Sprizee :: A simple girl replete with complications

Just About Glad.

I'm particular about things.  Like when I take the bus to work, it can't just happen on a whim.  I have to have certain things with me.  I mean, I don't have to.  (But, I kind of do.) 

A charged iPod with at least one podcast I haven't heard yet (preferably This American Life or The Writer's Almanac).  A copy of The New Yorker, Scientific America, The Economist, or the book I'm currently reading.  Something to drink.  An umbrella or a hat, and at least one scarf.  Even on a perfectly sunny day.  Because, well, you never know.

But when I left the house this morning exactly on time, with exactly those things, with exactly every intention of catching the bus, I got sidetracked by this mixed tape my friend Jason made me YEARS ago.  It could go all the way back to high school but I'm pretty sure it was given to me during the college years.

I had completely forgotten about it until I stumbled across it last night.  I popped it in my tape deck this morning and by the time I had made it near the park and ride, I wasn't ready to stop listening to it.  So I made an executive decision that I hate this planet and love buying extra gas to sit in traffic while my engine idles.  Because of that, I drove right by that bus stop and hopped on the freeway instead.

Three songs in and sitting in traffic, I could have cared less my car was barely moving. More time to spend with the fantastic mixed tape. 

 

I need to find digital copies of all these songs and recreate it in an itunes playlist. Jason's knack for compiling the perfect mixed tape is legendary.  That, or I need to add a walkman to the list of things I bring along on the bus ride to work.

Who uses cassettes anymore?  I think I'm turning into that crazy uncle of yours.  (The one with the stacks of 8 track tapes he'd blare from the garage while detailing his pea green Dodge Charger.) But I'm okay with that.

Update: I sent this playlist to Jason and he informed me, "The content is totally me but the label is totally not me.  Maybe Misty?"  Someone fess up.  I need this mystery solved! 

This month being April I'm really into...

...royally sucking at table air hockey, insomnia, catching up with friends after that month away from Seattle in March, belated birthday celebrations, tulips, continuing to hoard film cameras, walks around Greenlake, Sam Roberts We Were Born in a Flame (how is it possible that this is the first I'm hearing of him?), songs sung in French, predicting that my automatic garage door opener is about to break (it keeps getting louder and louder), Forever XXI, talking my friends into going camping in May, mixed CDs, surprise FedEx packages and Fran's Gray Salt Caramels.

The rainbow connection.

This is what I ran into when I went for a walk last night to run some errands around my neighborhood.  Minutes later I walked by a stranger who was taking a picture of something with his cellphone camera. But I wasn't really paying attention.  Apparently he could tell I wasn't paying attention because as I walked by him he grabbed my arm and told me to look up.  That's right.  A strange man I've never met before grabbed my arm.  Um, hello?  Boundaries.  Anyways, then I noticed the giant rainbow above us.   I love my neighborhood. 

Speaking of Ballard, I wasn't able to make it to the Sunset Bowl auction on Tuesday but I'd still really love to get my hands on one of those bowling pins.  I miss Sunset Bowl already, sob.

Each little tear that falls from your eyes.

It was the summer between third and fourth grade.  I remember my dad, who had long been divorced from my mom, picking me up from my grandparents and explaining that my mom was having an episode.  My grandparents had passed this information along to him but requested they be the ones to tell me. Of course, he felt he should be the one to tell me, so he went right ahead, leaving me with the responsibility of pretending I didn't know this information when I did. By the time I got back to my grandparents house the next day, I was overwhelmed, overstressed, and totally freaked out.  I hid in the bathroom for a good hour, until my grandparents were finally able to coax me out.  Then I crawled into my grandfather's lap and sobbed uncontrollably at the uncertainty of it all.  That's the first time I remember being scared.

It was the summer between fifth and sixth grade.  My dad had moved away from my grandparents so I was just visiting him somewhere, in the desert, in the middle of nowhere California.  The first morning there, in strange new surroundings, I woke up to the horrendous sound of my dad moaning in pain.  I stumbled into his room to find him unable to speak and mumbling incoherently.  I called 911 and an ambulance carted him away.  Later I would find out it was a brain aneurysm.  I knew absolutely no one in a 300 miles radius and I was suddenly very alone.  That's the second time I remember being scared.

It was the fall between eight and ninth grade.  I got a call during school that my step dad was in the intensive care unit with a 5% chance of survival.  Someone drove me to the hospital and I prepared myself for the worst.  Later I would find out it was an aortic aneurysm.  That's the third time I remember being scared.

My mom, my dad, my step dad.  They're all still alive.  And yet, I still have this awful tendency to jump to the worse conclusion every time I get the chance. I am constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I have no childhood memories of being afraid of a monster in my closet or under my bed.  Generally, I have fond memories of my childhood, honest.  But I can admit that to this day, I remain unable to avoid jumping to the worst possible conclusion in five seconds flat.  Some habits are hard to break. Then again, that's probably where I get my wicked sense of humor.  After all, the sweet is never as sweet without the sour. 

Don't think. Just shoot.

Tonight the University Bookstore is hosting a reading and book signing at 7 PM for Michelle Bates, author of Plastic Cameras: Toying with Creativity.  If you go, don't forget to high five me on your way in the door.  Damn, we're cool.

"Believe it or not, there is a huge interest in plastic cameras and low-tech photography these days. If you want to get in on all the fun, join us to listen to Michelle Bates discuss the proper care and creative uses of the Holga, the Diana, and any of the other loveable little toy cameras available."

Speaking of vintage film cameras, I'm currently obsessed with the idea of picking up an Olympus XA.  I already have too many film cameras I'm not shooting with.  So why do I want another one?  Because soon it will be summer and the days will be long and perfect for photo strolls through downtown, the Olympic Sculpture Park, Pike Place Market, Capitol Hill and Lincoln Park.  The list goes on and on (inside my head).

