidewalk café on one of the sunniest most beautiful days of the year. Then we went swimming in the sea. Today I went to Vons. La-di-da.

if Marseille were a state, they would be its state bird.

2011-10-10T10:59:00.000-05:00

TIME MACHINE POST

It was pouring today, and in a concious effort not to notice the waterlogged newspapers floating over soggy bagettes and liquid dog waste on the ground, I noticed that all of the pigeons had disappeared. Where do they go?

And they're missing out. Because seeing a pigeon in the rain is probably the only time I would feed it.

People fall into three groups: pigeons-lovers, pigeon-dislikers, and pigeon-haters.

Pigeon-lovers might be more gross than pigeons themselves. I don't know what is wrong with these people, but they often buy an entire baguette at lunch just to feed to those disgusting animals. I can only assume they were orphaned and raised by birds, or are retired pilots. Hey you people - I have seen a pigeon eat a plastic drinking straw. You do not need to buy them baguettes.

Pigeon-haters often call them rats with wings. And I think that's going too far. Because if there's one thing Marseille has more of than pigeons, it's rats. Rats go in your house. And when they get run over by cars, their bodies flatten but rigor mortis makes their tails stand straight up.

So there's a vote for pigeons I guess.

Changes color in sun!

2011-10-03T10:53:00.000-05:00

TIME MACHINE POST

Look out world - it's April, it's sunny, and my skin is changing color. And there are four hundred French children that have four hundred questions about it.

This isn't the first time my genetics have fascinated French children. I have a freckle on my arm that kindergarteners try to lick for good luck. I have done everything in my power to discourage this, including wearing sweaters in extreme heat, and doing a lot of dancing where my arms are above my head, but I think the fact that it's hard to get to makes it even luckier.

Anyway, color-changing skin freaks people here out.

Alright, admittedly it's kind of freaking me out too.

French people do not seem to tan. They start out dark, or they tan very slowly, or they don't consider 80 degrees warm enough and constant sunlight sunny enough for skin to get darker.

Are you wearing make-up?
Have you been on vacation?
BEACH? (This one was in English! Accompanied by putting both his hands behind his head and smiling happily.)
Oh, you've put on some tanning cream?
The fake tan looks great on you!

Why is my skin changing color? Because we live on the Mediterranean. The weather here is pretty-close-to-literally tropical. No one believes me until I show them my watch tanline. Then they say "Wow!" which means "So she isn't lying, she's just some freak of nature."

And yes, that makes licking me even more enticing.

I always have the last laugh

2011-09-30T13:14:00.000-05:00

Do you remember when you were little, when adults would laugh at something that didn't make sense, and when you asked what was going on they would just say "You'll understand when you're older"?

The problem with that is that by the time you're "older" you may have forgotten the joke.

Which is why as a child, I wrote them all down.

Seven-year-old Brooke, making a bracelet out of blades of grass: Dad, is there grass in heaven?

Dad: Most stoners would say so.

Twenty-four-year-old Brooke, reading this note fifteen years later: HA. GRASS! I get it.

you may already be a winner

2011-09-29T10:28:00.000-05:00

So lately people have been celebrating their France-i-versaries. I'm never one to miss an opportunity to be two weeks late for something so here goes: a year and two weeks ago I showed up in Marseille, terrified of the sea, not fluent in French, and unaware that I had a penchant for rats and MacDo potatoes.

It still amazes me that I managed to move to the other side of the world, get a cell phone, sign a rent agreement, and find foods to eat. There were times when the internet didn't work and I couldn't call my sister at the time I said I would, when the metro shut down and I had to walk four hours, when the guy at the bad postcard office wouldn't sell me stamps because I was an American, the time I was sprinting through the alleys of Paris at 5:30 am with everything I own, but the point is - I kept myself alive for a year. Am I an adult?

at least the baby will have beautiful green eyes

2011-09-27T10:24:00.000-05:00

A couple months ago in France I was having a perfectly normal afternoon where I found myself sitting in a park reading while a French man in this eighties was telling my why no Arabic people should be allowed in the country. He was just getting to the part where they will kill us all in our sleep when he stopped mid sentence with a gasp.

"You have green eyes. Why didn't I notice sooner that you have green eyes! Your eyes are the most beautiful thing in the world. And you have such a beautiful smile. Great, American teeth! All you need to do is start exercising a little..."

Maybe in someone else's life this would be the big turning point where they stopped eating a wheel of Brie with a jar of Nutella every morning for breakfast, but for me it wasn't.

No, if I were to have such a turning point it would have been a couple months earlier, when a woman thought I was pregnant. By that I don't mean she asked "When are you due?" or "Is it a boy or a girl" I mean she came up to me, rubbed my stomach, and told me the little munchkin was going to be the luckiest kid in the world to have a mom like me.

What do you say to people when this happens? There is no handbook for this.

why I run

2011-09-24T15:05:00.002-05:00

There is a house a couple miles from mine that has astroturf instead of grass, and this morning I finally saw the inhabitants, a classy older couple. He was wearing nice slacks and a dress shirt and she was sporting sporting a silk blouse and a jeweled bracelet, and they were brushing dead leaves off the crayon-green plastic grass using a broom and a dustpan.

when you come around

2011-09-22T13:48:00.001-05:00

Here are some of the great dogs I work with. They don't actually do that much work. And one of them isn't great. But if you're a dog all is forgiven.

I think I can safely say I've arrived

2011-09-21T03:07:00.001-05:00

We interrupt this period of not-blogging to announce that if you google "ode to snacks" Sky Machines is the second result. People who find my blog that way do not usually ever visit again.

THEN I used the path tool and created a shape on a new layer

2011-09-12T11:55:00.000-05:00

For the last couple days I have been doing less thinking

and more thinking LIKE THIS

And partly because it's not as easy to articulate these thoughts and mostly because I know no one else cares, I don't put them on this blog. But for the half a person who does care - today is your lucky day! Here are some places I post about design:

type to me is a collection of typography I like (I warned you this wouldn't be interesting)

a practical bestiary is where I post cool layouts

and whale sharks is advertising, design, and communication arts

I guess the takeaway point is, I like a lot of cool things, but I also like design things. And maybe you're thinking "but design is cool!" but most of my dreams lately are about Adobe Illustrator, and so far no one has been interested in hearing about them. Now I'm off to watch some more web coding tutorials.

time travel, construction, and one-eyed dogs

2011-09-09T13:31:00.000-05:00

This summer I was going through some of my old high school notebooks and found a page where I had summed up a day with this phrase:

"It was so sweet I would have cried if I were someone who cries."

I first started experimenting with time travel fifteen years ago, when I discovered I could write little notes that said "Dear 10-year-old Brooke. Hi this is 9-year-old Brooke. You are reading this in the future! You are cool! You are 10 years old! I'm 9." Ten-year-old Brooke had a handful of visits from the past, but sixteen-year-old Brooke was bombarded with them. The week after my sixteenth birthday I opened a packet of about two-dozen letters I had written to my sixteen-year-old self, and they continued steadily throughout the year, because there were some where I wanted to write what had been going on "on this day x years ago." Thrilling. Most of them read like this:

Dear 16-year-old Brooke,
WOW you are SIXTEEN! I can't believe that. SIXTEEN! I bet it feels normal to you though, lol. I bet you are really pretty.

Dear 16-year-old Brooke,
You are the coolest person I know because you are sixteen and I don't know you yet but I kind of do because I AM you, but four years younger! I wish I were just like you. Do you drive? Do you have a boyfriend? I bet you look really cool and have a lot of friends and I think you are so great.

Dear 16-year-old Brooke,
Hey wutz ^? (That's a cool way of saying "what's up" if you don't remember lol) You're sixteen, that's so cool. I want to marry someone who is really hot, and funny and super good looking and looks good.

Dear 16-year-old Brooke,
Oh hi I'm 9 you are 16 do you have a boyfriend? Is he really really nice? Have you kissed him?

Obviously these have never been as useful to me as they would have been to a child therapist. What WOULD be great would be if I could send letters backwards. I would constantly be writing them. I don't even know where I'd start on what to say to myself in high school, but I know I would throw in this note: Some day you are going to be the kind of person who cries.

