tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1617516415724898252024-03-18T20:52:23.995-07:00Hi, it's Amanda-Rae.Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-75627795044302369952016-06-04T09:54:00.000-07:002016-06-04T09:54:50.088-07:0030 for 30 Day 4: Overcoming my fear of public runningDay 4*<br />
Progress toward goal: -5 lbs<br />
Workout: Run/walk around the lake<br />
<br />
I should preface this post by saying I have a slight phobia of running in public. I used to frequent a popular lake in town, but was scarred for life when some college guys drove by and yelled, "SLUT!" loudly at me.<br />
<br />
Excuse me? I was about as modestly dressed as one can possibly be while walk/running around a lake. So much in fact I was wearing a hoodie.<br />
<br />
That experience, combined with a story of other college guys throwing eggs at runners around that lake, pretty much made me think running was the IRL equivalent to posting a video on YouTube and waiting for all the trolls.<br />
<br />
Nope. Nope. Nope.<br />
<br />
Lately, though, I've been dipping my toe in the pool of public exercise. I walk around the lake near my office building during my lunch break, I walk occasionally around the lake by my apartment building - but rarely do I actually run. Today, however, I did.<br />
<br />
I should warn you that I cannot tell you how much I ran in how many minutes because that is not at all how I measure these things. What I can tell you is I ran from the garbage can to the fifth light pole in the distance, walked three light posts, then ran to that group of ducks.<br />
<br />
It's very high-level, expert runner stuff.<br />
<br />
What I found during my somewhat minimal amount of running is that it's not too bad. I made sure my headphones were blaring in case of a drive-by troll, but ultimately I was just able to clear my mind and focus on my breathing. Sure, when I actually saw an experienced runner I'm not going to lie and say I didn't feel self-conscious. Because I totally did. But I guess the point is, I kept going anyway (I mean, I had no other choice. I had to get back home.)<br />
<br />
How's your 30 for 30 going? Is there an exercise you've felt too self-conscious to ever try? You name it, and I'm sure I felt or feel the same way!<br />
<br />
<i>*I did walk around the lake on Day 3 during my lunch break, so the 30 minutes happened! I just didn't have time to blog about it, unfortunately. It wasn't too exciting anyways. Mostly, I kept notes on all the ducks and geese who do not give a single F about drivers and will galavant in the middle of the road at their leisure.</i><br />
<br />
<br />Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-29734462284775211332016-06-02T19:28:00.002-07:002016-06-02T19:28:51.616-07:0030 for 30 Day 2: POP Pilates & Other MusingsDay 2<br />
Progress toward goal: -5 lbs*<br />
Workout: Pilates<br />
<br />
Today I got a late start on my 30 minutes of physical activity. So late that it came after a cocktail and three episodes of Bloodline that I watched in rapid succession with my boyfriend.<br />
<br />
I almost didn't do it guys. Could you imagine - day 2 and I already gave up? What an anti-climactic fitness journey that would have been. It would be like not making it to the makeover episode of Biggest Loser. Like, what is even the point?!<br />
<br />
Determined, I decided to replace the 30 minutes I would usually take in the evening to read the news and brush up on some literary canons (JK, I mean looking at cat memes and sending the funniest ones to my best friend and mom in a group chat) with pilates.<br />
<br />
My experience with pilates is limited to the Autumn Calabrese 21 Day Fix version, which I do enjoy. Ironically enough though, I was too lazy to locate the dvd tonight so I ended up doing a workout by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCIJwWYOfsCfz6PjxbONYXSg" target="_blank">Blogilates</a>.<br />
<br />
If you've never watched Blogilates before, I recommend it. She creates super quick fitness videos that actually seem feasible. Five minutes for a better butt? Sure, why not!<br />
<br />
Tonight I did her <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhxwCPwCrOQ" target="_blank">Slim n' Sculpt Beginner's POP Pilates</a> video twice (it's 13-ish minutes of actually working out - I know, I know, I'm missing 4 minutes. However, I do walk to and from work so I figured it works out in the end).<br />
<br />
The workout had a few moves I was used to doing from the 21 Day Fix videos, only there wasn't a slightly chubby, out-of-shape older woman doing modifications in the background like I'm accustomed to. So full disclosure, this was a pretty hard workout. Super fast, but sort of intense.<br />
<br />
If you try it, I want you to know it's okay if you can't do everything she does. In fact, here's a list of how I handled the most challenging moves:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><b>Roll-ups</b> - immediately I thought, "This isn't going to happen." Basically you lie flat on the floor and simply roll up into a sitting position. Instead of rolling up gracefully, I sort of rocked myself back to gain momentum and then launched myself upright. I did not feel bad about this.</li>
<li><b>Bridge Single-Legged Leg Lift</b> - These really hurt, but they hurt in that way you know it's working. Sort of that feeling you get after doing 5 crunches and your stomach just <i>feels</i> like a six pack has formed. I had to pause the video for a minute and I know for sure I did not come close to as many reps as she did.</li>
<li><b>The "Elbows Together" move</b> - the second time through I thought, this is it. I'm going to die. Again, I took a quick break. No shame.</li>
</ul>
<br />
So Day 2 is down. Tomorrow will be a challenge for me. I'm going to try and wake up early enough to go on a run/walk (mostly walk) before work. If I don't get the activity in early, it likely won't happen since I have plans tomorrow night. SO MUCH PRESSURE.<br />
<br />
How was your first (or second) day doing 30 for 30?<br />
<br />
<i> *I weighed myself today after not weighing myself in two weeks and, surprisingly, I am already 5 pounds down! Only 15 more to go! If you're interested, I've been using the My Fitness Pal app to track my calories. My username is hiamandarae if you'd like to be friends!</i>Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-55224723972610235952016-06-01T17:10:00.000-07:002016-06-01T17:24:39.757-07:0030 for 30 for 30Happy June, everyone.<br />
<br />
As Summer approaches, I'm sure, like me, you're hitting up Pinterest for all the arm exercises you'll do in between the fruity cocktails inspired by Disney princesses you'll be making. It's great how optimistic we are about things - like, sure, I'll make that chocolate-caramel-deep-fried cheesecake right before I go on that four-month juice cleanse so I'm bikini ready. Life is about balance after all.<br />
<br />
Despite my best pinning efforts, the weight has not miraculously fallen off. Which is what I expected after I pinned that recipe for a green smoothie. But now I realize simply pinning recipes and workouts aren't working, so I'm actually trying to lose weight - not for summer, not for a bikini body (if you want to wear a bikini, just do it!) but for like, life. And I really want to meet my goal before my birthday.<br />
<br />
My birthday.<br />
<br />
My 30th birthday.<br />
<br />
(I don't think there's a font menacing enough to really convey the sense of dread here. Maybe <a href="http://www.azfonts.net/load_font/chiller.html" target="_blank">Chiller</a>?)<br />
<br />
It's not that I think I'll self destruct in late September, leaving behind only tears and my Pinterest board as a reminder of everything I didn't accomplish. (I mean, okay. In all honesty, those Buzzfeed lists that suggest things you need to do/read/eat/go before 30 freak me out. I can still go bungee jumping in Thailand while reading a Lauren Conrad novel and eating spicy food past 9 p.m. once I'm 30, OKAY. Get out of my life forever, lists promoting ageism!)<br />
<br />
But rather, I just want to greet this milestone feeling my best. And to feel better, I sort of want to see this thing through. Because let's face it, I haven't seen much through lately. Blogging has been a nightmare, reading before bed has been replaced by me lazily scrolling through Instagram, and I've lowered my expectations of hitting 10,000 steps a day so much that I'm happy if I even stand up while at work. I have to do something and stick with it!<br />
<br />
So, like any sane person, I took advice from a random user commenting on a Youtube video. Tamigotchi90sgrl* suggested that if you want to stick to anything, you should share your goal with others so they hold you accountable. To the three people who read my blog: I'm counting on you!<br />
<br />
And like any other sane person, I got inspiration for my first little initiative while lazily scrolling through Instagram.<br />
<br />
#30for30 (for 30).<br />
<br />
Starting today, do 30 minutes of activity every day for the next 30 days (in preparation of your 30th birthday, if you're me). If you're totally happy not doing the physical activity thing, do something else. Read 30 minutes every day for 30 days. Write. Play music. Spend quality time with your family.<br />
<br />
My #30for30 will include the physical activity and the blogging about it. I'm going to try and test out different workouts and report back. If you don't hear from me, it's very likely I've broken something.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ4nAQzX7aw8uUWdQ4if8Hj8nj266RHaaioMQZ9zYgXegjrttE4gaxRziMYKJj_BHI3K_XezghUo0XY9fgcWnY4BnE1AjXjwBLLmPWyaKyBwSpmN-0Pmom2IOvsakui-KM89dJnjmWCDc/s1600/d12a1b360bd62a4248a87b5d98a4480e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ4nAQzX7aw8uUWdQ4if8Hj8nj266RHaaioMQZ9zYgXegjrttE4gaxRziMYKJj_BHI3K_XezghUo0XY9fgcWnY4BnE1AjXjwBLLmPWyaKyBwSpmN-0Pmom2IOvsakui-KM89dJnjmWCDc/s200/d12a1b360bd62a4248a87b5d98a4480e.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Day 1</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Goal: lose 20 pounds</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Progress toward goal: None, get off my back it's day 1</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Workout today: Yoga</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
If you're playing along with #30for30, let me know what you're doing. Because, you know, I'm nosy like that.</div>
<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>*Name has been changed to protect the commenter.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-90250797895494962162015-11-04T15:30:00.000-08:002015-11-04T15:33:10.564-08:00Diary of a Three Day Stair Stepper<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-p5g_2B0A_uViPmAztK1rlqdiXSfbx5gGWhTI5Ylxw42VR0Velkmkh4Bwr_dJTmruqF0zTHtnlk6L8Z3mrJoEhKSXyvXOoLyNgqdWvC3vy7BWbRwTXSX24bg-5zo1Aj5urkymPsBmtCM/s1600/IMG_3003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-p5g_2B0A_uViPmAztK1rlqdiXSfbx5gGWhTI5Ylxw42VR0Velkmkh4Bwr_dJTmruqF0zTHtnlk6L8Z3mrJoEhKSXyvXOoLyNgqdWvC3vy7BWbRwTXSX24bg-5zo1Aj5urkymPsBmtCM/s320/IMG_3003.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stood silently in front of the yellow flyer that had been
crudely taped to the elevator door. The corners had been ripped, evidence of
the door’s frequent opening and closing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is going to suck,” my neighbor finally said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Uh, yep.” I replied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The elevator would be down for three days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THREE.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
DAYS.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a resident of the seventh floor, this was life altering.