Pictures Of You.

Late yesterday afternoon, I got a text from a friend asking if we could meet up because he had a belated birthday gift to give me.  Well, who am I to argue if someone wants to give me a gift?  The only thing was that I headed out the door to run some errands downtown.  Turns out that's where he was headed too so we met up at Nordstrom Cafe and, over some super overpriced bottled beverages, I tore open the pretty paper wrapping to uncover this awesome Toy Camera Handbook!

This is the same friend that accompanied The Dude and I on the road trip down to Oregon for the Pre Classic.  You might say we're both kind of obsessed with photography.  Others might say we share a passion for pictures.  I would never say this.  Others might, but not me.  Anyways, since it was Sunday we ended up closing out the cafe before I was able to run any of my errands.  He kept asking me if I needed to go but, honestly, I knew those same boring stores would be there tomorrow or the next day. 

Besides, I needed enough time to tell him how much the camera he helped pick out for me for Christmas sucks.   And he needed enough time to tell me that I had a poppy seed stuck in my teeth.  Seriously, you need a friend like him. 

Most of those errands never got done.  Either the stores were closed by the time we split off in our own directions or I was too busy enjoying the walk along all those rainy downtown streets soaking up the sounds of my city.  But I wouldn't have it any other way.

Everyone needs music, sweet music.

Last night on the drive home, flipping radio stations, I stumbled across a song by Journey playing on the radio.  I had completely forgotten how fantastic Journey is, so the minute I got home I went looking for my Journey CD, digging through the boxes upon boxes of CDs upstairs only to come up empty handed.  This, this is not an uncommon occurrence.  The Dude has over 100 GB of music on CDs from classic to urban hiphop so when I go on the prowl, I'm rarely able to find that one CD I actually want. 

After lamenting to The Dude about this and his denials that he had ever seen this Journey CD anywhere in our house, he announced that even if we did actually own it (maybe I lost it in college?) that it wouldn't be worth the hours it would take to find it.  So he pulled up Amazon and bought a new digital copy.  (No awful rights management coding and a standard format.  Get onboard iTunes, hmmm?)

After that we spent the evening going through all the number one hits in the US from 1990 all the way back to 1974.  The Dude figured out the song that was a number one hit the day he was born is awful...so then he went and bought that too.  You're having my baby by Paul Anka and Odie Coates.  It is indeed super awful.  Which made me scared to look at the song most popular at my birth.  Turns out I faired much better than The Dude since I got Rich Girl by Hall & Oates. Such a travesty. 

Pretty much everything I know about music I owe in part to The Dude.  When we met that Journey CD was probably the only decent music album in my collection.  My tiny stack of CDs back in the day also included En Vogue and the soundtrack to The Bodyguard.  Um, yeah. He's the one that introduced me to The Clash, The Smiths, U2, James.  (Sorry sweetie.  You got robbed.)

What song was most popular when you were born?

I finally updated that pesky Flickr profile page.

I like five o’clock shadows, old vintage film cameras, a good secret, feisty sparring in a good old fashion debate, people that make me laugh, curling up with a good book, the violin, and quoting song lyrics.

I do not like people that refuse to go the speed limit, unwarranted meanness, and the icy scrape of a snowboarder behind me hauling down the mountain.

Feels like lightning running through my veins, everytime I look at you.

His name was Chris.  In third grade.  Mrs. Wainwright's class.  My first crush.  He was the closest thing to a miniature version of Rick Ashley that my small town could offer up.  His parents owned a house on the beach and he talked about sailing a lot.  He was very WASPy and I was very smitten.  I think I ended up shoving him and making faces often just to prove how not into him I was.  As if. 

His name was Dan.  In sixth grade.  He lived in the neighborhood and was friends with my best friend Jack.  (I lost touch with Jack once he moved away a year later but every now and then I still find myself wondering what ever happened to him.  Is he happy?  Married?  Kids?  Jail?  Jack didn't have the best childhood.)  But Dan had a heart of gold.  I still have no idea why I never told Dan I liked him. Other than the obvious.  Too shy.
 
His name was Andy.  In junior high.  His dad was a pastor and he was older.  By two whole years! He had friends that drove!  And so he asked me on a date to Mount Rainer's Paradise Lodge.  He was going with a bunch of friends.  Older friends.  I panicked, I think.  It's mostly a blur. All I know for sure is I never went on that date and for the next year my face would turn bright red at the mention of his name.  Still too shy, even when the boy liked me.

His name was Byron.  In high school.  Mrs. Schuck's Humanities class.  I shamelessly flirted with him from Beowulf to Romulus and Remus and he shamelessly flirted right back.  Then the perfect opportunity presented itself.  Tolo.  I rehearsed the order and the questions until I had my (lame and uncreative) speech perfectly memorized.  Byron, do you have a date to tolo yet? Do you want to go with me? The only part of the equation I had left out was if he responded yes to the first question.  He responded "yes".  On autopilot I replied, "Do you want to go with me?".   

His name was James.  In high school.  His brother had a crush on me, and I had a crush on him.  Years later, in college, I'd end up dating the brother of the crush and realized their entire family was crazy.  Nice, but crazy. Also, they were way too into their church.  We're talking wearing jewelry, makeup, and cutting your hair were all super sinful acts.  Sinner!

His name was Shane.  In college.  My friend Jamey and I shared a Psychology class with him our first quarter.  He sat in the same seat every day near the front.  We, in turn, always sat two rows behind him. I also had another class with him.  But I didn't talk to him all quarter and later I received my first and only D in, you guessed it, Psychology.  I never talked to him.  But I still remember that crush. 

Some things are hard to forget.  Or worth remembering.  Probably both.

Costa Rica Fotografías

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