Because everything has me in tears lately. Happy things, sad things, so-un-emotional-it-somehow-IS-emotional things. The ultimate proof of what a mess I am is that I get choked up every time I watch this video.

Sweet, sweet man. He just wants to take his cousin to California adventure. His Disney Dollars are going to expire! Goodness I'm tearing up just typing that.

I have a soft spot for middle-aged men who don't have everything under control. I also have a soft spot for dogs missing eyes, people dropping things, old photos, when someone laughs at their own joke and no one else does, college students who practice kissing their arm because they've never kissed a girl, lost cats, Apple ads, old people around a lot of young people that aren't paying attention to them, women making fake Uncrustable sandwiches to make it seem like they can afford real Uncrustables, commercials where people make coffee and share a special moment, people randomly running into friends, grocery store cashiers who are surrounded by people all day but no one talks to them, a single mom going to Target and buying a ton of board games and asking her teenage kids to play them with her but they won't and the board games were really expensive and she can't find the receipt, and spoons that are alone in the dish drainer.

I don't think twenty-four-year-old Brooke has gotten a time-traveling letter. Probably because it would have read like this:

Dear 24-year-old Brooke
I know your eyesight is probably gone by now, but I'm assuming one of your grandchildren is reading this to you (please speak up her hearing is also really bad).

I hope your arthritis is doing ok and that you're not eating apples with worms in them and yelling that they're perfectly fine - it grosses everyone out and it can't be easy to eat apples when you don't have any teeth left.

Remember when you were sixteen? Did you say "Sweet Sixteen" when you were sixteen? I reminded you in several letters to say it because it seems like it would be a fun thing to say and you had an entire year to do it. I really hope you listened to that advice. Were you so pretty? Did you kiss a boy? Goodness. I can't wait to be sixteen.

start spreading the news

2011-09-07T21:15:00.000-05:00

I already know why you're reading this.

You had a weird feeling just now, that something was different in the world, so you went to the world's numberone source of breaking news, Sky Machines.

You're going to be glad you did, because your instincts were dead on. After a month of sleeping on a (surprisingly comfortable) camping mattress, I broke down and...

PURCHASED A BED.

And while I was at it...

PURCHASED A DESK.

And a plant. She's already heard stories about what I've done to plants in the past. No, I haven't named her. Lately I'm trying to save every good name in the world because when I get a dog soon I don't want anyone to say, isn't that the same name you gave to a potted plant last year? In college I had two cactuses named Mary Kate and Ashley and I'm still kicking myself for wasting that one. When I complete the room with a fish maybe I'll give the two of them a pair of names. I think they'll get along because fish and plants have a similar IQ. No offense to plants.

If you skipped that last paragraph, welcome back. As I was saying, the combination of not needing to hunch over my tiny cardboard desk AND sleeping on a real mattress makes me feel twenty years younger.

When I was out running this morning (after a night of sleeping like a toddler) I saw a half-rotten broken bookshelf lying on the side of the road! Fabulous furniture is one of many perks of this new route I've been running. There are also palm trees, more dogs, and fewer groups of old men that sit together on benches and stare at people who run by.

When my roommate saw me coming up the stairs with it she didn't ask what on earth it was or why I left to go for a run and came home with it. In fact, she'd already told me a week ago that I should disinfect any trash I brought in the apartment. So all she had to say was "Good morning!" It's nice to have roommates who know you well. And the best part is that it's the perfect size for my room.

I turned it on its side because the top is missing. Considering the fact that delusional people are trying to sell used bookcases on Craigslist for $120, I think this is a steal. And according to LA curbside furniture laws, I could be right.

add this to the list

2011-09-05T09:42:00.000-05:00

While I was waiting in line for the bathroom at a Kanye concert the other night, a woman wearing bright green eye makeup started chatting with me. "Who knew there would be so much sun today!" she chirped. "I'm like totally red!"

"Yeah," I answered. Cautiously. Because I have a bad reputation of saying awkward things around strangers. "You DO have a lot of color on your face... and I'm not just talking about your bright green eye makeup."

Then I weighed my post-gaffe options: high pitched fake laugher or staring intently at the paper towel dispenser. Staring won.

If I ever make any friends it will be a miracle. Having this outfit wouldn't hurt my chances.

why can't you just quietly pick your nose like the rest of us

2011-09-02T11:50:00.000-05:00

You're not going to believe this, but in fourth grade I really liked writing.

And maybe I was decent at it, or maybe just because I liked it, or maybe because he was worried about how I was spending my free time, my fourth grade teacher assigned me to be Class Storyteller. It was supposedly a part of a district-wide writers/slave-laborers program, and the requirement was that every two weeks I would write a short piece of fiction and read it to the class.

If I can take a minute to make fun of a nine-year old, those were probably the worst stories that have ever been written in the history of the world. I remember one particularly rough morning my teacher reminded me that I was supposed to present in five minutes (after Recycling Tip of the Day), and I answered "Oh right of course! Could I take a second in the hall to practice reading it? And also could I borrow a couple blank sheets of paper and a pencil?" I don't know how other Class Storytellers were faring, but things were ugly in Room 18.

I still remember my fourth grade room number because we had a really catchy song about it. Every time I can't remember something important I realize it was probably supposed to go in the part of my brain that's being taken up by my fourth grade room number.

On a slightly-more-successful Class Storyteller day I read a tale about a suburban boy whose dog went missing over a school vacation. He spent most of the story looking for her, speculating about her kidnapping/death/murder/escape, only to find her in his backyard in the last paragraph, with a new litter of puppies. I hated dogs as a child, but had sat down to work on my writing assignment immediately after watching a similar plot on a made-for-tv movie. At the end I asked the classmates who were still awake if there were any questions.

One girl (probably Margaret) raised her hand. "At the beginning of the story you said that his dog went missing over spring break, but then a couple days later at the end of the story he said that he needed to find her soon because summer vacation was ending. Why is that?

I gave her a look that said "At the beginning of your sentence it seemed like you were complaining about the problematic logic and general disregard for congruent details in my story, but at the end of the sentence I realized you haven't written a story, but you're still complaining about mine. Why is that?"

And out loud I said "Good question Margaret. Does anyone else have a question?"

I don't remember being Class Storyteller for very long.

we collided

2011-08-31T11:53:00.000-05:00

If you have spare room in your brain or heart or schedule, I suggest you start reading Craigslist missed connections.

Some things I've learned:
ONE. If you're a gay guy looking for love, go to the gym! That seems to be THE hotspot for m4m missed connections. This is a world I know next to nothing about, being not a guy, not gay, and most of all never going to the gym. But hopefully that advice can help someone.

TWO. If men aren't your style but you love tunes AND the legal system, there are some fiiiiine ladies at the Inglewood courthouse!

Lol but seriously,
THREE. I love looking at these missed connection illustrations.

FOUR TO A THOUSAND. The overwhelming feeling I get from missed connections, is that it really should be called Missed Social Cues.

The girl in the above illustration made a point of mentioning she had a boyfriend? Girls: if that is how you flirt it's a bad strategy. Guys: that is not how people flirt. Most posts read something like "You're a cashier at Whole Foods and I know you were into me because you asked if I wanted a bag. You have great legs. I didn't get a chance to get your number." Yeah she sounds SUPER into you.

Am I jaded? If I had to describe myself right now I would say tired, jaded, and hungry for salted caramels. One of those can be fixed by looking at some more missed connections art.

coming from someone who googled "how to apply eyeliner" last week

2011-08-30T12:23:00.000-05:00

Not much going on HERE, except reading craft tutorials for how to organize your twenty makeup brushes that you own because you are trying to conceal your identity, you work in the circus, or you share a makeup counter with your sister wives.

If you have any other explanation for why someone would have this many brushes TELL ME because heaven knows I am curious.

Besides counting the face-painting implements over and over again, I've also been passing time by going to pet adoption events and talking about dogs with dog foster parents, chatting with my landlord, and reading so many books that the dogs and my landlord are blown away by my perspicacity. No, perspicacity does not really make sense in that sentence. I guess I have a few more books to read.

concentrate and ask again

2011-08-26T15:58:00.000-05:00

At the risk of being vague, I'm going to start out by saying that yesterday I was chosen for something after a requirement was given that the selected person needed to be female.