Suddenly I found myself creating a list of all the things I couldn’t do over
the next three days. This list was compiled much quicker than I anticipated,
but consisted of: Laundry. A week’s worth of grocery shopping. Bringing items
that required two hands to carry into my apartment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was unreasonable to be asked to give up that list of
three things for three days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But since I’ve been regularly attending spin class,
naturally I felt the same level of physical confidence going into this week as someone
who’s been intensely training for American Ninja Warrior. I could climb seven
flights of stairs multiple times a day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Day 1</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Already I’m over the time it takes me to get
downstairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t go home on my
lunch break so I’m saved the midday climb. However, trekking home from the end
of a long day at work, I momentarily forget the elevator is down until I see
the exasperated face of a dog-owning tenant. “This is harder than I thought,” he
says as he passes by me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I start the climb and pass another resident around the third
floor. “Seven, right?” she says. We’ve apparently taken to referring to each other
by floor levels, like we’re from respective districts in the Hunger Games. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I solemnly nod my head and she replies grimly, “I feel you
girl. Eight.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Around floor five it hits me I may just die in the
stairwell. What’s even more horrifying than death though is someone passing me
in this panting, vulnerable state so I soldier onward until I see the
seven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swing open the door and
pray I don’t run into anyone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When my boyfriend comes over later, I once again find myself
close to death on the fifth floor. “Can you just carry me,” he calls from
behind me. I laugh, but it comes out as a gush of air from my lungs followed by
a cough. Like pioneers clinging to life during the harsh winter, I feel like
this challenge will only strengthen our love for one another. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Day 2</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I leave for work and find someone resting in the lobby.
“Taking a rest,” he says. I nod understandably and walk out into the morning
fog. He looks out the window, surely thinking of fonder times when he didn’t
have to take a rest in the lobby. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine him writing a Civil War-style letter to the girl he
had to leave behind upstairs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dearest Gwendolyn, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am afraid I have
fallen under a terrible spell of lethargy and do not know if I have the
strength to carry myself upstairs. I pray that someone stronger than myself
will deliver these words to you. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">With all my love, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brad</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hard times have fallen upon us. These are dark days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I go straight from work to school. When I come home
(following some added challenges courtesy of my vehicle) I lead my friend to
the staircase and he trips immediately as we begin our ascent. I keep going –
“Be careful,” I call behind me. I’ve been hardened by my experiences. I’m like
that old guy from every adventure movie who’s too calloused to react to others’
naivety. One thing I’ve learned is you just keep going.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Day 3</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find a hairnet between the fifth and fourth floor. I’m so
overcome with curiosity that I trip and almost tumble forward down the stairs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like, where did it come from? Does
someone moonlight as a lunch lady? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day at work is long but unlike yesterday, I do not
forget I have to climb the stairs when I come home. I’m actually already
calculating the amount of times this will happen. Once when I first get home,
then again after I get home from spin class, one more time after my boyfriend
comes over and then shit, I remember we wanted to get takeout, so that’s a
total of four trips up and down seven flights of stairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m mentally preparing myself for this harsh reality when I
enter the lobby of my apartment building. And then I hear it – the distinct
whooshing of elevator cables moving (I’m actually not sure if the cables are
actually making that noise, but in my mind, that’s what is happening.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a fresh pink piece of paper taped to the door.
Elevator is up and running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
delightfully hit the up arrow and wait.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And wait.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And wait.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And eventually give up because it takes too long and just take
the damn stairs instead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-57179994942926548582015-01-03T10:58:00.001-08:002015-01-03T11:06:43.378-08:00Obligatory New Year's PostHey guys.<br />
<br />
I'm writing you from my couch as I, for whatever weird reason, have fallen victim to CMT's top 20 countdown. And, I don't even like this music. But what I do like are the music videos and how unapologetically terrible they are. Cue girl in white cotton dress wearing cowboy boots while this guy sings/stalks her from a tractor. Like, hey guy, you're weird. Get back to work. Why are you singing? Why's this girl frolicking in a field that's clearly about to be plowed? None of this makes sense--this is not real life.<br />
<br />
Real life is sitting in front of your TV while your severely swollen ankle is on ice because you sprained it on New Year's Eve. Seriously. I had wonderful plans of going to spin class, you know, kicking the year off right and instead my foot looks like it belongs to the ugly step-sister who's trying to shove it into the dainty glass slipper.<br />
<br />
Cute. Cankles are so cute, right? I hear they're trending for 2015.<br />
<br />
Since I am currently in a position on my couch that can only be described with the hashtag #whateverwherearethecheetos, I figured I'd do something semi-productive like blog.<br />
<br />
So, happy new year. 2015, where did you even come from? I mean, it's 10 years since I graduated high school. TEN YEARS.<br />
<br />
TEN. YEARS.<br />
<br />
How did that even happen? How did I become 28? Time is a strange thing. Especially this past year, with all the changes I've made and the ones that have made me, it seems like days, weeks, months are now defined by deadlines and meetings and plans I scribble down in planners because I actually need planners now. And then suddenly, it's 2015 and I need a new one.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I'm happy. Actually happier than I've been in a long time, but I really feel sad that things seem to be just a blur of happenings anymore. My mother warned me about this--the older you get, the quicker things pass you by.<br />
<br />
And that terrifies me.<br />
<br />
So, my resolution for this year is not going to be the usual (even though, once this fat-faced, ugly step sister cankle heals itself, I am at that spin class!), instead I'm opting for actually taking time to do things I want to do. Seriously. And I know that sounds cliche, but once you really sit down and think about everything we do on a daily basis, how much of it is exactly what you want?<br />
<br />
Here's to writing in fro-yo and Food Network Magazine time into your planner. Mini hikes so you can pretend you're as badass as Cheryl Strayed. Or even blogging, and not because your ankle is fat and misshapen, but because you actually make the time to do it.<br />
<br />
Here's to 2015--make it your year, y'all! Even if it's just twenty minutes at a time.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-69145632783655340592014-07-11T16:30:00.000-07:002014-07-11T19:51:01.030-07:00Happy Friday from WednesdaySo, hey, it's been a while.<br />
<br />
Let me just get that out there. After my several empty attempts at creating a writing schedule so I could stay consistent I, well, pretty much fell off the face of the earth.<br />
<br />
Some of you may have been wondering if I reactivated my OK Cupid account and somehow fell victim to the pixelated charms of Sasquatch (you know, it's the classic Beauty and the Beast love story), leading to my doomed fate of dying alone in the forest at night with only the dim glow of Sasquatch's Nokia flip phone from 2003 illuminating my tragic surroundings as he takes a selfie, then filters it through Instagram with the hashtag #lovekills.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, that didn't happen.<br />
<br />
What has happened is I have a new job as a marketing coordinator (side note: when I first got this job, that's basically how I wanted to introduce myself until someone punched me in the face. Like, "Hi, my name is Amanda and I'm a marketing coordinator. Yes, I'll have a tall iced coffee, please.") and a new boyfriend who does not live in the forest or take unrecognizable selfies with an antiquated mobile device.<br />
<br />
