Sunday, March 29, 2009

"...I guess we'll just have to adjust..."

Readers of this little pink blog may recall my confession about being addicted to gossip blogs. Whilst browsing my blog of choice the other day, I came across the trailer for Spike Jonze's film adaptation of Maurice Sendak's "Where the Wild Things Are."

Now, as the daughter of a school librarian and the sister of a university librarian I can tell you that it is not common for members of the PT family to give much consideration to movies adapted from books. The book is, as you all know, always better.

And in the case of a children's book, the truth is there just often isn't enough plot to make the book into a full feature movie without completely compromising the heart of the book. And "Where the Wild Things Are" is particularly close to our family. And it is the bread and butter of my mothers' story time for her kindergarten classes at the beginning of each school year. (And because Shirl is Shirl, the reading is then complimented with a craft that involves construction paper and a paper plate that when it's finished is the mask Max wears. Because she's amazing and brilliant.)

I watched the trailer for "Where the Wild Things Are" with the expectation that I'd be rolling my eyes by the end.

That wasn't the case. But I will tell you the reason I think I'll actually go see this movie is because of the amazing Arcade Fire song used in the trailer. See for yourself and try to tell me you didn't get a little teary-eyed.



And here is the full song, preformed live by these amazing musicians. Ahhh the power of music...

Thursday, March 26, 2009

"...Mama said there'd be days like this..."

The older I get and the more asshole, bastard, douchebag and downright mean strangers I come in contact with, the more I appreciate what a good job my parents did when they raised me.


This is not to say that I'm a perfect daughter, sister, girlfriend, friend, employee. I'm not. I know this. But all the years of getting talked to and getting reminded of how to be a kind and decent and compassionate person were, I realize now, critically important.

My parents always taught me that one, no one has to put up with my shit and two, everyone should be treated fairly. So simple. So basic. But so, so fundamentally important.

I'm not sweet and gentile all of the time. This blog is a testament to that. I whine and complain and generally carry on when I'm stressed out or pissed off.

But never in my life, ever, have I treated someone who works in a shop or a Starbucks or a restaurant or as a bank teller or whatever as a second class citizen.

I see customers treating employees in the service industry like crap. And it honestly makes me want to give the employees a hug when it's my turn in line. I want to take their hand after someone just handed them their ass and say "I'm nice. Take your time." And it makes me want to say to the mean customer "Does your mother know how you treat people? What would she think?"

We're all people, people. We're people with feelings and shit going on and hard lives that some of us can't even imagine. So be nice. Be kind. Smile. Someone who is having a bad day might think of that smile from the nice girl in line at their coffee counter and forget about the assholes he or she had to face that day.

Joe and Shirl taught me that from day one.





Tuesday, March 24, 2009

"...sugar (do-do-do-do-do-do) ohhh honey honey you are my candy girl..."

I've never been very good about sticking to an honest to god diet. For about two years, I was hard core about calorie restriction (1100 cal a day) and two hour workouts because I was hanging out with a friend who was the same way. I had a partner in crime. For one of those years, I was a heartbroken fucked up mess. Since I'm an emotional non-eater I would maybe force down a cookie and drink a bottle of pepsi. All day. Because of the heartbreak, you see. And then go lift weights for an hour and kill myself on the treadmill.

When I'm happy (as I am now) I'm all "Wee! Let's order a pizza! And make brownies for dessert! And skip the gym/post dinner walk!" Which is ironic since my parents are big emotional eaters. My sisters and I are the complete opposite.

Now, for as thankful as I am to be out of those dark days of "situational depression due to emotional stress," my fat ass and chubby thighs kind of long for the days two years ago when I was skinny mini. Yes, it was unhealthy. But damn, I was HOT for the first time in my life. Now I'm all soft and pudgy around the edges again. I don't have a six pack any more and my bras are a little tighter.

Which is not to say that I'm completely disgusted with the soft, pudgy bits. My boobs are certainly bigger now than they were when I was two sizes smaller. And the running is making the muscles wake up again and now in anticipation of the brownies I'll eat at night, I run three miles in the morning. I'm hoping the running benefits overtake the downfalls of the fatty snacks.

Honestly, exercising is a great way to still eat what you want and not feel guilty about it. If you run a 5K every morning, why the fuck should anyone tell you you don't deserve that chocolate milkshake?

And besides, I have a boyfriend who happens to like the soft, pudge covered muscles. How can you have both the muscle and the pudge if you don't go for a run and then drink a milkshake right?

I just want a little less pudge is all. Without losing the "full-B-cup-for-the-first-time-in-my-life" boobies again. It's not too much to ask for is it?

Saturday, March 21, 2009

"... home, where my love lies waiting silently for me..."

This morning while driving to work I caught the tail end of one of those personal stories on NPR about a girl who is stuggling with life right now. The part I heard involved her talking about a conversation with her father about moving home. Home, for her, being a farm in Maine.

I very nearly had to pull the car over to have a good cry.

I found myself saying the same thing to my dad earlier this week for various reasons. I was getting home from work very late and was in one of those "fuck it, I'm quitting my life here in the city and moving back home to the sticks" kind of moods.

Of course, on most days, I love my life in Pittsburgh. My house and my kitties and my manfriend and my running path in Frick Park and the access to fun things to do are almost always enough to make me happy when bad things happen.

But while driving home in the dark and crying into my phone, it took an enormous amount of strength for me to get my car to Point Breeze instead of home to my parents in Beaver County.