It reminded me of George Clooney (as things often do), what he said the last time he won People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive - that he's usually only nominated for "Sexiest Man Alive who has Played both a Doctor and Batman." Only he was joking and I'm not.

You probably remember this from the papers, but I'll refresh your memory. In 7th grade I won the gold medal in Music Olympics, a local music theory competition done in the style of worldwide sports in a last-ditch effort to make kids care about key changes. And I didn't win gold in the "White Kid" division or the "Kids with a Speech Impediment" bracket. I straight up won gold in Music Olympics. And when the other kids were like how did you do that, I was like, let's just say I know a thing or two about chord progressions. And this trophy matches my braces. Check it.

Not that yesterday was on par with Music Olympics. Please. Not that anything ever will be. And not that I'm looking to ever receive that kind of recognition again. I definitely racked up more than a life's worth that day. But from now on, will I only succeed in things when we're looking for a successful girl? Does three quarters of the group need to be ignored in order for me to be even somewhat interesting?

I went home. I ate my daily bag of cheap American candy (how I've missed you.) I read all George Clooney interview's from in 1997. And then I remembered : this is why I came to LA. To shoot up the idea that I need special paramaters, and to cover that idea's corpse in raccoon urine, set it on fire, and walk off into the sunset while the embers are burning and "The Final Countdown" is playing.

Or to work in the advertising. I keep getting the two mixed up.

2011-08-24T13:32:00.007-05:00

I heard somewhere that the word "mother" is the most beautiful word in every language.

Thent the thrift store last week a really chubby, red-faced kid in a shopping card was flailing around yelling "MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MAHM. MA-

FINE!!!! I promise I will never have children! Is that what you want?! ARE YOU SATISFIED?!?!

When a couple people heard that I had a lot of downtime this summer they were quick with a disturbing suggestion - why don't you have a kid? Then you'll have plenty to do!

To me this idea is on par with "Why not become paralyzed from the waist down and take physical therapy to learn to walk again? Why not carry a sofa to the top floor of a 200-story building using only the stairs?" Yes, those are certainly ways to fill time.

What this blog post really is, is a huge THANK YOU to all my friends who have children.

Your kids are adorable. They're way cooler than adults, they have tiny feet, and everything they do is new and exciting. I love hanging out with them, buying clothes for them, and hearing stories about them. Thank you for letting me do all the fun things, while you deal with them when they're screaming the most beautiful word in any language. I don't know how you do it, but I'm glad you do.

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TIME MACHINE POST

2011-08-22T12:30:00.000-05:00

I wrote this in February.

Of all the street performers I wish you could see, the best one is the Marseillais Mozart.

In Vienna Mozart street performers are everywhere, and that's fantastic. Mozart was from Vienna. Mozart was NOT from Marseille, but that doesn't bother the Marseillais Mozart. He just dresses up as Mozart, with a sign that says he is not a lunatic, but a father and an artist. He doesn't have music or look like a statue or walk on his hands or do any of the other things I've seen street performers do.

I see him almost every day. One day when I went to Aix-en-Provence he boarded the bus with me, rode to Aix, and stood outside the theatre of the movie I went to. With his sign. Without music. I mentioned before that there was no music but it seemed worth mentioning again. He was the strangest thing.

Until today. When he added cat-juggling to his routine.

Read it again.

I really wish I had brought my camera or a PETA representative, but you're just going to have to take my word for it - it was wild. The picture would be of exactly what you're imagining right now - a man, dressed as Mozart, juggling three cats.

"Isn't that the craziest thing you've ever seen?" a man in a tweed hat asked me.

I told him it was.

But honestly, I think it makes more sense with cats than without.

and turn greeeeen.... NOW!

2011-08-17T12:11:00.000-05:00

As a driver, no one looks more stupid than a runner at a crosswalk who jogs in place. What, are they that obsessed with running? Can they not stop moving for thirty seconds?

So I try to act nonchalant at crosswalks, as though standing still is my favorite thing to do. But you can see my fingers twitching and my feet tapping and every half second I glance over to see if the other light has turned yellow. I know I'm freaking you out. I used to be you. An hour ago, before I changed into running shoes.

the only thing he won't eat is lettuce

2011-08-17T00:21:00.006-05:00

I miss my dog the most when I'm leaving a room, and instinctively place any food items up on a counter out of reach. Then I remember that unfortunately, no one is going to jump on the table and polish off the stick of butter or tear apart my backpack to get to that package of M&Ms. I can leave snacks in low places without rushing to the vet or cleaning dog vomit off my favorite sweater.

When I remember I stop for a second, and then go ahead and put them up on the counter. Just in case.

If you're reading this McGee - I'm always ready for you to drop by. Also, if you can read, can you also write? The pawprint on my birthday card from the family looked forged.

DISCLAIMER: I am tired and haven't eaten cookies in almost two years

2011-08-15T13:05:00.000-05:00

After I read through this I realized it's the most self-centered, dramatic, angry thing I've written since I was fifteen and writing strange poetry and lighting it on fire. I just feel like I should mention that this post was inspired by strangers on allergy forums and my step-brother's ex-girlfriend's sister. Every gluten-intolerant person I know is awesome, and if you're thinking "oh curses, this is about me" don't worry, it isn't. I do have some charred teenage poetry about you though; let me know if you're interested.

Here's a fun experiment for anyone with a self-diagnosed gluten allergy. Take a water and flour paper maché mixture, and put some on your skin. You can do this while making a sweet paper maché piñata if you want. If after a few minutes your skin breaks out in huge burning poison-ivy-esque hives like mine did, you are allergic to wheat. If not . . . well that's weird isn't it.

As good as it feels to have friends who eat the same strange gluten-free foods as I do, and who also can't participate in social rites of passage like birthday cakes and free pizza - it feels kind of sad to have those friends turn around and say that they apparently CAN eat wheat SOMETIMES and it's no big deal. If I licked a sandwich I'd have three days of throwing up and lose ten pounds over the next month. I would be dizzy, gray, and susceptible to every virus in my zip code. Why can't I lick a sandwich, but their allergy disappears on birthdays?

On the other, more positive hand, the more people that don't eat gluten, the more companies will make gluten-free food. In the last three years you helped bring favorites like cereal and cookies back into my life, and that's pretty cool.

So on second thought, maybe don't do the flour test. Stay away from flour. You're deathly allergic after all. Unless there's a pizza party.

2011-08-13T13:22:00.003-05:00

My mom is an award-winning racquetball player. I'm not, but it's growing on me.

Racquetball was the fifth sport where I got myself hit in the face, and the first one that encouraged wearing protective eyewear, which made it an instant favorite. Things only got better when my mom's Recreational Racquetball League trophies impressed hipster boys I was dating.

When my mom was a child, her family was the first family in her town to get the video game Pong, which is what I assume led to her playing tennis in high school. In college she switched to racquetball, which was either the result of the cold climate which meant racket sports needed to be played indoors, or because she wondered what tennis would feel like on drugs. Fast forward to today and I'm playing a sport that has as much interest in physics as I do.

The logistics of the game are these: Hit the ball away from you, and then body slam into a cement wall to avoid being knocked out by the rebound. When the ball unexpectedly bounces right toward you, sprint over and body slam into the opposite wall. While this is going on, your mom is laughing at you without breaking a sweat.

Occasionally the racket I use to protect my face will miraculously deflect the ball in a way the earns me a point, and the echoing of the room and the blood in my ears make my moms exclamation of "We need to get you to Vegas!" sound more like "Wow, nice hit Brooke!"

I think the pure absurdity of racquetball is best summed up by its spelling of the word "racquet." I'd racq my brain for other words spelled with a cq next to each other, but I need to go lie down.

In this picture I'm the girl who's two heads shorter than everyone else and is wearing black plastic glasses. Believe it or not, I was not the star of the team.

glad I could cheer you up

2011-08-11T12:00:00.000-05:00

I keep forgetting that even though I'm hard at work, the rest of LA is on summer vacation. This morning on my bike ride to the agency I saw a man riding with his daughter on the handlebars. The little girl smiled at and looked beyond thrilled to see me. "What a sweet little girl" I thought. "What a wonderful day." Then I realized she was probably laughing because I was wearing a helmet. Boo.

and he had a son, his name was Fred Astaire, and boy could he dance!