Shit's kind of together at the moment, which is weird for me. And this is why I feel like I haven't had much fuel for writing. As you know, most of my anecdotes are based on embarrassing social tragedies or how depressed I am at work. Not that the social tragedy thing doesn't happen any more (believe me, on the daily) but I'm sort of content.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
And it's sad that I can't write when I'm happy. Yet another reason I believe I am truly like Wednesday Addams. I mean, right now I'm happy in life, but sad that I can't write when I'm happy. So technically, what's making me write even now is sadness.<br />
<br />
What's wrong with me?<br />
<br />
The point is, I was shopping on ModCloth. I know, you totally saw that sentence coming because it makes so much sense in the context of this post.<br />
<br />
But seriously, that's what happened. I was shopping on ModCloth and I saw this book titled, "Do Something Every Day That Scares You." Of course at first I thought, pfft, ridiculous. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I am terrified of pretty much everything, so to do this wouldn't necessarily require me jumping out of airplanes or sword swallowing. I could, I don't know, go to a sit-down restaurant alone. Enroll in a class at the museum. Wear harem pants.<br />
<br />
And then I realized I hadn't blogged in quite sometime. It was in this moment that a little wisp of sadness made its way from my heart and to my keyboard. I could write about doing something that scares me every day. (Okay, maybe not every day, but you get the point.)<br />
<br />
So, that's where I'm at. I'm going to wear harem pants. And be really scared and sad. And then write about it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-894667410261319022014-02-06T01:09:00.001-08:002014-02-06T01:16:10.384-08:00Friday Night Writes & Other Things At 3 AMSo, it's 3 AM and yes, I realize I just started this blog post by unintentionally quoting a Matchbox Twenty song.<br />
<br />
I've had issues sleeping pretty much all week, which is a terrible affliction to be plagued with when your job requires you to be awake for eight consecutive hours. Last night, for example, I had a nightmare that all my close friends finally got their dream occupations and I was still the one wandering around blindly, nurturing my sanity by doodling nonsensical things at my desk and filtering photos of my coffee through Instagram. Even mid-nightmare, I was in emotional duress because I wanted to be happy for my friends but at the same time, I wanted them to be unhappy with me.<br />
<br />
It was horrifying. (And man was I glad when I woke up to realize we were all still miserable.)<br />
<br />
It doesn't help that I've already failed to blog at least twice a month. I really wanted to use this platform as some sort of representation of what I'm capable of to potential employers, but, I mean, stream-of-conscious writing at 3 AM isn't too impressive.<br />
<br />
So, I'm thinking about creating a writing schedule (this also has the potential to serve as a convenient excuse for getting out of social interactions I have no interest being a part of--sorry, it's "Friday Night Writes!" Gotta go home and write stuff by myself without you there!) Right now may be the prime time to do this because I seem to be creating more structure in my life. Like, I have that My Fitness Pal app and a workout schedule AND I purposely went up and down the stairs at work 10 times on my break (and it was only on the 10th time down that I encountered someone in the stairwell and really wanted to explain that I wasn't severely out of breath from only walking down two flights of stairs, but rather my inability to breathe and sweaty appearance was because I had been working out hard core on levels they wouldn't understand.)<br />
<br />
We'll see. I have a planner and a calendar and a pen to write stuff on the pages. But, I also have a Pinterest account and apparently, insomnia. And on that note, here's a photo I found that made me laugh way too hard.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHKGe0kdIu2hQERaz5LAH36Oj97C18dvxS_yJ-MWbwSI2pL2IKZZgN9ncRlwA_Cu0hTkq6FmBjwX17ukJxIyg3Aa5hXt-ZBg9qMN8aV9S6QRexa5qtYNGJ-qeJ9W91k7JO-fOkiNIhu4/s1600/kitty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHKGe0kdIu2hQERaz5LAH36Oj97C18dvxS_yJ-MWbwSI2pL2IKZZgN9ncRlwA_Cu0hTkq6FmBjwX17ukJxIyg3Aa5hXt-ZBg9qMN8aV9S6QRexa5qtYNGJ-qeJ9W91k7JO-fOkiNIhu4/s1600/kitty.jpg" height="400" width="297" /></a></div>
<br />
P.S. It's now 4 AM. Cool.<br />
<br />
<br />Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-63316545121692057022014-01-05T12:05:00.001-08:002014-01-05T12:05:10.107-08:00It's 2014 and I Need a Little Help from my Friends<span lang="EN"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7-JF4zcdILVoCDsNMNCz688KNieb1Tm_-WekYP4Ir_sAp59nf91gfKD4gsZjhLt50pX-K0to4vVHl5mLl0shQkDnRqy_UOKeu1C0aqizjZUXgIrIi3NoQEFVEBkzfBEtp51fo8Hz734s/s1600/bloggggg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7-JF4zcdILVoCDsNMNCz688KNieb1Tm_-WekYP4Ir_sAp59nf91gfKD4gsZjhLt50pX-K0to4vVHl5mLl0shQkDnRqy_UOKeu1C0aqizjZUXgIrIi3NoQEFVEBkzfBEtp51fo8Hz734s/s320/bloggggg.jpg" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love this drawing. "Smart Girl" by Samantha Hahn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Each new year, I shoo away the idea of resolutions like I would the persistent nagging of a housefly that won’t stop buzzing in my ear. While there’s a part of me secretly feeling that same sense of renewal experienced by the masses when confetti pops at 12, there’s a larger, less whimsical part of me that thinks, “Well, every day is technically a new year--it’s exactly a year from this date last year” and suddenly the glitter of the confetti dulls and I’m back to shrugging my shoulders, drinking champagne because it’s Wednesday.<br />
<br />
Which admittedly, is weird. I am a very whimsical girl who enjoys holidays and planning and list-making--but for some reason, New Year’s has never been something I looked at with a celebratory eye.<br />
<br />
This year, however, I actually felt like maybe I could have a real, true, meaningful resolution. No, it’s not to renew my OK Cupid profile and be courted by that one guy who has the Nokia flip-phone and likely unreliable internet access in the murderous woods he resides--it was to blog at least twice a month. Or specifically, to create a blogging schedule.<br />
<br />
The thing that you readers may or may not have noticed about my writing style is that, well, I have little-to-no direction. I write when I feel like it about what I feel like. <br />
<br />
For example: this post came dangerously close to being a dramatic narrative of how I sprained my ankle this weekend on an acorn.<br />
<br />
I have lots of interests, though. I obsess over record collecting, piecing together outfits and decorating my tiny apartment with thrift store finds. I’d like to avoid being pigeon-holed into a theme, but part of me wonders if I’d be more diligent with my writing if I had a clear direction each time I sat down. <br />
<br />
I know a lot of you do enjoy my little amusing stories about the misfortunes I come across during day-to-day living, breathing, walking, dating--but what else would you like to see from me? Decorating? Style? Cooking? Knife Throwing?<br />
<br />
What’s the other blog post going to be about each month? </span>Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-21394243189592705802013-12-01T18:09:00.000-08:002013-12-01T18:20:20.055-08:00Ribbons & Glitter & Writing Through Insecurities<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6EtYc0C3MByiOtI9quD0rPedVkAW2HD4qtHJz0dMdUUA21uMgehuW-leoQ4TuEnR7SZD4VB-L_4X1cL8KkMFGoQROaU7ECa7Tpcx8rG1MG5EwFbi66I2stS_h0Uy_MdsrPf5ioicu-8/s1600/blog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip6EtYc0C3MByiOtI9quD0rPedVkAW2HD4qtHJz0dMdUUA21uMgehuW-leoQ4TuEnR7SZD4VB-L_4X1cL8KkMFGoQROaU7ECa7Tpcx8rG1MG5EwFbi66I2stS_h0Uy_MdsrPf5ioicu-8/s320/blog1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Such a relief, right?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
After wrapping three gifts and feeling completely exhausted
with the Christmas spirit, I decided to take a break and do something I haven’t
done for some time—write a blog post. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So while my tiny living room sits littered with glittery
ribbons and wrapping paper pieces that will inevitably drift under my couch,
not to be discovered until I get that random excess of energy to actually move
the couch when cleaning, I lie on the floor of my apartment, staring at a
blinking cursor, thinking about how I could have done 30 minutes of cardio by
now. I know—the scene is so literary that I’m basically Jane Austen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s strange because unlike this time last year, when I was
blogging the most, a lot has happened within the last few months that I could
have written pages about. The problem is, I’ve struggled with how candid I want
to be on here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For example, should I talk about that guy I went out with
who blew my phone up and seemed really into me and then oddly disappeared? This
clearly vulnerable moment is easy (alright, not really easy, but tolerably
okay) for me to laugh about now, but right after I realized he didn’t like me
(which was basically an hour after he didn’t respond to my text. I refuse to be
that delusional girl making excuses for why a guy won’t text her back.
Seriously girls, I know it sucks, but let’s be honest with ourselves—he has
service, he isn’t busy, and he didn’t go on a camping trip where he fumbled his
phone into the river) I went through that awful checklist that we all
neurotically analyze following rejection: Everything That’s Wrong With Me That
Guys See And Hate (this was also what I planned on titling my memoir in my
darkest moments.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mean, some of these dating experiences would probably be
humorous and healing to write through, but at the same time, it’s my life.
