Art and tree

I think it's interesting how art history students are encouraged to know what era a piece of work is from based on what style it's in. I think they all could earn an A by arguing that any piece of work could have been made today, going on inspiration from the past. Right?

PS: My tree is growing rapidly. Keith's is dead. I think this calls for a simple nanny nanny boo boo. So, nanny nanny boo boo.

Seaside

Like so many people this time of year (oh, prom season), my skin has darkened. Mine, though, unlike more of theirs, is not the result of a too-bright closet with lights strong enough to do in six to ten minutes what it takes the sun to do in a similar numbers of hours. Nope, my suntan (okay, sunburn) was earned the old-fashioned way: sun on bare skin (except for the swipe or two of SPF 4 on my back and shoulders).

I think it stinks how a suntan makes everybody look so healthy but is really just your skin cells going crazy. I also think it stinks that I know this, but I'll continue to do it anyway, spending my summer timing my flips from stomach to back with never a higher SPF than fifteen, because as trite as it may be, there is absolutely nothing that can make me feel the same way as a Jersey shore day can. Which brings me to my next point: my very first 2009 beach day (and the scene of the burn-earning)!

Not just a sunburn, I got all the good parts of a mid-July beach day. There were french fries, salt water taffy, lemon-filled lemonade, and the piece-de-resistance: a ferris wheel ride! Keith even bought board-walk sunglasses. The only thing missing was some fudge.

But I won't fret: it's only April. There's plenty of time for fudge.

As promised.

Some facts: 

1. I promised with what was deemed a very solid, serious, and unbreakable handshake (it was slow motion, after all) that I'd post a blog tonight. 

2. Even though it's incredibly bizarre, I would love the wardrobe of Carrie Bradshaw. Particularly the shoe and coat wardrobe. I also wouldn't mind, believe it or not, her hairstylist. 

3. I'm having a really wonderful week. It seems like everything is aligning just right and besides that, my cat Einstein was lost and then found. 

4. On our pizza box, the pizza guys wrote, "Comer" instead of Conor. Yes, Comer. Weird. Whose name is Comer? I think maybe they were going for Conner. Also weird.

5. I'm glad OnDemand in my house exists only on the sunporch, where my dad tends to be the sole occupant. Because even though I'm not much of a TV watcher, I can almost guarantee that I'd become quickly and completely addicted.

6. I reread A Separate Peace this week. I'd forgotten most of it, and definitely how fantastic and surprising it is. Go read it, please. 

Can

I do not enjoy soda. I don't like how it makes my teeth or mouth feel (sort of like the entire thing is dissolving, bubble by bubble), it gives me a weird headache, and it makes my insides feel like mush. Regardless of the way I know it will make me feel mere moments after enjoying it, I get a more-than-mild hankering for a few sips every few months. Usually this can be satisfied with a few sucks on someone else's straw at the movie theater or a sneak sip from my dad's glass at dinner. Friday, though, this was not the case. I wanted a can of Coke. Only a can. And only Coke.

First of all, Coke beats all of the other cola drinks. It's silly to say, because I sound like a commercial, but it's a much more classic taste than Pepsi. And don't even get me started on the supermarket varieties. I think I feel this way mostly because Coke was what my dad drank (and still does) when I was a kid; any sips we had were special treats, and always had to be either dad-approved or very sneaky (still the case).

Next, whatever the brand, cola is always tastier from a can. Bottles don't allow it to be as crisp, plus they create more bubbles and don't make the can-opening crack that makes can-drinking so satisfying.

So Friday night (after some not-so-sneaky dodging), standing outside of the local AMC 24, I had my Coke-in-a-can. As usual, even though I didn't want it anymore after the first sip, I forced down two or three more, then handed over the rest.