2011-08-09T14:04:00.000-05:00

Today while I was waiting for my laundry at the laundromat, a seemingly well-composed homeless woman cornered me, and managed to talk to me for ten minutes about her experiences in Florida and the dancing abilities of her favorite celebrities before I could really get away.

Before she showed up the morning had already been reminding me of France, because after I started the laundry machine it turned out the door hadn't been shut properly or was broken, and water starting shooting out. The only people around were two sweet Mexican women, and when "Excuse me - sorry to bother you but do either of you know if these machines have a stop button?" was met with blank stares I said "Stop!" and pointed to the spectacle that was my washing machine. They didn't know what to do either, but we all ran around yelling "STOP!" and banging on the machine, and surprisingly that worked.

Since the only language barrier in France was articulating really complex emotions and cultural things, the inability to talk communicate with anyone in the laundromat seemed even more French than France did. It was the France that could have been.

Anyway, once this homeless woman started chatting me up, I was happy at first, because it reminded me of the thousands of people in Marseille that would randomly come up to me and just want to talk for hours. No matter where you were, you could always count on having a five-minute conversation with a stranger. But there were two depressing differences.

1. This woman clearly had a drug problem.

2. She never stopped for breath. People in Marseille are chatty, but they aren't talking about themselves. They want to know how you're doing. "What's your name? What are you studying? You have beautiful hair, you look Italian. Have you been to Italy? You should go. Where have you been? Tell me all about it!"

Nice try Los Angeles. But Marseille's crazy people have so much more heart than yours do.

After I had finally shaken her, I got excited because I know the Spanish word for "crazy" and I thought I could show it off to my new laundromat friends. But I couldn't find them. Mama Mia! My Spanish has a long way to go.

that's a dog browsing a department store, completely unsupervised

2011-08-09T11:59:00.000-05:00

If you move often the thing you miss the most is the way it feels to live somewhere for a year. After a year you don't have bruises from running into doorways and furniture in your apartment (I'm really clumsy) and you could almost do everything with your eyes closed because your hand has memorized the exact height of your shelf and the snooze button on your alarm clock and how the fridge opens.

The fridge at my new apartment opens on the opposite side you'd think it would, and every time I try and open it I spend a quarter of a second thinking "What the heck is wrong with this thing. How am I supposed to get the milk out of it? This isn't right, this isn't my fridge, this isn't my home."

Right now my home is Marseille. The things I miss most about Marseille lately is the width of the sidewalk and the amount of sunlight and the whiteness of the buildings and redness of the rooftops. It took me a year to memorize how far from the curb to walk and how much to squint, and the peach-tint of every day, iced with a layer of Marseille-blue sky. I miss knowing the exact price of my staple foods at the grocery store. I miss the shade of orange my curtains were. I miss knowing where to hold my breath because it smelled bad. Three steps past the antique book store smells like dead rats. Twelve steps past the macaron shop smells like urine. These are constants. These things never change. Unless you move to the other side of the world.

Maybe in a few months Los Angeles will be home, but right now it isn't, and even though I love my family, neither is Minnesota. Right now I'm a confused girl wandering lost around a grocery store full of strangely-priced food, wondering if she's going to be homesick for the rest of her life.

Check out this car!

2011-08-05T16:17:00.002-05:00

http://www.amazon.com/gp/mpd/permalink/m19JENA24NZZKQ/ref=ent_fb_link

Something horrible happened this morning and I woke up 24 instead of 8, and don't own a single remote control car.

2011-08-05T12:00:00.000-05:00

The most exhilarating part of my mornings and afternoons is The Overpass.

It's halfway between my apartment and my office - an empty, dark, tunnel decked out with bright yellow signs that read "DANGER! BEES!" and beneath that PELIGRO! ABEJAS!

I don't know about you, but to me there's nothing like an upside-down exclamation point to make you ask WHAT BEES? What are you freaking talking about? Is this thing just packed with bees? Why so many signs? Are you breeding them with a chemical that makes them super angry? Does the tunnel smell like honey?

And there's nothing like a honey-scented, psychotic-bee-packed tunnel to get me biking sixty miles an hour. I fly through that thing like a bee that smells dinner. No, faster. Just a hair faster.

I've got a cobalt-blue beach cruiser and a bright future in sales

2011-08-04T01:12:00.000-05:00

This was going to be a post about my super-hipster practically-useless one-speed beach cruiser a got for biking to work.

But instead it's going to be a rant about why no one wears a freaking helmet anymore. Have you forgotten everything you learned in bike safety class in second grade? Or did no one else have to take that class?

There are few things worse than leaving the apartment with clean clothes, a freshly-packed lunch, and a neat-o super-duper safe AND stylish helmet, only to pass thirty people who are biking around with hair blowing in the breeze. I don't know who these thick-skulled and soon-to-be-skull-less losers think they are, but they're sharing the road with giant pieces of steel that are going 50 mph, and the closest thing to protection I've seen anyone wearing are Dodgers baseball caps. Twins hats, of course, protect the wearer from any sort of bodily harm that may arise. I'm not aware that Dodgers caps have the same effect.

End of rant. Wear your helmet, you'll double the number of people in the world that are currently doing it.

2011-08-02T11:57:00.000-05:00

Does anyone know more about Salvador Dali than that melting clock painting? I've liked him ever since I saw a picture of him walking his pet anteater in a metro station.

No, I'm not going to post a picture. You know how to google it, don't be lazy. Geez Louise, the things I put up with.

Anyway, I found these sweet Salvadore Dali quotes today. I've now doubled my list of personal heros, which used to just consist of Yoko Ono. It was a tough decision, but any clock-painting, ant eater-walking, insane-quote spouting artist is a hero of mine.

"The difference between false memories and true ones is the same as for jewels: it is always the false ones that look the most real, the most brilliant."

"I don't do drugs, I am drugs." Unfortunately I would have like this more last year, when I wouldn't have been reminiscent of Charlie Sheen.

"There are days when I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction."

Now go look at pictures of anteaters. Did you know they looked that crazy? Doesn't their head look like a fifth arm? Alright fine, I'll post a picture.

What on earth?!

They said it couldn't be done

2011-07-31T22:19:00.001-05:00

Ok, maybe no one said out loud: "You cannot build a desk out of cardboard."
But to everyone who seemed doubtful:

dear readers

2011-07-28T10:56:00.000-05:00

I need your opinion. Ever since I first started growing hair in 1987, there's been a serious problem. The problem is that I look like this.

Short hair always seems like a good idea, because there's so much less of it. I can move my head freely, it takes less than a day to try, I can fit through doorways without turning sideways - endless benefits. But I always end up complaining that I want it to grow back.

And when it finally does, well it looks like the above photo.

It's time something was done again, and here are the options.
1) I could embrace the yak hair. These girls are rocking it. They don't have hair quite as thick as mine, but I can dream.

2) I could get a shorter haircut. Just short enough!

3) Or I could get a Really Awesome Haircut.

...but what if it goes terribly wrong and this happens?

What's a girl to do? Start wearing puff vests to balance things out? Shave it? Move to a yak farm? This haircut could be cooler than the last one! I won't complain as much, I promise! Please help me find the answer to life's persistent questions.

tell me your favorite box pun in the comments

2011-07-24T20:50:00.000-05:00

If you thought no "apartment tour" could be more depressing than my last one, I hope you're sitting down. Because you're going to be proven wrong, and because I don't have any furniture for you to sit down on when that happens. Scoot you chair this way for a tour of Brooke's LA room.

TA-DAA the bed. I planned on buying a mattress this week but LA has been an exercise in lowered expectations. The higher the cost of a mattress, the more camping mattresses become surprisingly comfortable. Cardboard boxes work surprisingly well as nightstands.

And what do you know, they also work surprisingly well as desks.

If you love janky things as much as I do, you're probably thinking "What on earth is that nasty thing hanging from the ceiling in these pictures?" Actually everyone's probably thinking that.

The other day I got CRAF-TY (singing voice) and decided to try and make a chandelier out of a plastic bowl and a hawaiian lei, both from the dollar store. I failed, and instead came up with something that looks like a prop from a horror movie about a children's birthday party. Luckily that fits in seamlessly with the theme of the entire room.