Which is, you know, my actual life and not the plot the heroine in a romantic
comedy is seeing to fruition. I am also one of those girls who, despite the
incredible pace of my mind, will meet any guy’s flippancy or aloofness with an
equal amount of indifference. Yet another reason I can’t risk blogging an
experience that I’m trying to give the impression I care nothing about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, even though I probably won’t be blogging about my
unfortunate dates or guys who move way too fast and cause me nightmares about
being tricked into marrying them (this nightmare did happen), I’m going to make
a habit of blogging again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not sure if anyone’s interested in my little voice on this
little platform, but I’m here to Live, Cry, Laugh, Cry, Love, Cry,
Laugh-So-Hard-You-Cry**, with you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**I wish home interior signs or “about me” sections just
told the truth. Let’s face it—there’s a lot of crying in life and during
sentimental holiday commercials.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-62040880566430074582013-08-28T19:41:00.003-07:002013-08-28T20:04:11.665-07:00Online Dating, Jerky Guys & Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwx9IJwhKkFEgJsMiqGY9Ms9wvfbuDKBy2egdCTZeOe2Qo8GE2_heFiajhR4znN2Cwar2kuXq8HS84g7xyvWVfA6s4kxPYFh41lWdHt7p28lBOQ0oDFnikJcVI1otzGUM49MgEWoe5qs/s1600/59bcda6cf79b71eabdb05ef65e962d15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwx9IJwhKkFEgJsMiqGY9Ms9wvfbuDKBy2egdCTZeOe2Qo8GE2_heFiajhR4znN2Cwar2kuXq8HS84g7xyvWVfA6s4kxPYFh41lWdHt7p28lBOQ0oDFnikJcVI1otzGUM49MgEWoe5qs/s320/59bcda6cf79b71eabdb05ef65e962d15.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alright.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So tonight, following a vulnerable afternoon and a vow to
never allow myself to be attracted to jerky guys who toy with my emotions ever
again (as if that’s something I can truly control without, I don’t know,
therapy) I decided to entertain the idea of online dating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This lasted about five minutes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My fear of online dating has a lot to do with the fact I’m
afraid of everything. I’m wildly insecure (while simultaneously thinking I’m
better than everyone else—cute, right?) and basically assume strangers are all
psychopaths hell-bent on murdering me. This paranoia is courtesy of my mother,
who has consistently reinforced her personal theory that strangers are all psychopaths
hell-bent on murdering me. So, it should be no surprise that the idea of meeting
someone off a website is terrifying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During dinner with my dear friend, Kacie, she tempted me to sign up for OK Cupid with the one thing she knew I’d
fall for—a personality quiz a la Seventeen magazine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Uh, duh. I have to know if I’m the “Girl Next Door” or the
“Classic Romantic.” These things are important.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whether this suggestion was a result of me ranting about
jerky guys and their emotionally confusing signs for the millionth time or if it had more to do with my admission of
becoming teary-eyed during that “Every Dog’s A Champion” commercial for
Pedigree dog food (I’m sure as a friend, this concerned her), I still took it
to heart considering my other dear friend, Jen, had just suggested the same
dating alternative earlier.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a sign.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So once I got home, I hit the site up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was somewhat smooth sailing until I was almost done with
the quiz and OK Cupid decided to show me a possible 90% love connection in my
area. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This would have been great and totally normal for a dating
site had my match been maybe, I don't know, a normal photo of a normal looking guy and not what can only be described as a blurry action shot of Sasquatch in the woods taken on someone’s Nokia
flip-phone in 2004.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mean, what? Come on, Ok Cupid. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s great that my match is showing me where he’ll drag me
when I get murdered, but the pixilation and weird dimness is really getting in
the way of identifying him to police.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, in world-record time I’m sure, I disabled my Ok Cupid
account. And when asked for a reason by the site, I selected, “Met someone!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mean, I will eventually, right? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
**And I think the fact I didn’t delete the account (deleting
is permanent, so says OK Cupid) is a step toward “getting myself out there.” So,
if it doesn’t work out with this guy I told OK Cupid I was leaving them for, I
can come back any time and pick things back up with Sasquatch. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-76332899952084299632013-08-20T14:51:00.001-07:002014-07-11T19:57:50.432-07:00When Life Gives You Lemons, Sometimes You Cry in the Lemonade While You're Making It<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/fjv53Sg2iLA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, today sucked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s really no other way to adequately articulate that. I
woke up at 5 a.m. with a splitting headache that I’ve battled all day, I was
given some disappointing professional news and the maintenance guy in my
building saw me crying on the elevator.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I really didn’t want to establish such an intimate
relationship with the maintenance guy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After burying myself under piles of blankets and self-pity
for the majority of the morning, I waded through my migraine and eventually
pulled myself to an upright position.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know before long this disappointing day will just be a
blip on my timeline, but it’s always difficult dealing with disappointment—and
I always seem to struggle with how to react. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This harkens back to the fact I’m severely self-aware, so
it’s no surprise I’m always afraid that if I show my true blue, pouting sadness
to the outside world, I’ll be quickly discredited as an emotionally immature
brat who can’t handle adulthood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that’s why I retreat and internalize things for fear of
coming off as petty and juvenile. Or I laugh away the sincerity of my hurt
because I know there are way bigger issues out there than what I’m dealing with
today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the truth is, it sucks when things don’t work out the
way you thought they would. Whether it’s job promotions, relationships, or realizing
a day too late that your Kohl’s cash has expired, disappointment is
disappointment—I don’t think it’s awful to admit that you’re momentarily
overcome with pout face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think what does matter is how you recoup, though. I mean,
as temporarily healing as it may be to eat Nutella straight out of the jar
while watching reruns of Bridezillas, it’s likely not the best first step to
pulling yourself together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I instead opted for my tried and true method of revealing
too much about my emotional complicacies on my blog. And I’m already feeling a
little better.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-17302074692800370192013-08-10T21:15:00.002-07:002013-08-10T21:18:12.065-07:00Stories from the Self-Aware<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1376192552561_1802">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fu4EVPTN1ZfgQuV4ixfrRNP9tDa5EJ_apcac67iEFKnHczVsL0zqXu8_q188oOmC2_kSqolcbZp3zvvQuns1NMxwbEf0_D-HevZxs3J6Xd3WeT352K9zZHCxcDzaK9XPr9X2xhTgrNY/s1600/blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fu4EVPTN1ZfgQuV4ixfrRNP9tDa5EJ_apcac67iEFKnHczVsL0zqXu8_q188oOmC2_kSqolcbZp3zvvQuns1NMxwbEf0_D-HevZxs3J6Xd3WeT352K9zZHCxcDzaK9XPr9X2xhTgrNY/s320/blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Being self-aware means you live your life as both an active and inactive participant. Like, you could be sitting with a group of people trying to engage or connect in any way you can, while there’s another part of you sitting at another table alone, watching how uncomfortable you look--cringing at how many times you shift awkwardly in your seat just so you have something to do other than vacantly staring off into space.<br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1376192552561_1813">
It’s weird.<br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal">
And as a result, most self-aware people are pretty weird, too. <br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal">
Sometimes I like being self-aware because I’m the first one to admit when I’m being awkward. Listen, I know it. But another part of me wishes I could just relax and embrace my awkwardness and make it endearing like in rom-coms starring Reese Witherspoon.<br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal">
But then I remember my life is not a romantic comedy and scripted awkwardness is way cuter than my reality. So I'm back to fidgeting with my hair and scanning the room for the 100th time as though I'm conducting a thorough inventory of every wall ornament in the place.<br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1376192552561_1900">
This is mostly why I refrain from social situations that don’t involve people I’ve known for a minimum of 10 years. I feel like my entire tone is somewhat apologetic while I’m out. Like, “Sorry guys, I don’t know how to behave when I’m around people! Sorry I can’t participate in this conversation because I’m sheltered and have no idea what you’re talking about! Sorry I keep bringing up how awkward I seem because I need everyone to know that I’m aware of it, too! Sorry I just did that weird thing with my arms that was supposed to be dancing!”<br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1376192552561_1898">
See, to most people, none of this ever even crosses their minds. At all. And if it did, they’d likely not admit it for fear of seeming neurotic or socially inept. But, I’m a writer. While all this is happening, I’m thinking of ways to translate it to paper so I can in some way transform my social tragedies into something productive. <br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1376192552561_1825">
And in that, is the good thing about being self-aware; you're also hyper aware of those around you. I feel like I have a really good sense of people that developed from years of being the wallflower. It’s probably why I’ve been writing stories since I learned how to write my name—my characterizations are based on what I observe from people around me.<br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1376192552561_1828">
So, I pretty much know when someone else feels awkward, too. Or when they’re trying too hard. Or when they’re bullshitting me. <br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1376192552561_1820">
The thing is, I never call them out on it. (I mean, why would I? That would be awful.) So, I write about myself. And I take these attributions I observe in others and assign them to various characters in various novels I write at various times of the night when I can’t sleep.<br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1376192552561_1817">
I’m sure I'm probably way too candid about these things on my blog, but it’s all in hopes that maybe someone, somewhere can silently relate in some way.<br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1376192552561_1895">
And if not, well, then I guess this is all really embarrassing and a complete waste of time and made everyone who I know in real life kind of uncomfortable.<br />