It's a pretty good song

This weekend was Gaslight Anthem weekend! And by Gaslight Anthem weekend, I mean Keith and I made use of my Valentine's Day present and saw their show at the Troc. I also mean that they moved to number one on the list of Kristin's favorite bands. I have this rule that I can't call a band a favorite until I see them live. (There are a handful of exceptions to this rule, but I'm working on them.) Obviously, Gaslight passed to the max. Keith I were standing between another pair of couples. Throughout the entire show, I'm fairly sure there wasn't a moment where at least one of us three girls wasn't looking over her shoulder saying to her boyfriend, "sorry, I'm in love. With Brian Fallon." I giggled every single time. And, seriously. How could you not be? If Bruce were our age right now and making music, it'd be this. And everybody loves Bruce.

I'm obviously still swooning. I can't think of a better show I've seen (save maybe a Bruce show or two).

PS: No, the trees are still not planted.

The first snow of spring.

Today was supposed to be tree-planting day. Instead, the first words out of my mouth this morning were, "WHAT IS THAT?" For some reason, my brain refused to compute the fact that "THAT" white fluffy stuff falling from the sky and sticking to the grass and the car I'd soon by cleaning off was snow. Snow! Today is the first day of spring! March is supposed to come IN like a lion and go OUT like a lamb, not the other way around! What the heck is going on here, Mother Nature?? Baby redwoods do not do well in snow!! So now we'll have to wait until the ground warms up which will, I think, be by tomorrow. Whew. The second day of spring is not so bad for tree-planting (everytime I type "planting," (even that time) my fingers instead write, "playing.").

This blog has become a tree-blog. I think that makes me a little weird. I'm okay with it.

Redwood Update 3

This is a photo of my tree from a few days ago, back when he had far fewer leaves and was a mere 11 and a a half inches tall. He's up to twelve now at his tippy-top branch! 

I keep him by this window because it's so bright upstairs (an artist once tried to buy my house simply because of the bright sunlight that this room gets) and because he can look outside at those trees that he'll someday be able to stomp on. It's motivation. 

As you can see, I keep a glass of water nearby, and a ruler. This enables me to encourage, and measure, his growth on a regular basis. I wish it were a sunnier day when this photo was taken because this one makes it look like I live in a dark and scary place. I promise, I don't. Mr. Tree has a great home. 

YFB

Today Lis and I were having a conversation about tonight (that sentence was really lame). Here comes the (very poorly remembered) script. 

Me: Where will you be tonight?

Lis: Blahblahblah (I forget where she said), but we'll be moving around. 

Me: Ugh, I'm still trying to figure out what to do, because I am broke and have work - but not until 1030!

Lis: I am poor, too, AND have work at 815. 

And this is the moment I realized, and so told Lis, that Susie Orman is right, after all: We ARE young, fabulous, and broke. 

Disclaimer: I actually can't stand Susie Orman. In this situation, though, I cannot deny her rightness. So, instead of actually BUYING her book for the YFB, I suggest that you get a mom-like friend (Lisbeth V. Fagan) and borrow hers. 

Weekend.

This past weekend was like wearing your mom's pearls or slapping on heels for no reason: Keith and I spent it downtown, playing grown up. 

After a Friday night of shopping (I, Kristin N. Rotondo, visited Urban and only bought two pairs of sandals!), we woke up Saturday and hopped on the train, checked in to floor number 25 of the Sheraton, and got dressed up all fancy-like for dinner at Ruth's Chris. We ate too much and were asleep before eleven (told you we played grown-up). He'll probably write a much more detailed account of the weekend. It all seems like one fancily-clad blur to me.

And now I've got to go find a green shirt. 

Moving?

A while back, my mom had a realtor come look at our house, "just to price it," she said, "you know, just for fun." She'd also said, "I won't sell for less than $400,000." Naturally, what does the realtor price our house at? $400,000.

We're putting a sign in the ground.

I do not want to move. Not even a little bit. I'm twenty-two years old and I feel like a third-grader refusing to switch schools in the middle of the year.

Redwood Update 2

Mr. Tree (I'm about as name-creative right now as a three-year-old who can't let go of "blankie.") is 11.75 inches tall!!! He's growing!!! I know this is what trees do, but I was still surprised and excited that this thing that relies on me for growth is actually growing!!! PLUS! he's sprouting leaves! Again, something trees tend to do, but still thrilling.