More vanity photos. Fish lamp:

The only semi-age-appropriate wall:

And my mug that says "Emily's Bat Mitzvah" on the back:

That's my room in LA. Thanks for stopping by. And please leave you chair here on your way out.

the most important thing

2011-07-22T16:24:00.001-05:00

As most of you know, I've always said the last thing I want this blog to become is a list of my favorite breakfast foods.

Well, apparently that's what it's come to. I realized today breakfast is not only the best meal of the day, but the best meal of the century. At the risk of not building this up enough, let's just dive right in:

Delicious breakfast foods (even ones I can't eat):
pancakes
bacon
eggs (all kinds but scrambled)
those little potatoes
omelets (eggs that deserve their own category)
french toast
yogurt
granola
fruit (except bananas)
cinnamon rolls
muffins
sausages
bisquits
English muffins
bagels
hash browns
cereal

Why don't people go out for breakfast more often? You go out for dinner you're just going to get pasta or a salad or some other garbage. That's the saddest thing I ever heard. After several revisions of this list I'm going to change the title of this blog to "Breakfast Foods" and most of my posts will be "It's the most important meal of the day!"

Stay tuned.

the most complicated exercise routine in the world

2011-07-21T18:14:00.002-05:00

I realized this morning that I've moved 13 times in the last six years. And each time I've transported my belongings using only two oversized suitcases and a vintage carry-on. On my last move, I had packing down to such a science that each of my checked bags weighed exactly 50 pounds, even though I didn't have a scale at home.

Here are some unsolicited packing tips from someone who moves more than twice a year:

Light things (aquarium lamp, running shoes) go in the largest suitcase. For some reason this suitcase is so big that unless you fill it with feathers it is going to be over 50 pounds.

Heavy things (haiku books, sweaters) go in the large suitcase. This suitcase is always packed so full that every little zipper prong is holding on for dear life.

VERY heavy things and valuables go in the non-rolling carry-on suitcase. The carry-on is the only bag without a weight limit, so I try to make it as heavy as possible. This makes for an exhausting trip through the airport, and a miserable time with security as they try to figure out why my carry-on contains hand weights, dried fruit, wet laundry, and an expensive camera. "Is this trip for business or pleasure?" they ask.

"I don't know." I was tired and flustered and barefoot, and I started rambling. "But I put the weights in the carry-on because they were too heavy for my checked bag. Same with the wet laundry. And the weights also help keep my camera dry."

"Too heavy?" He sprayed the weights with something that either tells him if they're explosive or just makes him look busy. "They're only ten pounds each."

"Five-pounds each." I clarified for some reason.

"Well, you'd better be doing a lot of reps."

I thanked him for the advice, took my 70-pound carry-on, and bench-pressed it all the way to my gate.

TM

2011-07-19T08:21:00.000-05:00

Here's an idea:
What if when you put on two pairs of glasses at once, you could see through walls? What if while you were wearing two pairs of glasses you could only speak Danish? What if, in this alternate reality, there were a tv show about a detective team, one guy with glasses who's really perceptive, one guy with glasses who's really good at solving crimes, and a really sassy Danish translator? Any name ideas for this series are welcome.

Another idea:
You know when you get fries at the drive-through, and they come in a paper bag? What if instead of there being a little container of fries in the bag, the WHOLE BAG were full of fries?

Los Angeles, I'm yours

2011-07-18T22:10:00.000-05:00

I guess now is as good a time as any to tell the world that tomorrow morning I'm packing up my striped shirts and my stolen airplane blanket I use as a towel and my lamp that looks like an aquarium and when you flip a little switch the fish swim around, and I'm moving to a new warm sunny city.

Why not shock my system by going from a lazy year in Provence straight to a high-stress advertising agency? Because it's insane at best. But I'm doing it anyway.

When I was 12 I studied piano with a pretty eccentric concert pianist, who after six months of lessons told me to inform my mother that she wouldn't be able to teach me anymore because she was moving to Disneyland that weekend. (There was a language barrier.) On the drive home, as I stretched my sore fingers, I wondered out loud "Why would anyone move to California? Isn't it supposed to fall into the ocean by next year?"

These are the sorts of things cold little girls in Minnesota tell themselves to make it through the day. And these are the sorts of things I want to be telling myself for the rest of my life. But the world's coolest advertising program is in California, and these are sacrifices I have to make.

happily ever after

2011-07-13T14:38:00.000-05:00

"Don't touch him!" I yell at a group of friendly strangers. Every time I take my tiny poodle for a walk, well-meaning people come over and reach their fingers toward him and say "What a sweet little - OH GOODNESS SORRY!" Do not reach your fingers toward my dog.

My dog barks at everyone. This morning when a little old man teetered past our front lawn, my dog barked so loudly I glanced out to make sure his cane wasn't a machine gun.

But, for all that barking at sweet old men, my dog never bites. Or when he does, he has what my family calls "a soft bite." The best definition of a this is that one time he picked up our pet parakeet in his mouth. He just held her there as though his teeth were arms and he was rocking her, and when he set her down she flew back up to her cage, completely unharmed, while the entire family screamed in terror.

And last night while we were walking my dog picked up a huge gray frog in his mouth, and before I could do whatever a responsible pet owner would do at that point, he spit it back out on the ground, gave it a respectful nod, and turned to walk home.

Two conclusions:

The more time I spend with animals, the less I understand about animals.

If my dog ever licks my face I will either throw up or turn into a princess. I think that's how that works.

two of us

2011-07-07T13:49:00.000-05:00

When I'm home in Minnesota (I am right now!) my favorite thing to do is walk my dog. I walk him at least five times a day. For the first leg of the trip he secures our surroundings, smelling every square inch of the park and the neighbors' yards, on both sides of the street.

But on the way home, after every blade of grass has been under his scrutiny and he's sure I'm safe from roadside garbage and sewer grates, he likes to walk right, right, right next to me. So close that his fur brushes up against my leg. And when he does he looks up at me like "Oh excuse me Beautiful - do you come here often?"

Then he runs over and pees on a turtle carcass.

estimated number of people in the audience: three

2011-07-05T11:27:00.000-05:00

Eighteen years from now, my former french kids are going to sound as crazy singing "Five Little Monkeys" as I sound singing this:

Thank you kindy. And you're welcome, France.

go fourth and save

2011-07-03T11:02:00.000-05:00

If you thought the lower quantity of recent posts would lead to higher quality, prepare to be disappointed.

One of my favorite sayings is "lay off the sauce." Specifically, the word sauce in that saying. I love the idea that instead of alcohol, people are drinking sauces.

If I had to drink a sauce it would probably be thai peanut sauce, because I think it would go down pretty smooth. If I were limited to American sauces I would go with barbecue. No reasoning behind that one, in fact - I'm already thinking it was a bad choice. Fish sauce tastes good but, did you know it's actually made of fish? It's not FOR fish, it IS fish. By that logic barbecue sauce would be made by putting a grill into that magic "Will it blend?" blender. It's a scary world we live in, even without people drinking sauces.

If you had to drink a sauce which would you choose and, what is your favorite "Will it blend?" video? Happy late Canada Day and happy early Fourth of July - I hope you bought fireworks.

know-it-all

2011-06-26T19:27:00.000-05:00

Do you know the most depressing thing about my life?

I think I know as much about the workings of a toilet as most plumbers.

The reason this is depressing is that two years ago I would have said the same thing, but can NOW declare with absolute certainty that two years ago I had a rudimentary knowledge of toilets, and it is only recently that I discovered ALL their secrets.

Which means in the next two years I'm sure I'll find myself once again sitting on the bathroom floor, surrounded by rusted chains and broken porcelain. And once again I'll throw my arms (drenched in water of dubious cleanliness) into the air and exclaim "And I thought I knew everything about toilets!"

Life is pretty much day after plumbing-related-disaster-day of finding out more about toilets than I want to know.

This is not my bathroom (click for credit). I'm just trying to add more pictures to my blog.
Look how nicely it breaks up the text.

also I can't stop using my library voice

2011-06-17T00:48:00.000-05:00

I've been devouring books lately.