</div>
<div class="yiv807987774MsoNormal" id="yui_3_7_2_1_1376192552561_1897">
At least I’m aware enough to realize it though, right?</div>
Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-15616221447511990472013-06-25T16:10:00.000-07:002013-06-25T16:10:35.074-07:00Listening to The Smiths & Thinking Morrissey Is Your Boyfriend
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/5sQPZ9dD9v8?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew this girl in college who was a friend of a kind-of
friend, who claimed to be completely obsessed with The Smiths.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t realize this was a thing until college. Girls being
into The Smiths. Not that it should be uncommon—The Smiths are great and gender
shouldn’t define a person’s interests—it’s just I questioned the sincerity of
certain girls’ infatuation with this band.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See, this girl was really peppy and into anime and stuffed
animals with big doll eyes—all things that terrified me during my late teens
and early twenties. It didn’t make sense—how could she possibly relate to
Morrissey? I was quiet and soft-spoken and a smidge broody. I was the one who
decorated her dorm room with things like Miles Davis posters and wrote
melodramatic sayings like “Teenage Wasteland” on the tongue of her converse
sneaker. Morrissey was singing to me, clearly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The point is, this girl made me dislike The Smiths for a
while. In my mind, all these freshmen girls who had just discovered Urban
Outfitters and coffee houses and boys with black-framed glasses, were tainting
the band (not to mention stealing the cute boys wearing black-framed glasses. I'm looking directly at you, blonde guitar player in my Economics class. I will never forgive you for persuading that bespectacled, dark-haired classmate with the right amount of facial hair to sit near the front of the class when for so long he sat near me at the back of the class.) I felt like if I said, “Yeah, ‘I Know It’s Over’ is one of my favorite songs” real music
enthusiasts would smile blankly and turn the other way, rolling their eyes like
John Cusack in “High Fidelity.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And having John Cusack circa “High Fidelity” not take me
seriously was too much to bear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, a funny thing happened when I grew up—I realized I was
an idiot. Once something becomes popular, it doesn’t mean it’s complete garbage
that everyone should shun. It makes me
embarrassed to think there was a time in my life when I allowed my elitism to
shut out The Smiths. Today, I came across them in my library and decided to have a listen again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I realized their melodies and melodrama will always have a place in my
heart, even if the majority of their fan base is now a result of “500 Days of
Summer.” That movie was awesome, anyways.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-31644244130091219752013-06-12T18:28:00.001-07:002013-06-12T18:48:35.908-07:00Things That Worry Me About Having My Picture Taken<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6KD_bZCcZbMxLF-4U_fKvJSwCFJdhKat6amRINNjyZISXMIwyz3VqVs_xP6XLsG9Zf9kGT2mt1s5DPg8Xo5QmLssf1B5p6AY_Xp6A7nWADeSsSYcMIsl6psoqdtESUM6ssQNFXsosKk/s1600/blogphotobooth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6KD_bZCcZbMxLF-4U_fKvJSwCFJdhKat6amRINNjyZISXMIwyz3VqVs_xP6XLsG9Zf9kGT2mt1s5DPg8Xo5QmLssf1B5p6AY_Xp6A7nWADeSsSYcMIsl6psoqdtESUM6ssQNFXsosKk/s400/blogphotobooth.jpg" width="306" /></a>Posed photo shoots terrify me. It's not like the photos I have full control of on my Facebook page. It's not like I can filter the shots through a Nashville haze on Instagram, then blur out the background and darken the edges so all that's shining through is an outline of my eye. I mean, the photographer may actually get a full shot of my face when it's not tilted slightly to the left--a pose I rely heavily on in every photograph I've ever taken ever.<br />
<br />
See, in my mind, posed photo shoots are like when you went to the Sears Portrait Studio in 7th grade to get BFF portraits done with your bestie (wearing matching overalls with one of the straps undone to make you look extra cool.) It's like your Senior yearbook picture--you know, the one where you're holding a rose in front of crushed velvet draping because that says elegance and maturity.<br />
<br />
I realize my fears are completely stupid and outdated and based largely on traumatizing pictures from years gone by, but an impending, legitimate photo shoot I'm participating in (combined with my natural inclination to panic over anything that may draw attention to me via a median I have no control over) has pushed me to blog.<br />
<br />
<b>Things That Worry Me About Having My Picture Taken:</b><br />
<br />
<b>What do I do with my hands? </b>Will someone give me direction or will I have to improvise? If left to my own devices, I'm likely to forget how I normally stand and will instead opt for a completely unnatural look of discomfort.<br />
<br />
<b>Will my smile be weird?</b> I mean, how will I know for sure if I'm smiling like a normal person if the photograph isn't being taken on my Macbook?<br />
<br />
<b>Will they have me do something corny like put my hand under my chin while I lean on a Roman-esque podium?</b> I think this has a lot to do with the trauma endured from my Senior portraits.<br />
<br />
<b>Will people be looking at me while I get my photo taken?</b> That's out of the question. Even the photographer needs to look the other way.<br />
<br />
<b>Will I look like a chubby amoeba monster?</b> This is a fictional, amoeba-shaped monster I just created that is every woman's nightmare in every picture she will ever take. This is also what they see staring back at them in that horrible yet inevitable photo their friend will tag them in on Facebook without their permission.<br />
<br />
Even despite my list of fears, I have to admit I'm a smidge excited. I mean, it's mostly fear and anxiety, but somewhere deep down there's a hopefulness that I will not look like an idiot. Maybe the photographer can capture that somehow?Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-45804526152424817482013-06-11T16:57:00.000-07:002013-06-11T16:57:40.033-07:00Writing Samples and Mosaic Ideas"If she was being honest with herself, she wanted to punch him right in the face. It was petty and unwarranted and she knew he wasn't even close to being hers, but she still felt incredibly hurt. She wanted to punch him, then immediately nurse his wounds. She wondered why a combination of violent hysteria and wild mood swings couldn't be a desirable quality in women.<br />
<br />
She thinks about him at the end of the day as she nods robotically to motion some sort of consciousness in a conversation she won't remember later. She wishes she could offer up generic responses, but she can't make her mouth form the words so she remains unspeaking and tries to tune out the sound of nothing being loudly discussed ."<br />
<br />
So, that's a tiny snippet of what I've been working on lately. I have this really horrible habit of just jotting down small thoughts or scenes or blips of dialogue randomly, without any idea of where it will find itself in the grand scheme of this novel.<br />
<br />
I've been toying with the idea of doing something really out there with this piece, but I can't seem to reign myself in enough to focus on how to approach it. If any of you are familiar with mosaic writing, that's what I'm thinking about.<br />
<br />
Completely random bits of a novel coming together to create one cohesive story. Like a mosaic.<br />
<br />
But, I can't seem to even find where to begin. How do all these writers do it? How do they have the endurance, the focus and the time to write something amazing? I just hope one day, it all comes together for me.<br />
<br />
What do you think of my mosaic idea, reader? Does the snippet I offered even mildly entice you into reading more?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-62592713884455667312013-05-15T18:58:00.002-07:002013-05-15T19:25:39.341-07:00Adventures in Rooftop Writing<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxPsPQUfg8TA7oFUIxaz1WS8tULihxCwiLUxe_Z6ccwAccnIbgzBCr16QocTbd8gxIfkOph5aZ0NXu9BJVu-EEVk3hfsItCCgRtsbxRsYlFp-YTWIk1FkeJBwnmBwrYiY3NWCKhtoZkU/s1600/adventure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnxPsPQUfg8TA7oFUIxaz1WS8tULihxCwiLUxe_Z6ccwAccnIbgzBCr16QocTbd8gxIfkOph5aZ0NXu9BJVu-EEVk3hfsItCCgRtsbxRsYlFp-YTWIk1FkeJBwnmBwrYiY3NWCKhtoZkU/s320/adventure.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whoa! That's the most radical place ever, right?!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The building I live in has this rooftop terrace that
overlooks downtown. You’d think that as I resident I’d take full advantage of
this really wonderful commodity, but nope. I typically only visit the rooftop
in the following situations:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1. If there’s fireworks. I mean, let’s face it—there’s no
cooler place to be during a fireworks show than on a rooftop somewhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2. If it’s the first time someone’s been to my apartment. Admittedly,
I become a stiff tour guide with first-time visitors so I feel it’s my duty to take
them up there. (Which, I’m now realizing I handle that moment really awkwardly,
too. Instead of grabbing a glass of wine and saying, “Hey, you guys wanna hang
out on the rooftop?” I opt for the weird apartment stand-around where everyone
stands around while I motion to different things and say the obvious, “Yep,
there’s my stove and there’s my couch.” Then I abruptly turn back toward the
door and say, “Well, let me show you the rooftop terrace.” You know, not like
I’m talking to friends but rather to complete strangers who I’m obligated to
show the most attractive parts of the building to in hopes they’d want to sign
a lease.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3. There is no third situation, but having a list of only two
things seemed weird so here’s something to make it even weirder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, however, in my romantic writer’s whimsy, I thought, “I’m
gonna go write up there. Here’s to being adventurous!” Because adventure is
going to the rooftop of the building you live in on a Wednesday afternoon to
listen to Buddy Holly while you agonize over sentence structure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tuck my laptop under my arm and head toward the elevator,
feeling totally outrageous. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I see a neighbor (a “down the hall” neighbor, so I shouldn’t
feel so bad about not remembering his name) and his dog (whose name I have managed
to remember but will not say in my irrational fear that my down-the-hall
neighbor will somehow stumble upon my blog and tell all the other neighbors
whose names I can’t remember that I can’t be trusted with the seventh floor
secrets due to this salacious blog he found.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey!” I say enthusiastically—I’m really fake like that in
socially awkward situations—then I motion to the dog and with much more
sincerity say, “Hello little miss (insert cute name here like in a game of
Madlibs).” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh hey, how’s the apartment?” says dog’s owner. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Awesome—it’s really quiet, I like it,” I say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realize in that moment, this is the only conversation we
ever seem to have. Whenever I see him, I say “Hey!” and then motion to the dog and
then he asks me how the apartment is and I answer, “Awesome—it’s really quiet,
I like it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We have a Groundhog’s Day relationship. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We hit a tiny rough patch when we realize we’re headed in
different elevator directions—who goes first and who waits? How does this work?