Redwood Update

Tree Alert: My tree is 11.5 inches tall. I considered using centimeters as it is generally deemed more scientific because that's what real scientists use, but I opted out for two reasons: 1) I am not a scientist and 2) more people who may read this can relate to inches.

As for an update, you should all know I made a crucial mistake (GASP!) in my last post: our redwoods need not to be MM, but simply M!!! I think that I have remedied the situation, watering the little guy aplenty last night, but I will worry for him until he grows nice and tall (appromately 50 years).

Godzilla is smaller than our trees (will be).

This weekend was several things: packed, Lis-and-Keith-oriented, expensive, and incredibly (insert intelligent-sounding synonym of "fun" here).

I will chronicle it now.

Saturday started with McDonald's breakfast. Anyone who knows me knows, too, that I adore the occasional (weekly) McDonald's breakfast. Sausage, egg, and cheese on a bagel. A hashbrown and some orange juice if I'm feeling extra breakfasty. Deeeelicious. I only eat about half of my sandwich with the egg, and then I remove it and feed it to whichever boy is nearest me. It's bizarre, I know. Ask me how I eat a Reese's cup or a soft pretzel. Post-McDonald's breakfast should have been Shamrock Shuttle. This should have been a 22-year-old's dream come true: a ten dollar refillable cup and a bus to take you wherever you may want to go? Perhaps sad but true, Keith and I skipped it and opted instead for sandal-shopping and attempting to find Washington's Crossing State Park (which I'm still not sure we ever did). Some things that, embarrassingly, happened there: 1. I was scared of the woods, and 2. of a bridge. 3. We saw a field and couldn't stop commenting on how gigantic it was. 4. We justified this excitement to ourselves by saying it was because the grass was yellow. 5. We walked into a steamroller-looking yellow truck. A successful park trip, I'd say (and we're experts). Afterwards was Victor's birthday celebration and another embarrassing series of events for some persons. It was at a karaoke bar: enough said.

Sunday. Flower Show day!!! First IHOP, then Flower Show. Possibly the coolest place on earth. After finding Lis (NOT under an archway), I bought too much, avoided a four-dollar-and-seventy-five-cents hot dog even though my hunger was overwhelming (opting instead for two pairs of earrings I most certainly don't need and four bookmarks), and giggled at Keith's humongousness next to tiny furniture. Oh, and we bought trees. And by trees, I don't mean any silly bonsais (though they told us we could turn them into bonsais. Pish, pash!), but instead a pair of 150-foot Redwoods. We started out by looking at plants. Then Keith said, "Hey! Look over there! They're bigger!" So, we looked and quickly purchased. I have included a drawing by the wonderful Keith Maynard to give some scale to just what 150 feet translates to (for Tim: the picture is of a VERY tall tree. Next to it are Godzilla, who is about three-quarters of the size of the tree, and very, very, very small and on the other side of the tree, Keith and I, dancing. Above the tree is a rocket ship ("because it is 2084") and an anti-Godzilla missile. The photo is captioned: "In the year 2084."). These suckers live up to 1200 years and can grow to be twenty-five feet wide. All they need is to be MM and to remain in S (that means moderately moist and in full sun). I will post at least weekly about the current height and perhaps width of my tree. I believe Keith will do the same (the copier (just kidding (sort of))). His is the tall one (obviously), mine has an extra branch. They're best friends. I am not home to take the beginning measurement, but I will be sure to do so as soon as I arrive home. Perhaps next time I'll include a photo as well. After the Flower Show, Lis, Keith, and I went to Field House, which is a Kristin-and-Lis favorite (I am really on a roll with the hyphens in this blog, huh? (And, come to think of it, parentheses, too)). Chesapeake fries and cocktails and burgers, oh my! Post-THAT, Keith and I said ta-ta to Lis, and made an impromptu visit to Rittenhouse because Keith refused to leave the city. So, in my shorts in March, off we went to sit on a bench and watch art students and toddlers and puppies. A fabulous end to a wonderful weekend. Siiigh.