I use devouring almost-literally because my style of reading is disgustingly similar to my style of eating this 12-ounce box of Junior Mints I bought tonight. It's just shy of a pound but it's just as well it isn't because the size of the box, and the contents of it if we're going to be perfectly honest, are irrelevant. I will eat through the entire package, and when my fingers touch cardboard I will say, with a mouth full of rotten teeth, "Where am I? What time is it? What's going on?" and I will rate it two stars on goodreads, and pick up the next book in the stack.

If anyone has any delicious book recommendations I am all ears. My two favorite genres are murder and humor, and if you know a book that has both I will read it over and over until the day my chocolate-clogged lungs take their last breath.

I st-st-stutter when you ask me what I'm thinkin' 'bout

2011-06-10T10:00:00.015-05:00

Yesterday had been on our calendar for months.

The event? The grand opening of a new thrift store near us. This may not sound huge to you, but when you visit thrift stores at least ten times a week, and when you respond to the question "How are you?" with "Two-dollar J Crew corduroys in light gray and jeweled cardigan, NWT for three dollars," this sort of thing is on the level of a Harry Potter premier where the new Apple product is announced. Our entire week was planned around the grand opening - we couldn't bear the thought of getting there too late and missing everything.

"Do you think that's early enough?"

"What if we get there fifteen minutes after it opens and the store is just empty?"

The scenario was reminiscent of when we saw Winged Migration at the university theater. Don't tell me you haven't heard of Winged Migration. The silent French documentary that takes an in-depth look at the migratory patterns of birds on all seven continents? Nominees for "best documentary" at the Academy Awards are usually a must-see for young people, so we knew it would be a sold-out show. We got there an hour early to get decent seats, and we ran the last couple feet, worried we'd have to stand in the back.

It ended up being just us and a professor in the theater. People were really missing out - it's a rad movie. Even though the professor fell asleep.

Not being the type of people who learn from their mistakes, we rushed to the thrift store grand opening recklessly early, expecting to make fools of ourselves again. Does the average person care about this sort of event? We imagined springing through the doors to see only an old man and some tumbleweed. But when the four cars in front of us all pulled into the thrift store parking lot we knew we were onto something big.

Inside hundreds of people were pushing shopping carts stacked higher than their line of vision with second-hand items. It was the first day of summer vacation, so every adult had five kids orbiting them, jumping out of clothing racks, throwing Harry Potter toys, climbing on old sofas and dressers missing drawers. Teenagers at the door were handing out helium balloons AND weinie dog balloons. This was the big leagues of grand openings. And the result of it all: a one-hour line at the dressing room.

Standing in a line like that is similar, I assume, to being trapped in a mine or elevator. You become friends with the people around you as quickly as germs are transferred to a potato chip when it hits the ground. Within fifteen minutes I found myself telling the middle-aged woman behind me that I thought jeweled capris would hurt her butt, and for some reason confessing that a top I was about to try on was Miley Cyrus brand.

"I would never go out to a regular store and buy this..." I blushed. "But it's so cute!" She exclaimed, eyeing the jeweled capris on the rack and absentmindedly running her hand over her backside. "And it would look so great on you, you know?" Do you know? I thought. Do you even know my name? I could BE Miley Cyrus. I could be trying to gauge my popularity among mothers in urban thrift stores.

"Just make sure you cut the tags off," she added."

Miley Cyrus loves touching her hair. Who knew?

An older lady in front of me, probably in her eighties was sitting very quietly in a wheelchair. She was holding only a sweater, and her gaze was fixed on the empty space between her and the rack of jeans a couple feet away. A man with a cart full of sports jerseys leaned over and asked "What are you thinking about?"

"My mother," said the lady.

"Me too," said the man.

"I think about my mother every day." she whispered. The sweater was shaking in her hands.

My first-born child belongs to Smith's Grocery.

2011-06-09T15:19:00.000-05:00

With the price that goat cheese is in the US I have to assume it's made of goat tears instead of goat milk. But my goat cheese omelet addiction must be satisfied no matter the cost.

Have any ex-expats tried American eggs yet? What on earth! Are they filled with water? But the good news is the shells are a lot more manageable - I have yet to cut myself on one. So my omelets may be loaded with goat tears, but at least they're not laced with human blood.

The worst part is that even after typing this I'm craving omelets.

learn French in one word

2011-05-31T13:24:00.000-05:00

For my friends who don't want to hear a French swear word* 60 times, I'll post a video for you tomorrow**.

For friends who do:

The one where she steps in dog crap is the one I'm most familiar with.

*not really a swear word the way Americans define swear word

**or right now!

Peaches and Ketchup

2011-05-25T19:03:00.000-05:00

Are you still using petfinder.com to look for unfortunate dogs? Because I am.

(Goodness I just typed "I ham" instead of "I am." You can take the girl out of France but you can't take ze crazy French pronunciation of words that start with vowels of ze Hamerican girl!)

Back to dogs that will make you cry:

This is Peaches. She's looking for a place to spend her senior year. I would be all about her spending it with me, but I have a feeling that year has more nasal bleeding than all the other years combined.

The combination of French accents and dogs reminds me of the day I taught my kids the word "dog" last year. Among the delicious American cuisine that has been brought to France is the hot dog, which the French didn't feel deserved a French translation, and kept its original name, 'ot dog." A lot of food words in France have American names: chicken, fillet-o-fish, cheeseburger, brownies etc. This made my kids learn food and animals easily. Except for dog. They were all confused by dog.

The day I taught it, one kid raised his hand:
"Wait... if 'dog' means dog, what does 'hot dog' mean?"
Well, it actually means a hot dog.

We all joke when we're little that hot dogs are made of dogs, or maybe vice versa, but it's never a huge problem. We learn both words at about the same time, a time when we're still learning about cars and gravity and how our hands move, so it doesn't seem like the craziest thing.

Imagine just getting slammed with this information at age ten.

OH MY GOSH ARE THEY MADE OF DOGS?!?
AH I'M GOING TO VOMIT!
THIS IS WHY I'M A VEGETARIAN! THIS IS WHY!
THERE ARE DOGS IN MY STOMACH!

I miss those guys.

a sponge with no pants

2011-05-24T07:38:00.000-05:00

I'm a dangerous weapon in the kitchen. No I don't know how to make pie or whatever people do in kitchens besides assemble sandwiches and heat up little smokies. I'm dangerous because last summer when we were trying to figure out a way to clean the stove, I recommended a random combination of products that my 16-year-old cousin said "would definitely kill us all." Come to think of it, I really should ask him what those were.

My sister Paige makes pies and when she does laundry she knows whether things go in hot, cold, or flavored water (or however laundry goes), and when she came to visit last month she was constantly amazing me.

My definition of a stain is anything that doesn't come off after I brush it lightly with my hand. (side note: Holi colors do come off car interiors with a light brush of your hand! they're on my all-inclusive list of 4 non-staining products which also includes water, confetti, and live spiders.)

This definition leaves a lot of room for AMAZEMENT when my sister starts cleaning my apartment. She was de-staining things left and right.

"That's incredible! how did you get that clean - it was stained!" I would ask.

"It was some soy sauce on a plate, I wiped if off with a sponge."

"A sponge! Who would have thought!"

My sister might tell you I'm just easily impressed because my cleaning skills range from non-existent to making things dirtier than when I started, but DON'T LISTEN TO HER, she has powers we mortals cannot understand.

Today is a busy day! Time to scrub this pile of dishes with some matches and a can of hairspray

can't hurry love

2011-05-22T22:44:00.000-05:00

Lately I've been wondering how I could have more nightmares.

Or that's what ended up happening. Originally I just wanted to adopt a dog.

A tiny dog! Who would be excited to see me when I come home (after I find somewhere to go) and I can feed him dog treats and we can watch tv together and go on walks and stay up late talking about what happened on the bachelor.

So Saturday we went to the dog shelter, and I picked a random one that seemed promising. "What about that brown dachshund?" I asked - it was hard to see much in the huge pile of dogs scrambling over each other. The worker at the shelter took him and put us in a special room with him, so we could get a closer look. Huge mistake.

He had a long tail like a rat, and a creepy way of running around in circles through the same puddle of urine over and over again. And the worst of it was, he completely ignored us. Why wasn't he rushing toward me, ready to be loved and taken on walks and fed chicken when no one was watching? Where was my bachelor-watching buddy?