Will it take a long time to find elevator etiquette results via a Google
search?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Luckily, because I’m only going up two floors, dog’s owner
bids me farewell and I get on the elevator first.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once I’m on the rooftop, I find a nice little table to sit
at and open up my computer. I wait a minute, you know, so I can bask in the
artisness of the moment. I am a writer about to write something way awesome while a
breeze blows in from the lake and birds flutter around me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, it’s really hot and I’ve made the terrible decision to
wear a sweater material. Now all I can think about is how hot I am and if I
should load my stuff up and go back downstairs and change.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I can decide, the terrace door opens and out walks a
small group of friends—now, of course, I start to feel even more uncomfortable
and fussy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like, how dare they. How dare they ruin my writer’s
afternoon of solace on the rooftop? Despite being completely annoyed by their
existence and loud laughing (which is not acceptable unless I’m a part of it
because otherwise I will assume I am the one being laughed at; I can’t get past
my “life imitates 90s teen movies” holdup, I guess) I remain seated and smile
warmly at them as they walk past me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am wearing Ray-Ban Wayfarers; I am the cool girl writing
at a table alone, not the weirdo lurking in the corner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, it’s really hot. Why didn’t I grab water? I am so
unprepared for this, emotionally and otherwise. But I feel like if I get up
now, it will be obvious it’s because of them. It’s like casually trying to lock
your door at a red light when there’s a questionable person outside your car. It’s
difficult to pull off the, “Oh, well, what do you know, I just happened to realize
right when this slightly terrifying person was standing nearby that I forgot to
lock my door! And I just always have my door locked, so it’s in no way because
of you, scary gentleman who may or may not try to jack my car” logic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I stay. Not writing, not thinking of
things to write, just feeling out when it would be a good time to get up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually, after I checked Facebook and Pinterest and
downloaded this new app on my phone that lets me add cute doodles to
photographs, I close my laptop and head back to my apartment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And that's where you would've found me this afternoon—sitting Indian style on my
bed listening to an Aretha Franklin record, finally writing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-56133919992097877402013-04-07T06:47:00.001-07:002013-04-07T06:47:29.734-07:00An Exercise In Writing<span lang="EN">A twenty-something girl sits cross-legged on a couch that she's decorated with too many pillows. The excessive accessories look great in photographs she posts on Instagram, but are completely impractical when she eventually puts her iPhone away and wants to sit down. So, she throws almost all of them on the floor and assumes her evening position in front of a TV that's likely beaming out images of a show she'll claim she's too intellectual to get into. Her laptop is perched on the edge of a coffee table cluttered with magazines she still hasn't read, but will thumb through from time to time for outfit inspiration. She feels guilty knowing she's a "writer" (she's not confident enough to call herself a writer without using air quotes) and yet she doesn't actively read the writing of others.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's her problem. She's already ignoring rule one of every writing workshop ever: you need to be a reader to be a writer.<br />
<br />
She stops the train her mind is on before it reaches that place where she tears up over things like her Feature Writing professor saying as long as she's writing, she'll make something out of herself. But then again, she tears up at pretty much anything (including but not excluded to manly men crying or sad looking animals.)<br />
<br />
See, right now, she's not writing. She can't write. It's like the universe is preventing her fingers from pressing the keys to form the words that she can kind of hazily see in her mind. And the universe has been a total bitch to her lately, so she feels okay using it as a scapegoat for her creative mind block. Just last week she tried to “get out there” and “do different things” which for her was doing something really normal and not at all crazy like going to a new bar with co-workers. And what happened? The universe was like, “Calm down crazy. Here’s a splitting headache that will make you go home at eight.”<br />
<br />
And so is how her life usually goes.<br />
<br />
She takes a sip (gulp, really, but sip sounds so much more delicate and lady like) of wine before grabbing her laptop with determination.<br />
<br />
She will write something--anything--tonight. <br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">But first she should probably find the appropriate album to write to. She mutes the TV (but will leave it on, for really no reason at all) and places her laptop back on the coffee table, probably too close to that Bath and Body Works candle she leaves burning for hours. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">She goes to her record collection and starts flipping through the albums. She feels like the image of her sitting in front of her record player is very “indie movie” and wishes someone was there to photograph it, then filter it through Instagram and tag her in it on Facebook. It would make a really artsy profile pic and some cute, quirky guy who looks like Justin Timberlake when he hosts SNL (you know, when he wears eyeglasses) would be into it. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Finally, she decides that Carly Simon’s “Boys In The Trees” is the ticket to unleashing her creative genius. So she places the needle on the groove and once again, reaches for her laptop.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">She stares at the blinking cursor for a little bit before deciding she should work on a project she’s already started. Her novel. Or short story, as it stands now since it’s about seven pages long. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">She opens it up and realizes it hasn’t been formatted for her Mac. That’s how long it’s been since she’s accessed it. She heaves a dramatic sigh as if she’s some kind of elderly man at a bar recalling his younger days with wisdom and regret, and tries to figure out how to open the document.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Nothing makes sense.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">She just starts double-clicking things until some kind of hieroglyphic text opens in front her. Among the “National Treasure” looking inscriptions, bits and pieces of the original text is there but it’s completely out of order. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">It’s too much work. And besides, that novel/short story was awful anyways.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">She goes back to the blank page and blinking cursor. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">She has nothing. Absolutely nothing. She looks around the room and sees her pillows thrown on the floor. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">As an exercise, she starts writing about a “writer” who excessively accessorizes her couch</span></span></span>Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-8464752394477990582013-03-19T17:02:00.002-07:002013-03-19T17:02:56.282-07:00A Bird Flew Into My Window Today
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, a bird just flew into my window.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizL8itKohUO0Ei4aNTJqiK5Gx29Lu1FuOjG9i5aHpO12wK0Svio0-_gI8U2adHbpensXnm9IJyvVku2_9OcYNRkEb-XsZf2lGktDLIQDsYxhuJSThaav6SvgwcOe3ABVB9zb3NDJD-rw/s1600/bloggggggg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizL8itKohUO0Ei4aNTJqiK5Gx29Lu1FuOjG9i5aHpO12wK0Svio0-_gI8U2adHbpensXnm9IJyvVku2_9OcYNRkEb-XsZf2lGktDLIQDsYxhuJSThaav6SvgwcOe3ABVB9zb3NDJD-rw/s320/bloggggggg.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scene of the incident.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was one of those moments that if you’re alone, you just
sit and look around the room doing that “Did anyone else just see that?!” thing, then immediately feel unsatisfied
because the inanimate objects you’re looking to for confirmation aren’t
responding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I had to blog about how a bird just flew into my window.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was writing a really profound piece of literature while
simultaneously learning how to play the violin—you know, really productive
stuff that’s not at all just sitting on the couch watching re-runs of The
Office—when out of my peripheral vision I saw dark feathers ruffle past the
window. As soon as I turned, I heard a thump, and then the bird was gone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I live on the seventh floor which means my exterior windows
are like, never washed, so the fact that a bird accidentally flew into it sort
of astonishes me. I had that stunned, delayed, and illogical reaction that
caused me to get up minutes after it happened and look out the window. As if the
bird would be hanging onto my ledge by its wing, hiding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, nope. It was gone. And all I could think about is what
if the window had been open and the bird flew into my apartment? Would I have
died? Would the newspaper headline try to cleverly reference Hitchcock’s “The
Birds”? Or would the bird have become a fun pet that ties ribbons in my hair
and listens to me sing Huey Lewis and The News songs to myself when no one’s
around? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Guess we’ll never know. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-45349257377575351892013-02-18T17:57:00.001-08:002013-03-11T15:57:13.289-07:00Lists & Catfish<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Note: I actually wrote this post a while ago, posted it, re-read it and wanted to edit it, reverted it back to a draft, and then likely fell asleep and never came back to it. After sitting in front of a blank document for about 20 minutes tonight, I decided to just tweak this entry and post it. Here's to blogging again! I promise I'm trying, so just stay with me here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I haven’t
really been inspired to write, which is the worst feeling ever. So I thought to
trigger something, or at the very least, keep me writing, I’m going to start
posting about things I’m into right now. Sort of like an ongoing list because list
making is my favorite and my self-indulgence tells me everyone would love to
know what I’m interested in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, here goes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/MTVcatfish?ref=ts&fref=ts" target="_blank">Catfish: The TV Show</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn't really watching MTV anymore. And when I say wasn't really, I
mean never. I’m not even mildly interested in their television programming,
which is saying a lot because I watch some seriously stupid stuff sometimes.
But this show, (which, thanks, Kacie for introducing me to it!) is so
addictive. If you don’t know, it’s based off of a documentary by the same name.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Breakdown “Catfish” </b>the cute, sweet guy Nev was the subject of a documentary by the same name a few years ago. He fell for some girl online who happened to be absolutely not who she said she was. It's a really good movie--go watch it. But now Nev is helping other people meet their
online loves to see if they’re legit. ~~SpOiLeR AlErT~~ (I think it’s a
requirement that you write it like that) they’re almost never legit. I don’t
understand this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe I’m just super paranoid (I know I possess this really
cute personality quirk that makes me assume everyone is guilty until proven
innocent) but I would never trust some random person in Nebraska who adds me on
Facebook. No matter if this guy is like a Ryan Gosling with a Joseph Gordon
Levitt charm and a Caleb Followill sense of style kind of guy who somehow became a millionaire by saving stray animals. In fact, I’d be
DOUBLY suspicious then. Like, um, why are you messaging me, of all people? I’m just some girl who lives in some
town that has to be identified by the cities it’s sandwiched between. Not to knock
myself, but I know Dexter Banks, the model/jetsetter/millionaire who lives in
Nebraska and has no access to a webchat device (but he’s a millionaire)
probably wouldn’t be into me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why do none of these people see this? And I
know I’m sounding really cynical and harsh, but understand that while I’m
watching these shows, I’m like, actually into it. Not even in an ironic way.
I’m invested in these people and I always want Banks the business mogul with a
six-pack, to be the real deal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I mean, thanks to “Catfish,” I pretty much think anyone I
don’t know on the Internet is the exact opposite of the image they’re putting
out there of themselves. And we all know a heightened sense of paranoia is
great addition to anyone’s TV lineup. Can't wait for season 2.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-63735435826636536142013-02-01T22:19:00.001-08:002013-02-01T22:22:42.900-08:00I Can't Believe I'm Awake Right Now<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s this really disturbing alley/club thing that I don’t
totally understand within earshot of my apartment building. Every Friday and
Saturday night, this phantom club that pops up on weekends yet is completely
invisible during the day (seriously, I always look for it, but
I’m met with a suspiciously small, literal gross alley way with the club’s name
above it) plays aggressively loud music in between muffled sounds of a DJ
shouting random things at club goers.