A poem by Tim

Tim wrote this poem. Suzanne Monaghan is his MOST favorite news anchor. Here's why:

Suzanne is the best of all KYW 1060 anchors
Here's a poem about her.
Sue comes on Monday night,
Believe me, her newscasts are more then all right.
I always pray I'll also get to hear her on Sundays.
Sue is the best of all the rest
The greatest lady around who gives news to Philly's downtown
her voice resonates into the 'burbs, the city, and believe me,
I'm sure Suzanne looks very pretty
I listen to Suzanne on my boom box and believe me,
this news anchor really rocks
Suzanne gives you traffic and weather,
but sometimes they're bunched together
Suzanne gives you news you can use
Bottom line, Suzanne Monaghan is fine

Bribery

Most of the following things will not make sense in relation to one another. I will make this okay by numbering them.

1. I'm being bribed now by two people instead of one to write in here. This means that I will do double the writing.
2. The previous sentence is probably not going to turn out to be true. I will start updating regularly in order to get Andes mints and ice cream, but after that wears off, I will pull a John Wilson and make everyone sad by not posting.
3. I am finally, finally, finally going to pick up my new glasses tonight. This marks the third night in a row that I've had plans to pick them up. Third time's a charm. I love new glasses. The world seems so much brighter, plus it's a challenge because the frame is different.
4. Today Tim and I meant to go to Coco Loco. We didn't and instead feasted on York Peppermint Patties and Andes mints. These are two of my most favorite treats. Unfortunately, the aforementioned eaten candy was meant to be the beginning of our secret candy stash. We'll start fresh tomorrow.

I hope this deserves a mint.

Summer tease

Today I turned the page in Tim's homework book to this week instead of last. Because it's March, the pages are lined in pink and sprinkled with photographs of roses. This excited me until I looked out the window and was temporarily blinded by sun-on-snow.

The science room is uncomfortably warm. It's like a forty-seven minute tease.

Watching the snow melt off of bare tree branches has a similar effect: "Hey! Stuff's melting and the sun is shining! Must be spring! Not."

Keith and I spent a good portion of today daydreaming about our upcoming summer. It's neat because it'll be our fourth summer of knowing the other exists, our third (though not consecutive) in consistently close quarters, but our first as Kristin and Keith. So now, instead of quick post-work ice cream dates and trips to the movies that only Victor remembers, we'll... well, we'll still enjoy those things but this time we'll do it as boyfriend and girlfriend. Here's our summertime to-do list thus far:

Theme park
Beach
Camping
Picnic
Film silly movies
Churchville Nature Center
Philadelphia Zoo
Walk downtown
Barbecue
Train adventures
Windows-down driving with music on
Painting Keith's fence
Baseball games
Valley Forge
Roadtrip

Probably most of these are on 90% of the summer to-do lists in the world, but we're still in the everything-is-new-and-exciting phase. Forgive us.

I can't wait to put on a sundress.

Snow??

There's a forcast of six inches or more of snow tonight. And while everyone's thrilled about the possibility of a day off, all I want is spring. I know I've got nineteen days until the OFFICIAL spring, and I know March "comes in like a lion, goes out like a lamb," (blah, blah, blah) but I want it now! I want to get woken up by birds in the morning instead of by my snow-dusted cat, I want to be able to walk through the park holding hands instead of mittens, I want to sit on my porch wearing a dress instead of a parka.

Now, don't get me wrong, I LOVE the snow, more than probably a solid 95% of the population, but March does NOT equal snow time. It means roses and sunshine and green grass, not white. It means picnics and cardigans and I'm-going-to-wear-these-flip-flops-even-though-it's-a-little-too-chilly-for-flip-flops. Last night, my mom went to bed saying, "tomorrow's March! I'm going to putz around in the yard, cleaning things up a bit, like I always do come March." Now, we're watching the pre-blizzard snow melt and muddy up the yard. Tomorrow, we'll be shoveling the driveway.