He must have heard my thoughts he stopped his mad pacing and seemed to notice us for the first time. He gazed slowly at me, then at Sean. Then he headed toward Sean at a determined sprint, and blew his nose on his pants, leaving a huge bloodstain. That broke the spell, and it was right back to mad pacing through the puddle of urine. Only now we were screaming and the dog was making a crazy bloody snorting sound.

"I think he liked you" I said as we peeled out of the shelter parking lot.

We actually might not be getting a dog anytime soon.

it's shocking

2011-05-21T00:20:00.000-05:00

Saying this blog is going to get less exciting now that I'm not living in Europe is like when I won the award for "Most Likely to Have a Mohawk" a year after I grew out my mohawk. I tried to pick an example you could all relate to.

You're welcome.

Things will liven up once I get used to things here, and stop telling people that they miss me, speaking French to strangers, and yelling "I can't believe this cheese costs eight freaking euros" at the grocery store to anyone who cares to listen.

In the meantime: you all miss me.

from rags to whiners

2011-05-18T23:20:00.000-05:00

Two observations after my first week (almost) back in the US:

One: Cancer awareness ads everywhere. Everyone needs to get themselves checked. Observation.

Two: I've overheard/participated in four conversations where people bragged about how poor they were as children. Why is this logical or interesting to brag about? It never happened once in France - in fact, twice French people told me they came from upper-class families.

So here's some news for you, fellow Americans: that's rough that you were poor as a child. I, on the other hand, was fabulously wealthy. Your family ate stew every night and considered chicken McNuggets at McDonalds a special-occasion treat? You poor things. I ate nuggets every single day. SOLID GOLD nuggets. And when they broke all my teeth, my wealthy parents had my personal dentist put new teeth in. SOLID GOLD teeth. And then I had my dentist change the television channel for me and make me a sandwich, because pushing the buttons on the remote makes my fingers sore, and the sandwich was made of SOLID GOLD. And my favorite show was Sesame Street.

The US is pretty fun. I miss France sometimes, but I haven't been gone long enough to miss it a lot.

grounded

2011-05-11T03:00:00.006-05:00

I love clothes.

If my family were nudists I would have been an outrageous teenager - I would have always been sneaking out and buying cardigans and purple jeans and my parents would find a stash of striped t-shirts in my closet and tell me that they weren't mad, just disappointed but I wouldn't be allowed to drive the car for a month and do nudists have closets?

In real life I was a pretty boring teenager.

If you are reading this on Thursday then I am on a plane over the ocean and I'm either witnessing some crazy travel-related shenanigans or I'm sleeping. Come back next week to find out which! And cross your fingers that there are movies this time.

Welcome to meet you

2011-05-10T08:00:00.001-05:00

Today I intentionally planned the worst day possible: I decided to change my address AND close my bank account, hoping it would turn into eight heinous hours of missing documents, complicated forms, rude customer service and long lines, and by the end of the day I would be screaming "Good riddance, France!" and I wouldn't be sad at all when I leave on Thursday.

But somehow, it only took a half hour? I still can't believe it.

And twenty minutes of that half hour was spent chatting with the woman who worked at the post office - who showed me a collectible stamp set with her eight favorite places in France, and told me about all the places I hadn't been to. After I bought them she followed me over to the table where I was sticking them on postcards, and helped me decide who should get each one. Then she said "You know, I thought of a couple more things I want to tell you about Alsace," and after that she started explaining how the French postal system works (everything goes in a box, then they send it to people), and showing off English phrases she knew (including the title of this post), and she told me that everyone in Marseille was going to miss me and that she loved Americans and that I was so great.

The people in line behind me had the kind of day I was expecting to have.

Then at the bank I handed in my forms and the man at the counter said "impeccable." and wished me a safe trip back to the US. That was it - nothing missing, no extra things to make copies of. No stories about Alsace or the postal system either, but I had met my daily quota so that's fine. I think I've finally mastered French paperwork, after eight months here. Just in time to leave. I've also started crying in a bank while my account was being closed. Check that off the bucket list. I don't know what's wrong with me.

And the best part of the day - the woman at the post office asked where I was from and when I said the US she replied "Oh, but I thought your post cards were written in English, where did you learn to write in English so well?"

Come to the US with me, Post Office Woman, and I will show you my eight favorite places in America. They are all ice cream shops and animal shelters. I'm not sure if there's a collectible stamp set available.

Marseille is sending me out in style

2011-05-10T02:46:00.000-05:00

looking for a low-budget time machine

2011-05-05T11:30:00.000-05:00

My trip home is at least three times more exciting than yours, and I don't even know if there's an in-flight movie yet.

I got an email last month about some awesome new changes to my itinerary. What was previously a boring old Marseille-Paris-Atlanta-home flight has become a fascinating trip all over Europe that treated the laws of time as loose guidelines: several trips from Marseille to Paris in a row, an overnight stay in Germany, and no transatlantic flight. I called the airline and they gladly remedied the situation. Here is the solution they came up with:

A flight from Marseille to Paris, followed by three different flights from Paris to Atlanta, all at the exact same time, and then from Atlanta to home.

I am tough to please. I called the airline again, and the customer service agent looked up my schedule. "Ah, yes, this is what we call a 'residue.'" she explained. "Please be aware that you will need to catch all three flights to Atlanta at once, or your final flight will be cancelled and you will not get your luggage."

I'm usually pretty optimistic, but I have low expectations for my ability to fly on three different planes at the same time, and when I explained this to the agent she said she would see what she could do and hung up on me. The next two did the same thing. There could be a problem with their phone connection, or maybe they just love doing everything in threes, or maybe they just love doing everything in threes, or maybe they just love doing everything in threes.

you can taste it

2011-05-03T09:40:00.000-05:00

I would describe Marseille cuisine as Kinder and goat cheese, but everyone else in the world would probably say bouillabaisse.

Now thanks to Fancy Fast Food, the traditional meal from the "seaside town of Marseille" (I love it when other people talk about Marseille) just got a thousand miles closer! Baja Fresh closer! The plastic mussels might make it somewhat less authentic, but a drunk homeless man isn't going to come over and shake you while you're eating it so, you're already a long way from authenticity.

vous me manquez

2011-05-01T15:39:00.000-05:00

I brought a camera to school on my last day to take pictures of my kids. If you saw how cute they are, you would cry, and they're probably going to be my desktop background for the next year and half, but since you can't see them, I'll show you some other pictures of my school instead.

That's the view from one of the classrooms. It's hard to tell because it's so gorgeous and sunny and I'm using a cheap camera, but they have a sweet view of the Marseille skyline, the sea, and the cathedral on the hill.

Lilacs in the staff room, next to a Marseille soccer ball (or football if you like that) and a French passive aggressive note about the scrap paper bin. At my other school the teachers are always crossing out misspellings on the signs in the staff room, hopefully I can get a picture of that later.

Hallway. This school if four stories tall. One of my other schools if five, but this one feels like it has more stairs for some reason.

All of my schools say on the outside whether they were a boys or girls school a hundred years ago. It freaked me out when I walked by them in September.

A street near my school. The best street in Marseille in my opinion, and I think that even after I've just walked up it. Which I will never do again. Just kidding, there's a gelato place on that street.

ode to snacks

2011-04-26T13:47:00.000-05:00

The bad thing about vegetable chips is that they act like they're good for you but they're just as unhealthy as regular potato chips. Maybe worse? Also they look like potpourri.

Potatoes were a vegetable too once. Or a fruit. Or an animal. I don't know much about nutrition.

and you'll like the chicken.

2011-04-23T08:44:00.000-05:00

I found this on my search for new vocab words today:

"Voilà je suis allée voir en bijouterie aujourd'hui pour me renseigner pour me faire un troisième trou au lobe de mes oreilles. La bijoutière m'a conseillée de rester à deux trous car j'avais des petits lobes, et que ça faisait plus joli sur moi. Qu'en pensez-vous ?"

Only in a country where when I told my friend I was running a half marathon she said "No you're not." and where restaurant requests are often followed by "No, that's not for you. You'll have the chicken."

that isn't one of them.

2011-04-22T13:19:00.000-05:00

The triangle is the hottest shape this season.