(Which, by the way, no thanks. I’m not a club person, but I can’t
imagine that someone telling you to “Hype up the party!” actually energizes you
into having a great time.) A few minutes ago, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”
was blaring through the streets, up seven flights of stairs, and into my little
living room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some reason, I felt the need to go look out my window. I
mean, what I was looking at, I’m not sure (sounds can’t really be seen) but it
didn’t stop me from prying the blinds apart long enough to peek in the direction
of Journey (maybe the music was coming from John Cusack’s boom box in a sweet
attempt to motivate me?), then realize how creepy peeking through blinds is. (It’s
super creepy. There’s nothing wrong with looking out an open window—it’s so
artsy and transcendent—but when you add closed blinds, you take a turn for the
weirdo.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I decided to sit down and write. About nothing, as
usual.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This week has been pretty uneventful. I felt a blur of days
that I couldn’t completely differentiate swirl past me and suddenly, it was
Friday and the week was over. I really hate when that happens. I’m not one of
those awful “Seize the day!” people who make you feel incredibly insignificant
in comparison to all these awesome things they’re constantly doing (think of that
friend you have on Facebook who you don’t even really know that well outside of
that one class you took freshman year. Why’s that jerk always rock climbing or
canoeing or landing great jobs that are not even really jobs, but legit
careers?) but I’m also not one to be content to have not done anything slightly
productive over the extent of
several days.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only thing I did that was at all impressive (and
by impressive I mean I wasn’t watching Seinfeld re-runs while simultaneously
watching Youtube videos) was that I went running (okay, briskly walking/kind of feigning a jog) last
night around a lake I thought would’ve had much more lighting than I was
actually met with. I blame the creepy, murderously dim areas of the trail for
why I couldn’t really run much. I can’t risk tripping in the darkness and
making things easier on the psychopaths who just love attacking young women
jogging (okay, briskly walking). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite my dramatic assumption that I was uncomfortably
close to becoming the topic of a Lifetime movie, my walk made me feel
accomplished. And not even because I somehow benefitted physically from it, but
just being outside made me feel
better. That's a weirdly simple realization to make, but it's true. I forgot how much I enjoy breezes and water and nature and not being inside getting untanned by fluorescent office lighting. I really, really hope it starts getting lighter out sooner--I want to actually start running and it not be because I’m afraid some shadow creep is chasing me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And on that note, the alley club is playing “Super Freak”
and it’s really super loud. Like, it’s really loud. For real, you guys. No one should have to endure this.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-8893586874581778262013-01-24T16:49:00.002-08:002013-01-24T16:54:31.132-08:00This Is Kind Of Like A Food Blog, But Not Really At All Like One<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAULeH-xU5IPD0RldquX9X6ElZL6TAcnWrDvkqPvrKUtHJ35jMiIiyDI-XBqc9DPzywGRNKBCWiO_N57yjrlWMVGqIidwFHA5QJ119_0251JAAuz9OxGLgeIzz4wJ1up8n0BMZWtDYCY/s1600/foodblog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCAULeH-xU5IPD0RldquX9X6ElZL6TAcnWrDvkqPvrKUtHJ35jMiIiyDI-XBqc9DPzywGRNKBCWiO_N57yjrlWMVGqIidwFHA5QJ119_0251JAAuz9OxGLgeIzz4wJ1up8n0BMZWtDYCY/s320/foodblog.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A riveting photo of the random items in my fridge right now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I decided at the beginning of the week to not buy groceries until Saturday. Part of this was due to the fact I don't get paid until Friday, but the larger reason was how insanely inconvenient purchasing groceries is for me. It's like an eye roll and a huge sigh all at once every time I reach for the shopping cart.<br />
<br />
A few reasons for this:<br />
<br />
1.<b> I make a list every time but then don't reference the list once I'm in the store.</b> Don't ask why I do this. I have this obsessive-compulsive, idiosyncratic desire to write down each and every item the slightest whim brings to my mind, but once I'm actually inside the store I get so flustered, I don't even want any extra garbage getting in my way. Suddenly, I'm like, "Fuck this list and all the pressure it brings! I need to go with the flow and just find things the natural way!" So, here's my first problem.<br />
<br />
2. <b>People always want to look at the exact same thing I want to look at.</b> Oh, that really off brand of crackers that no one else has ever heard of but that I read about in a newsletter from Whole Foods, and Publix somehow carries? Oh yeah, that lady over there wants to look at them for a minimum of an hour at the same exact time I inch my way toward the shelf. I could always say, "Excuse me" but then again I assume everyone should understand that my quiet, polite mannerisms translate to, "SCRAM, RUDE LADY!" (Yeah, I just said scram. Deal with it.)<br />
<br />
3.<b> I almost never buy based on meals.</b> Again, this may harken back to the list debacle since I'd have a better shot at getting meal-conducive items if I didn't feel like a single sheet of paper was such an incredible burden to pull out of my purse, but I hardly ever purchase items that make sense for a meal. Oh, hummus and peanut butter and sun-dried tomatoes? Gotta have all that! Not sure what to do once I actually want to, you know, eat.<br />
<br />
4. <b>I get distracted by gimmicks.</b> Wait, Triscuit crackers are buy one get one free? Better buy, like, four boxes since I will probably be entertaining a lot of people in the future and crackers are always a hit, I guess. Or something. (And I always regret that I've purchased things I usually don't even want in such large quantities that don't make sense to my lifestyle.)<br />
<br />
So, knowing all that, I procrastinated and as a result, this entire week I've had a skeletal selection of food. Last night, for instance, I finished some cottage cheese and hummus with the last of the oddly abundant Triscuit crackers I'd been hoarding since November. For breakfast, I had a weird egg wrap featuring leftover sweet potato fries (can't waste money!) that I threw away after a few bites (okay, I guess you can!) And that's another thing, since realizing the incredible price of just existing, I feel like any food I bring into my apartment must be eaten. I will save the smallest amount of leftovers imaginable because, hey, I may want a bite-sized portion of an entree at a later date. (Does anyone else do this?)<br />
<br />
But, tomorrow is Friday which means I'm one day closer to not making meals that could possibly be featured on an episode of "Diners, Drive-Ins, & Dives."*<b>*</b><br />
<br />
And I have a pretty long list written out, too. Wish me luck.<br />
<br />
<b>**</b>Although, one night, I did use up the rest of my arugula and spinach and basically felt like writing a cookbook after I created my own brown rice recipe with it. Totally sounds fancy, right? I was so close to photographing it for Facebook, I swear to God.<br />
<br />
<br />Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-60463488598765387532013-01-03T04:47:00.000-08:002013-01-03T04:47:17.264-08:00Being A Size Smug
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re friends with me on Facebook (and let’s face it,
most of you are. I blog under no illusion that I’ve reached a status that
doesn’t require solicitation on my part via the social networking site. Unless
you count the random views I get from international readers—which I do count.
Every day to boost my already weirdly inflated yet extremely fragile ego) you
know I was starting an exercise regimen last night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite being temporarily derailed by a multitude of
distractions that included requesting catalogs for various department stores
online and a labor-intensive, healthy meal (which, by the way, was a little too
healthy. I ate a few bites and felt overwhelming dissatisfaction and thought, maybe
that’s how insanely healthy eating works—you starve from unhappiness because
your food is weird) I actually got up and completed 20 minutes of cardio.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now I’m waiting on a call from NBC to cast me as the
next trainer for "The Biggest Loser" since I’m a fitness expert. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I won’t tell you what I’m doing because I’m kind of
embarrassed by the cheesiness of it, but it’s a DVD fitness series thing that I
specifically requested for Christmas (and no, it’s not Flirty Girl Fitness. I
have some self-respect). It’s
insane that even in my living room, with the blinds shut and the volume down
low enough so my neighbors can’t hear, how insecure I am about the fact I own
fitness DVDs. Like it’s some weird thing I have to keep hidden under beds or in
underwear drawers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite my irrational fear of people knowing I work out to
high-energy videos that feature pop hits from Britney Spears and P!nk, I will
try and do this everyday. And it’s not for some noble reason like wanting to be
a “size healthier” (looking at you, bullshit weight loss commercials. What does
that even mean?) but because I want to lose actual pounds. You know, the kind
that when you add them up makes it possible for you to buy a pair of jeans from
Abercrombie & Fitch. And hey, let’s talk about that store. I don’t think
I’m some abnormally sized person ready for immobility, but yet Abercrombie
refuses to offer sizes beyond size 9 in their stores. SIZE 9. So if you’re
above that, then I guess you should just never see the light of day and
consider your life a failure. And I honestly don’t even want a pair of their
judgment jeans, I just want to be able to buy jeans there, but choose not to. Being
able to smugly walk past their store (and probably have no one even notice) is
the ultimate goal here. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, yeah. Last night I started an exercise regimen.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-79816118863089855942013-01-01T10:53:00.002-08:002013-01-01T10:53:44.562-08:00Fancy For The New Year
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtnrpELl8H8LJ-ixdU2dYuOyjCrb7OG2pzYRqCOwGy6RJsRw1nKzsPzOkoe3i743b6AFRqFNzjURiqtJ_LWJjKC3h0rOZRU0Mt3bPOyhy-5CLzzqYP28eC5Wiv_xgki4DPMo1IxrAQp8E/s1600/new+year+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtnrpELl8H8LJ-ixdU2dYuOyjCrb7OG2pzYRqCOwGy6RJsRw1nKzsPzOkoe3i743b6AFRqFNzjURiqtJ_LWJjKC3h0rOZRU0Mt3bPOyhy-5CLzzqYP28eC5Wiv_xgki4DPMo1IxrAQp8E/s320/new+year+2.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not a huge fan of New Year’s Eve. And this dislike hasn’t
developed as a coping mechanism for the fact I’m shy and rarely ever attend any
party I’m invited to. New Year’s has always been a strange celebration to me. I
mean, technically, each day signifies a year’s over. Your birthday, for
instance, means a year has gone by and you’re a year older. I just never
understood the fascination with switching out your calendar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, I mean, I guess I get the appeal. It’s a definite date
of renewal. On this date, the past is the past and I have a whole new year to
do something with my life. It’s a pretty liberating mindset. And I do like the
idea of having an excuse to start over and regain motivation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One year, I will have a very fancy New Year’s Eve. If I do