All that said, if tomorrow does wind up being a snow day, I'll be the first one outside building Roger 2.0.

Peanut butter.

There are a lot of reasons that I enjoy peanut butter (and trust me, this blog has NOTHING to do with my upcoming packed lunch of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich), especially now that I don't have to fear salmonella each time I take a scoop:

1. I love the way you can take a huge bite of it and feel like a puppy, smacking your lips and trying to get it off of the roof of your mouth; then you take a sip of cold cold water and you can feel the peanut butter disintegrating between your teeth.
2. The first scoop. Nothing is more appealing to me than a fresh jar. Enough said.
3. You've noticed, I'm sure, that I keep saying "scoop." This is because my favorite way to enjoy peanut butter is by spooining itt out: I use the biggest spoon (not-quite-ladle-sized) in the drawer, scoop a tiny mountain, and use my finger as a tiny spoon to eat from the big spoon. Yum.
4. Peanut butter goes with EVERYTHING. Hot or cold, white or wheat, jelly, fluff, or chocolate - you name it, peanut butter's there.

And if peanut butter's there, so am I.

Tim & Keith

After my most recent post, I received this emailed reply (from the coolest kid around): "Hey! I think you should explain the two people that are cool. Surely you don't mean me and Keith?! You can send me a response, but I think the response would look better on your blog."

In response, I'd like to say simply, yes! You've got it, Tim. The two cool people are you and Keith. Excellent sleuthing. :)

PS: You're much cooler than the smelly Meanie Maynard.

Miles Davis.

I'm going to use today's post to explain my blog's title: Swayed by the Cool.

Very neat, you say? I agree. Even more neat because of its two reasons:
1. It comes from Gaslight Anthem's song, "Miles Davis & The Cool." It's one of my top three favorite songs of theirs (and watch out for the 28 March post when I discuss their show, tickets to which I was given by one of my top three favorite people). You should go listen to it, it's fabulous. This is reason enough. But it is not the only reason. Onward, to number two.
2. Two people "swayed" me to make this blog. These two people are very "cool." Get it??? Aha! Fantastic, I know.

(Hi, Tim!)

Four sentences on today.

Today I have 93 cents and a pencil in my pocket. Today I will purchase a basket of french fries for three dollars. Today I will wear a dress even though it's chilly. Today is looking up.

Face this.

I have found what is officially the world's coolest website: www.faceinhole.com.

It's like a dream come true. You might need to do a little digging, but in the mess, I can see everybody's new default Facebook photo. And everybody's new favorite time waster.

On being small

Inspired by Keith's "boo-hoo-on-me" blog about being tall, I'll write its reciprocal, and boo-hoo about being small (and then list the hoorays about the same).

Cons: Without leaping, I can reach no top shelves. Strong winds blow me away (seriously). I don't always weigh enough to donate blood. People (Keiths) who are big often forget I am small and that a fake punch hurts like a real one and a funny push actually knocks me over. I look twelve years old. I have to buy pants marked "short;" they're still too long (I've recently discovered that one of my favorite pairs of pants are actually capris). I can be benchpressed.

Pros: I will live longer than the average tall person. I can snuggle pretty much anyone. When I AM being accidentally-on-purpose beat up, I can scrunch up so tiny that I surprise even myself. I can fit in children's clothes which are often far less expensive. I am incredible at hide-and-seek.

That about does it. Even though the pro list is smaller, I actually rather enjoy being tiny. I think tall people are weird. They make me uncomfortable (sorry, tall folks).

The end.

Aloha.

Writing blog number one is daunting.

I'll use it to say that this blog will surely be a waste of your eye movements and your time unless you are a large fan of one or more of the following: shoes and scarves and Lis and bands that will make me sound pretentious and books that will do the same (and a few of each that'll make me sound silly) and tights and daydreams and Keith and grammar and museums and Katie and whining about money woes and avoiding the gym and Conor and my cats and frozen pizza and Brianne and parks and road trips and sunshine.

And also to say that I will most likely update this only as long as Keith gives me treats to do so.

Oh, and: Hi!