It's tough to say which looks worse. Wait it's easy, this looks worse.

twenty days

2011-04-22T09:41:00.001-05:00

I don't know how I feel about air travel.

happy April Halloween.

2011-04-21T10:53:00.000-05:00

Today I love looking at photos of people dressed up as the Royal Tenenbaums.

Someone else loves stamping FAIL all over them; they have a website also it looks like.

RANUNCULAS!

2011-04-20T14:31:00.001-05:00

I had a feeling it wasn't radish.

best friends

2011-04-19T02:04:00.000-05:00

Because I never want to forget my year in France, I take about a dozen photos of dogs on the street every day. Six-foot dogs, ferel dogs, dogs in sweaters, three-legged dogs, and this weekend, dog news - our local sidewalk artist got a new dog. And it's a dachshund!

Dachshunds and Shih Tzus are the two breeds I'm using in my newest study to prove that cuteness and and ease of spelling are inversely related in small dog breeds.

Enough dog math. All day Sunday the artist was lying on the sidewalk, drawing, and the dog curled up next to him the way my dog curls up next to me on the couch.

Now that it's almost done he spends most of his time running circles around it, glancing up at the crowds and then his owner going "They like it! I think they really like it!"

This just strengthens my belief that no matter who you are or what you do, a dog is going to make it better.

People who still need dogs: The old woman who dresses all in pink and sings 50's French love songs by the port. Her dog would sit a few feet away and stare at her like "My GOODNESS you sing like an angel."

Street performer who dresses like Mozart. His dog would also be dressed like Mozart.

I'm out of ideas. Most people here have dogs already.

maybe it's radish.

2011-04-15T07:34:00.000-05:00

GOOD NEWS: now that work is over, I have time to admit to myself that I've had a fever all week, and probably bronchitis.

GOOD NEWS: as long as I don't go to the doctor, it will stay "probably bronchitis" and not turn into "Brooke, you have bronchitis." I should write a book on how to not get diagnosed with any illness ever again. It would be very short.

GOOD NEWS:: today I finally did something I've wanted to be a tradition since I moved here, and bought myself flowers at the Friday market to cheer myself up. (I didn't want cheering myself up to be a tradition, just the part about flowers.)

I may be the only girl ever to graduate from my university without taking a flower-arranging class. This probably would have earned me a C-. All I know about these flowers is their name starts with R in French and that the orange ones were moldy. What an exciting tradition.

Hope your Friday was as good as mine.

I can think of witches good and bad

2011-04-14T10:58:00.000-05:00

I decided to go out like a champion and make all of my students peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches on the last day. And I since I found peanut butter at a French grocery store, I thought most of them would have tried it before, and it wasn't going to be that impressive.

Wrong. I have never been so impressive in my life. "Where did you find peanuts, and what did you use to crush them?" was the most-asked question, especially by children holding a paper and pen.

And out of 400 kids, only one was allergic to peanuts. When I asked his teacher if anyone in that class had allergies and she said his name, he got defensive.

Michael: "WHAT? NO. NO. No I'm not. I am not allergic to them."
Teacher: "Your mom wrote on a form at the beginning of the year that you were?"
Michael: "NO NOT TRUE. I am not allergic, absolutely positively am not allergic to them."
Teacher: "Alright, I guess if you want to eat it you can."

Me: "What?"
Teacher: "He's an adult, he makes his own decisions."
Me: "Isn't he seven?"
Teacher: "Yes."

Another teacher explained to me why, aside from that boy (may he rest in peace), no one is allergic to peanuts - peanut allergies are a European thing. It takes a minute to make sense, but most of the students are from Africa, where peanut allergies aren't as common. And every kid double-checked with me that there was no meat in the sandwiches, because not only would that not be halal, that would be disgusting.

I thought peanut butter would be an acquired taste - but the kids either so respectful or so excited to try something new, that in every class they waited until everyone had been served, then ate the tiny little things in about thirty bites, chewing very slowly and whispering "C'est trop bon..." (It's so good) like it was the finest delicacy in the world.

Anyway, my job is over now. I still have a couple more posts about teaching that I guess I'll put up later. Some might be more relevant to my year as an ex-pat (don't love that word) than one about sandwiches.
If that's possible.

and then I cooked it and ate it

2011-04-13T00:37:00.000-05:00

A lot of times the French eggs I buy still have feathers stuck to them. And I love it.

Is that BAD?

I'm not saying she's a gold-digger...

2011-04-11T06:11:00.000-05:00

I'll be the first to admit it, I listen to pretty wimpy music. My favorite artists are all under a hundred pounds, have sweet beards, like medieval history, and would probably be caught dancing with a beaver before running a half marathon. And since I'm doing the second one, it's becoming kind of unsupportable (can't remember English equivalent of this word) to listen to while I'm running.

It's the most embarrassing thing ever but I LOVE running to rap music. And pop music.

Let's take a short break to think about how awesome a music video with dancing beavers would be. I can't stop thinking about that idea now.

And we're back. My iPod has been filling up with some unusual stuff lately. It's half the nerdy things one would expect me to listen to, and half Eminem, Lil Jon, and Lady Gaga. Which brings me to my question.

Usually I'm too "in the zone" or something to stop and notice just how terrible these lyrics are. But I caught this one at a stoplight:

It's not that I don't like you, I'm just at a party. And I am sick and tired of my phone ringing.

Are there listeners out there that say to themselves "That's what I've always wanted to say, I could just never find the words."?

And my next question for these listeners, can you give me some more music recommendations?

does such a sport exist?

2011-04-08T04:42:00.000-05:00

Nothing drives home how bad my French is like 400 children who speak way better than I do. It's not always their grammar or pronunciation, but it's the way they always know what word to use, and when, and I'm so jealous of them for it.

I was running in the neighborhood where my kids live the other day, and I saw almost a dozen of them. So the next day I was expecting to have several come up and say "I saw you running yesterday!" Instead ten kids stopped me in the hall and announce "I saw you doing sport yesterday!"

"Doing sport?" Why is your language so strange and how do you keep track of it all?

My only consolation is that maybe none of them were positive I was running. They decided to keep their options open with the verb "doing sport." Maybe I was playing a city-wide game of soccer, where one goal is the sea and the other is Aix-en-Provence. Maybe I had just gotten a text that the ball was over by the Castellane metro stop, and was racing six blocks to make it there before the other team's forward. Maybe.

for the last time, it's a wheel.

2011-04-08T04:08:00.000-05:00

Everyone's favorite four-year-olds, a week later.

Me: Do you remember the song we sang last week, about the bus?
Class: Yes! Yes I do! Yes! Hello my name is Léo! Yes! My cat threw up and there were chunks in it! Yes!
Me: Ok... do you remember what a bus has?
Class: CASSETTE TAPES!

I just remembered

2011-04-07T11:48:00.001-05:00

This is my new favorite outfit AND the reason I have this blog instead of a fashion blog.

Also, the hair on the sides of my face doesn't grow longer than a couple inches and is not interested in gravity. My mom says there's nothing worse than having a kid with hair like that. I can think of something worse and it's spelled b-e-i-n-g t-h-a-t k-i-d. But now I'm an adult.

Also, while doing crafts this afternoon a girl licked some paste and told me "it tastes like the sea!"

Also, every day I get a hundred requests for kisses, which I change to "How about an American high five instead! Yes!" because I'm not interested in a lawsuit or a virus sampling. Today while I was sitting down, a six-year-old boy sprinted over, grabbed both of my ears, and tried to kiss me on the mouth. I used my lightning-fast reflexes to jump away, and then yelled "How about a high five!" with way more enthusiasm than usual. "You're so beautiful." he answered.

Also, after sing-along in kindergarten, I started to roll up the rug before leaving, but a five-year-old (named Wally) stopped me. "Leave the rug out," he explained, "it's Philosophy Workshop Hour."

Also, my second-favorite class is throwing me a going-away party next week. They're each going to bring in a favorite dessert or beverage to share and we'll have a "light tasting." They're seven years old.

Please don't leave me France.

attention parents:

2011-04-06T06:57:00.000-05:00

If you have a beautiful six-old boy with beautiful shoulder-length hair, I am going to accidentally call him a girl. He will not like it. I'm sorry.

Fortunately, he has a very short memory.

Unfortunately, so do I.