"Life, like good chocolate, is best enjoyed bittersweet."
- Dee, the wise one.
- Dee, the wise one.
Mat Kearney - Like Ships in the Night
L.A. Live - 09/29/2012
L.A. Live - 09/29/2012
Monday, October 1, 2012
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
White Satin
Nights in white satin,
Never reaching the end,
Letters I've written,
Never meaning to send.
Beauty I'd always missed
With these eyes before,
Just what the truth is
I can't say anymore.
'Cause I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how, I love you.
Gazing at people,
Some hand in hand,
Just what I'm going through,
They can't understand.
Some try to tell me
Thoughts they cannot defend,
Just what you want to be
You will be in the end,
And I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how, I love you.
Oh, how, I love you.
Nights in white satin,
Never reaching the end,
Letters I've written,
Never meaning to send.
Beauty I'd always missed
With these eyes before,
Just what the truth is
I can't say anymore.
'Cause I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how, I love you.
Oh, how, I love you.
'Cause I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how, I love you.
Oh, how, I love you.
Music touches your soul, they say. But the shock of it sometimes takes your breath away. A few lyrics bring back memories that the girl thought were, well, buried. But the Dark Shadows never truly go away, do they? The only good part is that the shadows affirm the presence of light. The girl can live with that.
The classic by The Moody Blues: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9muzyOd4Lh8
Never reaching the end,
Letters I've written,
Never meaning to send.
Beauty I'd always missed
With these eyes before,
Just what the truth is
I can't say anymore.
'Cause I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how, I love you.
Gazing at people,
Some hand in hand,
Just what I'm going through,
They can't understand.
Some try to tell me
Thoughts they cannot defend,
Just what you want to be
You will be in the end,
And I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how, I love you.
Oh, how, I love you.
Nights in white satin,
Never reaching the end,
Letters I've written,
Never meaning to send.
Beauty I'd always missed
With these eyes before,
Just what the truth is
I can't say anymore.
'Cause I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how, I love you.
Oh, how, I love you.
'Cause I love you,
Yes, I love you,
Oh, how, I love you.
Oh, how, I love you.
Music touches your soul, they say. But the shock of it sometimes takes your breath away. A few lyrics bring back memories that the girl thought were, well, buried. But the Dark Shadows never truly go away, do they? The only good part is that the shadows affirm the presence of light. The girl can live with that.
The classic by The Moody Blues: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9muzyOd4Lh8
Thursday, March 15, 2012
WMD
For about the first 15 days of it's existence, this post stayed blank.
Was it intentional? Hell no. It was the power of the WMD, against which the girl could not do much. True story.
The girl thinks that we all have people with "special" gifts in our lives. A belief reconfirmed when she met the WMD, who was a friend's friend's new roommate. Fast forward a year, and the old labels mean nothing. In any case, the only labels the girl needs are the ones that say "Keep Walking".
Years ago, the girl thinks, somewhere in India (and continuing in Amreeka), Bollywood drama played out for real. Twins, separated at birth, meeting in a foreign land, etc. How else could you explain the connection between the girl and the WMD? Lusting over Alcide together, we discovered a common love for randomness. And spooning. Also, food, wine, her mom's filter kaapi and books. WMD also happens to like chai the way the girl makes it (win!). There is also the creepy hands project and the eerily similar world views. Live, Love, Laugh works for both. Umm, you don't get? We don't care.
But why WMD, you ask? Because this chick is THE electronic device nightmare. The grim reaper of the chip world. Laptops die, phones flutter and go off, labs put up notices declaring it illegal for her to touch the instruments. Blog posts disappear.
Until they reappear, when the girl feels less lazy.
Go be crazy, soul sister. We are an endangered species.
The WMD. Always Inspiring Confidence.
Was it intentional? Hell no. It was the power of the WMD, against which the girl could not do much. True story.
The girl thinks that we all have people with "special" gifts in our lives. A belief reconfirmed when she met the WMD, who was a friend's friend's new roommate. Fast forward a year, and the old labels mean nothing. In any case, the only labels the girl needs are the ones that say "Keep Walking".
Years ago, the girl thinks, somewhere in India (and continuing in Amreeka), Bollywood drama played out for real. Twins, separated at birth, meeting in a foreign land, etc. How else could you explain the connection between the girl and the WMD? Lusting over Alcide together, we discovered a common love for randomness. And spooning. Also, food, wine, her mom's filter kaapi and books. WMD also happens to like chai the way the girl makes it (win!). There is also the creepy hands project and the eerily similar world views. Live, Love, Laugh works for both. Umm, you don't get? We don't care.
But why WMD, you ask? Because this chick is THE electronic device nightmare. The grim reaper of the chip world. Laptops die, phones flutter and go off, labs put up notices declaring it illegal for her to touch the instruments. Blog posts disappear.
Until they reappear, when the girl feels less lazy.
Go be crazy, soul sister. We are an endangered species.
The WMD. Always Inspiring Confidence.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Loony tunes
As it happens, I did go out for Valentine's Day. Yes indeed.
Minus the romance. All we wanted to do was the girly stuff. Eat. Drink. Gossip. Bitch. Diss men. The usual.
But the server thought differently. Our sushi arrived with a special touch of love.
A little carrot heart. We looked around, none of the other tables had a heart prettying up their tables. Our server was either:
Then I came home and made tender love to my cup of coffee and a warm banana chocolate chip cookie. Satisfaction.
Guaranteed.
Minus the romance. All we wanted to do was the girly stuff. Eat. Drink. Gossip. Bitch. Diss men. The usual.
But the server thought differently. Our sushi arrived with a special touch of love.
A little carrot heart. We looked around, none of the other tables had a heart prettying up their tables. Our server was either:
- A proponent of equal rights for all (yay!), or
- Taking pity on the two girls out for dinner with each other.
In any case, it made our dinner extra special n' oh so so cute!
Then I came home and made tender love to my cup of coffee and a warm banana chocolate chip cookie. Satisfaction.
Guaranteed.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Time after time
Three years ago, there would have been a Facebook wall post saying "Happy Birthday!"
PS: I went back and checked. Oops. Let's start again.
--
Three years ago, there was not even a Facebook wall post saying "Happy Birthday!"
Three years (or two and a half, if you want to be precise) seems a long time ago. The words remain the same, but meaning is deeper, richer, like good extra dark chocolate. More complex, like a bottle of mature Malbec. Sweet, like those pancakes.
Happy Birthday, Bestie.
I have no clue if its going to be all smooth sailing ahead (probably not), but I promise to share my lifeboat with you when choppy waters hit.
And then, we will go get drunk, dance, make merry and be gay.
PS: I went back and checked. Oops. Let's start again.
--
Three years ago, there was not even a Facebook wall post saying "Happy Birthday!"
Three years (or two and a half, if you want to be precise) seems a long time ago. The words remain the same, but meaning is deeper, richer, like good extra dark chocolate. More complex, like a bottle of mature Malbec. Sweet, like those pancakes.
Happy Birthday, Bestie.
I have no clue if its going to be all smooth sailing ahead (probably not), but I promise to share my lifeboat with you when choppy waters hit.
And then, we will go get drunk, dance, make merry and be gay.
"You know you are mad and I still love you. I hate to love you"
~ Bestie.
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