The Summer of Sleep

Blair and Chuck are together.  A Top Model was crowned.  It is nearly Father's Day.  If I were a mathematician or detective, here is where I would derive the onset of summer.  And here is where I should come upon the usual wealth of emotions that accompany my second favorite season: regret for not exercising, relief the school year has ended, and contempt for the sudden lack of fog.  (Maybe some day I'll relocate to a cooler climate)

But, here, in what I now must admit as the thick of summer's beginning, I find myself sleepless in--well, not Seattle.  

There is no feeling of relaxation.  My joy for the Blair-Chuck affair has faded, my rose glasses have come off, and I find myself stuck to Dawson's Creek re-runs, a tub of fro-yo, and the couch.

With this lack of emotion I have begun to wonder if the beauty of summer and the magic I once felt this time of year is just something that fades with age.  I swear it used to feel just like the intro to the Wonder Years--sprinkler on the lawn, backyard bbq, smiles.  Where have they all gone. 

Maybe it is because I traded in trips to the ice cream man for a discount tub of Dryers, or the fact that pool is too cold, the weather too warm, and disappearing into television from the 90's seems so comforting, that I have just traded my old comforts for new.

Things change.  But then again, if Blair and Chuck prove anything, it is that anything is possible, so tomorrow, I work on my bikini-bod just incase. 

Buying Like a Collector

This weekend I had the pleasure of attending the California Ceramics Festival in the charming college town of Davis.  While I found the scads of work both stimulating and inspirational, I couldn't help but wonder what all the art collectors were like.  I'd watch a slough of people enter a room, grab a price list off the wall, and immediately begin to check off what they want.  I, on the other hand spent the weekend par-oozing the small town shops, in search of my own treasures.

How to Buy Like a Collector:

1. Name of Work: It is sad but true that brand names go a long way.  Think, if you want to resell some day, brand names may be the way to go.

2. Artist's ethics: I'm generally anti-chinese made, USA all the way!

3. Price: Is it worth the moo-la?

4. Practicality:  Here is where my thoughts differ from the art collector's, but if an item is amazing and not practical, I might get it anyway.

5. Love: Do you love it? Will you die if someone else owns it?

Today I followed the role of the art collector.  I cataloged items I liked in each clothing shop in town, compared prices, weighed my options, and chose what I couldn't live without.  I happened into Nina and Tom a great family-based homegrown clothing store, and purchased an exquisite  recycled wool purse by Queen Bee, as priceless as the finest china! 

Chalked Full O Love

Today I ate quite possibly the most delectable cookies I have ever consumed.  The decadent German Chocolate Cake Cookies by Liz Lovey are not only heavenly, but also full of love, organic materials, and animal rights friendliness.  The cookie line includes a gluten free variety, and being one with a nasty intolerance to the weaty ingredient, I'd challenge anyone to find a better cookie sans gluten. 

LL's cookies come from a little town in Vermont, are vegan, and totally organic.  They are delivered in pairs, perfect for sharing with your hubbie, date, bff, or a stranger to spread the sugary love.  They are decked out in lovely colorful cello bags, or can be ordered in sampler sets sent in pink doughnut style boxes.

The next thing from Liz's arsenal: chocolate goodies--mint, pb, mangoes, organic oreo style cookies, and ginger candy all come heavily coated in organic dark chocolate.

Liz truely is spreading the love as I, a now loyal customer put on the pounds.

Gossip Guilt

A recent post by my dearest friend Ariel, and last nights seedy and sultry episode have resulted in my single obsession: Gossip Girl.  I know I should be ashamed.  I know I should pretended to not give a damn about Dan and Serena, Blair and Nate, and especially Blair and Chuck, but the Waldorf-Vanderwoodsen-Bass-Humphry clan has got me hooked.  I don't know if it's all the gossip, all the sex, and the fabulously fabulous clothing, or the fact that they make high school everything it never was or could have been, but whatever it is it is good.

Other than my childlike love for iCarly (don't knock it til you try it--Nick can do no wrong)  Nothing can take me away from Gossip Girl, not even my dear friend Dr. Gregory Masochist House, who now fights Gossip Girl for air time.  

I just wish I could know what it is these kids--or twenty-somethings do to make the hour of programing so irresistible that it even has my very level-headed  mother watching calling me to ask "is there a new episode next week, I must know what will happen to Serena!"

This is one kind of gossip I just can't do with out.  Dare you to miss it!

xoxo

Bobbi Noodle

Theory of the Lost

I'm finding myself lost in theory without attention.  At first I defended my state as a day dream, but have since realized that hour after hour of social, political, economical, plain old boring thought must be theory.  I once read that people constantly practice theory and don't even know the term.  It's like practicing feminism, without knowing the meaning of the word.  

 This rose my curiosities, why does Ashton Kutcher have more Twitter followers than CNN? Why do either of them have any?  Who really cares to read what anyone ate for lunch? (I of course had a grilled cheese sandwich)  And moreover why can't I stop ponder these thoughts?  

Here is where I get stuck in the catch-22 of theory, theory cannot exist without these questions, and questions are what lead to theory, they are as hand-in-hand as Zach and Vanessa, PB & J, AM & PM, or me, Bobbi Noodle and her over active imagination. 

Tube Tied

After a long day, I took to watching back episodes of the new NBC show Cupid last night.  A good twenty minutes into the romantic comedy my worries, troubles, aches, and pains began to vanish.  I had, and for a good few hours found myself lost in the glory of television.  I wish I could say this was not a regular occurrence.  I wish I could say that not nearly every evening in my week was spend this way, but alas it is.  I sometimes spend my afternoons in bed dreaming that if the great artists like Proust and Watteau lived now, they would be highly less productive and also love America's Next Top Model as much as I do.

I fear its become an illness greater than the illness that confines me to my bed.  Gossip Girl has not been new in two weeks, and like a dear friend who is equally concerned and P.O.ed, I just have to say "What the fuck are they doing to us!" 

Some people--mainly my mother--think that this television (which lets face it, is now mostly web-based) addiction is going to kill me, or at least rot my brain.  Alec Baldwin thinks so too.  But you know what I think?  Screw them.  Sometimes there is nothing greater than getting lost in a 47 minute love story to avoid 47 minutes of your own.

Exercise Shmexercise

Yesterday I braved the ever-dreaded task of visiting the gym.  I say visiting, because I, like many, fear the gym and its kind and feel like a visitor rather than a member.  

Luckily my body looks like it belongs at the gym, but my mind doesn't.  Generally I am far too clumsy to face the major machines that all the body builders use, so I hit the women's only center when no one can laugh at my lack of coordination and my sweat stains.  But unfortunately, yesterday I was stuck with everyone else in the small smelly room of bikes and elliptical trainers.

Being rather a gym dunce, I noticed a new machine and was immediate curious.  It was part bike, part video game.  I could sit there and bike to chase people and animals and win a race! Being the sucker that I am, I ran for the machine.  

First try--I biked away and was miles behind all the other bikers on my course.  There was no way in hell I could do this I thought as I panted away.  After paroozing the menu I found a handicap that aids you in your race.  Two miles and ten minutes later, the finish line and pit stains were mine! WOOT! 

Except I couldn't walk. For a good 10 minutes. And the the computer was so kind as to tell me I shouldn't consider using the regular version until I can reduce my handicap by at least 20%.  20 freaking percent and spaghetti thighs.  Woopty freaking do. 

Gym Technology?  Officially not for everyone.