As a 26 year old woman, I know (when I'm rational) that home is never the same once you leave it. And that it's not healthy to want to run away when things are scary.

But it's nice to know, courtesy of the woman on NPR this morning, that I'm not the only grown-up who holds on to that idealized "my parents will make it ok" mentality once in a while.

That being said, I am off tomorrow and of course will be going home to spend the day with my parents. I made the "I need a hug from you, Ma" phone call this morning. My mom's response was, as always, "It'll be nice to have you. Send me an email about what you want for lunch and a snack and supper."

It's just for the day, but I can go home again.

Friday, March 13, 2009

"...you know you're my saving grace..."

I have a fun story for you all. And I wish there was more photographic evidence. Those of you who haven't met me... this story might not be that funny. But here is a clue into the basic genetic makeup of PT: GIRLY GIRL. To a fault. Like, some people in my family have never seen me without mascara girly girl. Like, wear a skirt 6 days a week girly girl. Jason knows this but,bless his heart, doesn't ever let that keep him from trying to make me outdoorsy or handy. And he loves it when I get dirty. That, ironically, is when the girliest girly girl comes out. Somehow, he thinks it is endearing, not irritating...

Let us proceed.

Setting: Jason's basement where there is a workbench set up, some sort of powertool I've never seen before and a vice grip of some sort. There is a pile of old maple flooring from a skating rink in Latrobe laying in his driveway. (Craigslist - the original "reduce, reuse, recycle")



[Enter PT stage left.]



PT: Whatcha doin, Bun?
Jason: Setting this up so you can cut nails out of this maple wood. You can use this grinder.
PT: LOLZ.
Jason: No really.
PT: LOLZ.
Jason: I need 15 pieces for the bedroom closet. I'll refinish it when I refinish the floor in there.
PT: That'll look nice.
Jason: Yeah. So you're gonna take this grinder...
PT: LOLZ
Jason: And hold it at an angle and just sheer off the nail. It's easier than pounding the whole nail back through the board. See, like this.



[Red sparks fly as the metal grinder hits the metal nails.]



PT: *shriek*
Jason: Honestly the sparks aren't hot enough to do anything. You'll be fine.
PT: No.
Jason: No?
PT: No.
Jason: I'll get you some gloves.



[Jason wanders away, comes back with gloves. PT puts them and her "I'm scared" look on]



Jason: You're fine.... are you still afraid? Do you want a face shield?
PT: Mhm.



[Jason wanders away, comes back with a welder's mask looking thing]



Jason: Ok, you're all set. I'm gonna go back upstairs and lay the subfloor.


[Exit Jason stage right]



PT: [to herself] FUCK.



[PT somehow gets through the sheering of the nails off of the boards and carries all of the wood upstairs where Jason cleans out the grooves.]






Jason: You were very brave.
PT: It's a good thing I like you so much.


[End scene]

Thursday, March 12, 2009

"...so run for cover just as fast as you can..."

Look out, kids. I did a 5 k run yesterday for the first time since ohhh....June?

I must be honest, though and admit that about 1k of it was walking during a KILLER uphill part of the trail I run. And about 3k of it was slightly downhill. The other 1k was basically flat. But still, 5k is 5k right? Eventually I'll be able to run it all and do it in less than the 53 minutes (how embarassing) it took me yesterday. Translation: if I really stick with it this time, my ass and thighs will get small again and I'll be able to run farther, faster.

That being said, I am so sore right now I don't know whether to cry or scream. It is a good kind of sore though. That good "my core muscles hurt and my calves feel like lead" kinda sore.

Various reactions from friends and loved ones include:

Sara: Was someone chasing you?

Jason: You're gonna haz a sore tonight! ::PT notes that the Jason has completely integrated LOLCatSpeak into his lexicon. Teh pour deer. Mai LOLCat adicshun haz a rubbing off on himz.::

Sarah: Omg that sounds amazing!

Andrew: w00t!

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

"...workin' hard to get my fill, everybody wants a thrill..."

I feel dull.

I've been working too much. Not sleeping enough. Not engaging in enough social activity. Not working out. Not going for runs. Not catching up with friends. Not being a supportive girlfriend, sister, daughter, friend.

Take last night for example: I worked til 9, drug myself home to change my clothes and then drug myself to Jason's where I promptly curled up on the couch next to him and fell asleep after giving him a kiss. Then around midnight, he woke me up and I drug myself upstairs to go to bed where I was instantly back to sleep.

So. Lame. We didn't even get to talk. And then this morning I got up at the crack of dawn, kissed Jason goodbye and left to start the whole process over again.

I'll chalk all of this up to a horrible case of seasonal affective disorder. And hope that it gets better when it's warm.

Blergh.

My "case of the Mondays" is a week long problem.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

"...sign, sign, everywhere a sign..."

Sara, our parents and I were walking down Walnut Street the other day.

We had just eaten a delicious breakfast at Pamela's and were heading to Starbucks before I went to work.

Something made our mom think of the scene in the movie Love Actually where the Portugese housekeeper jumps into the lake to save Colin Firth's novel.

Ma: "I can't belive that girl had a tattoo! She took her clothes off and right there on her lower back was a tattoo!"
Sara: "Tramp stamp."
Ma: "If I get skinny like that again, I'm getting one."
PT: "Yeahhh! I'll get one too! We can go together!"
Dad: "Nice."
Sar: "What would your tattoo be?"
Ma: (ever the librarian) "I dunno, a book?"
Sar: "It should say 'read.'"
PT: "LOLZ"
Dad: "I don't get it."

::End scene::