ever decide to celebrate it in some grand gesture such as staying up late
enough to actually see the glow of the digitized 12 on my clock, I’d like it to
be fancy. I’d like there to be lots of gold confetti and glamorous, sparkling
dresses and guys wearing ties. And this music playing in the background.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhye3OAotuogsxRv4Cko1KNFs6o6id5BmmNaGjnHUbZlul2_Y7J-RUJrfQ06K6OcCcYVMSeGzjfSwJyAOVWWDWyIOIEXju_xSISw-b_lk1KPOovqzDukFjjTTA4sE_MqyFhk5OQzfE5VqM/s1600/new+year.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhye3OAotuogsxRv4Cko1KNFs6o6id5BmmNaGjnHUbZlul2_Y7J-RUJrfQ06K6OcCcYVMSeGzjfSwJyAOVWWDWyIOIEXju_xSISw-b_lk1KPOovqzDukFjjTTA4sE_MqyFhk5OQzfE5VqM/s320/new+year.jpg" width="250" /></a><b>Fancy for the New Year</b> mini mix</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2MwhxdGAnic" target="_blank">The New Year</a> – Death Cab for Cutie</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SG8mbe2Ck3c" target="_blank">My Dear Acquaintance (A Happy New Year)</a> – Regina
Spektor</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUWF6fAAtWI" target="_blank">New Year’s Resolution</a> – Otis Redding</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nER97hnOjPU" target="_blank">Io (This Time Around) </a>– Helen Stellar</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oIFWQUaR8wg" target="_blank">Where to Begin</a> – My Morning Jacket</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqDlTKqxu2w" target="_blank">January Hymn</a> – The Decemberists</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->7.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;"> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTpnbveN7Ec" target="_blank">
</a></span><!--[endif]--><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTpnbveN7Ec" target="_blank">Auld Lang Syne</a> – Various Artists</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So maybe that’s my New Year’s resolution: to have fancy
parties and throw gold confetti in the air more often. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What’s yours?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-54724006197427981532012-12-25T15:52:00.001-08:002012-12-25T15:55:04.193-08:0025 DofC Day 25: Writing You a Merry Christmas<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Day 25</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"Spirit of Christmas" by Ray Charles AKA my dad's favorite Christmas song.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/sfLmpKTqugM?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
Right now, I'm sitting here with my mom watching ABC Family's original movie, "The 12 Dates of Christmas." It has Zack Morris in it, which is pretty much all I need in a movie.<br />
<br />
She's half asleep and my dad's avoiding this movie entirely--he's decided to take a shower then watch an episode or two of "Pawn Stars" in the back room. And then probably add another three or four episodes after he realizes I have "Holiday in Handcuffs" waiting in the wings. Later, we'll watch "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" and he'll make some reference to which characters resemble our relatives most, and then I'll probably cry during the scene where Clark's watching old home movies in the attic while Ray Charles' "Spirit of Christmas" plays in the background.<br />
<br />
But right now, I'm sitting here sort of bored.<br />
<br />
So, I decided to blog. I really have no direction with this entry, but I think that's okay. It's kind of how I feel about the new year. No direction, just an unfocused desire to move forward and onward. I find myself saying, "We'll see" about a lot of things in my life. Job opportunities, guys, adopting a dog, whether or not I can successfully use this fancy new electronic wine opener my BFF, Ricky, gifted me. It's all uncertain, but, again I think that's okay.<br />
<br />
I had a really nice Christmas. It's weird because I always get kind of depressed Christmas evening. It's this inexplicable cloud that hovers over me as the day ends and I can keep feeling the cloud deepen until I'm just sitting stone-faced thinking about the new year.<br />
<br />
This year, like every other year since I can remember, I began to feel that way. So I started writing and surprisingly, things seemed better. I felt not so sad that the holidays were over.<br />
<br />
What I'm trying to say is that writing brings me out of funks. It makes me feel better and stronger and powerful and more connected when I feel sad. Writing is what has brought me through so many things and because of it, I know whatever the new year has, I'll write through it.<br />
<br />
Hope you guys will stick it out with me.<br />
<br />
Merry Christmas, everyone. Thanks for reading :)<br />
<br />
<br />Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-161751641572489825.post-42428787359480297462012-12-23T07:40:00.000-08:002013-09-17T15:28:12.016-07:0025 DofC Day 23: Gangs, Dresses and Style Tips<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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So, remember when I was telling you guys about how I was
styling a shoot? Probably not, because I announced it way long ago. But besides
my issues with prematurely sharing news with people, I actually have the end
product of the shoot today. Get excited!</div>
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My good friend, Christina, had been encouraging me to explore
the world of styling. I was hesitant because being responsible for how other
people look is sort of nerve-wracking. I mean, sure, I wear what I want and
hope people think it’s cute, but ultimately I dress for myself, so who knows.
Maybe I’m that weirdo who people just patronize with flattering comments?</div>
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But because she’s an amazing photographer and person, she
presented me with an opportunity to try it out on a real-deal, styled photo
shoot. With the help of her equally talented cousin, Nicky, makeup and hair were
incredible. I still can’t believe how awesome it looked.</div>
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So, with an overabundance of options from Chloe (that girl
has an already amazing wardrobe) and her boyfriend, Blake, I was able to piece
together outfits that made sense to our 50s teen gang meets West Side Story
meets Best Coast’s music video for “Our Deal” theme. </div>
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I’ll share a few photos from the shoot below to go with some
of the tips I have for trying the trends, but please check out <a href="http://www.photosayshello.com/of-sharks-jets-a-modern-day-westside-story-inspired-shoot/" target="_blank">Photo Says Hello</a>, which is Christina’s website. Not only is the entire shoot on there, but
also other beautifully captured moments that she manages to somehow
consistently photograph. She amazes me!</div>
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And, since you’re already on the Internet and clearly have
good taste because you’re reading my blog and checking out Christina’s blog, go
ahead and check out Nicky’s page, <a href="http://www.allineedisonemic.com/beauty-edition-3/" target="_blank">All I Need Is One Mic</a>. I mean, just look at
the makeup and hair on Chloe—you need Nicky’s help!</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Mixing Prints</b> </span></div>
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AKA Chloe Wears A Red Circle Vine Print Dress
Under A Plaid Button-Down</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjli6C5q88gpy5u458wZ0ut778l5vyawNXZxGUPX_9C2OxAiEPwTB7CWrEY1j0W9oHO4G8_xToePMcV_5_2wSz4aeDBXCF0aGDuv6UuoA-HZodGaCHP8f2Lsoc5jAVE77TiL_Df-xCCg6U/s1600/westsidestory1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjli6C5q88gpy5u458wZ0ut778l5vyawNXZxGUPX_9C2OxAiEPwTB7CWrEY1j0W9oHO4G8_xToePMcV_5_2wSz4aeDBXCF0aGDuv6UuoA-HZodGaCHP8f2Lsoc5jAVE77TiL_Df-xCCg6U/s400/westsidestory1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Courtesy of <a href="http://www.photosayshello.com/of-sharks-jets-a-modern-day-westside-story-inspired-shoot/" target="_blank">Photo Says Hello</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Mixing prints is tricky, but if you pull it off you end up
looking so cool and interesting. And I really mean interesting in its intended
definition, not the way you use it when you don’t know what else to say about
something clearly awful.</div>
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<b>Tips for Trying the Trend:</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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--<b>Try mixing bolder
prints with subtler ones.</b> I like to think of one of the prints as almost a
pseudo neutral. In Chloe’s case, the subtle print was the dress. The circle
pattern is light and delicate and doesn’t compete too much with the plaid.</div>
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--<b>Make sure there’s
something that unites the pieces</b>. For Chloe, the color red was what made
this outfit look cohesive. The red of the dress was picked up in the red
stripes of the plaid.</div>
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--<b>Keep it simple.</b>
Which seems like weird advice considering I’m helping you go against years of
lessons about matching your clothes, but seriously. Chloe only had on two pieces,
which kept the outfit clean.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Menswear</span> </b></div>
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AKA Chloe Wears Button-Downs and Combat Boots</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKrgZyqQw9bVOKD-tF5o3Ai5vtItqb0oYiUJfpq4WaMaUrPMt3Z5NLF1pHyt65F5oqolCVf223o-HMolPb2vOEdKv3OTIkMiMvHUx9o7K1PUiEf6xTItVl8eBL7tOiJrjmLksN3N1Vcw/s1600/westsidestory2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsKrgZyqQw9bVOKD-tF5o3Ai5vtItqb0oYiUJfpq4WaMaUrPMt3Z5NLF1pHyt65F5oqolCVf223o-HMolPb2vOEdKv3OTIkMiMvHUx9o7K1PUiEf6xTItVl8eBL7tOiJrjmLksN3N1Vcw/s400/westsidestory2.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Courtesy of <a href="http://www.photosayshello.com/of-sharks-jets-a-modern-day-westside-story-inspired-shoot/" target="_blank">Photo Says Hello</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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Personally, I’m a pretty girly dresser, but I love this
trend. I think it’s adding the “spice” into the “sugar” that is femininity. You
can really take it as far as you feel comfortable (think Diane Keaton wearing
ties and bowler hats) or just infuse it in small doses. Which is what I did
with Chloe.</div>
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<b>Tips for Trying the Trend:</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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--<b>Button-downs are an
easy way to baby-step into menswear.</b> I like tying them at the waist as a
nod to years past and, well, because it’s cute. If you do tie at the waist, my
advice would be to button the shirt either up to the collar or just one button
below. With tied button-downs (especially plaid ones) it seems like you’re
always one undone button too many away from looking like a western wear ad. We
did unbutton a bit for Chloe, but because she was wearing a red dress
underneath and not jeans, we avoided the country cliff. Unless that's the look you're going for (which is totally fine, you do you) be aware of the
edge you may be line-dancing on with plaid and denim! </div>
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--<b>Incorporate
feminine pieces in unexpected places.</b> Chloe wore two button-downs for this
shoot—the chambray denim and the plaid. For the chambray one, I added sparkle
at the collar with a twisted, mixed-metal necklace. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eM2cqzNAlmfPronVePZ9qlS5Z8Gc89n9orRewXSVs3kNOKttzMaqHEXgI1eY8-VXTuaP2v6udMLwZpO60zA_MWjIKLP-wQPGa8Yo_OBLyK5j65FyRvtj-C8SDsDzLJ04JJTV612f_zI/s1600/westsidestory4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eM2cqzNAlmfPronVePZ9qlS5Z8Gc89n9orRewXSVs3kNOKttzMaqHEXgI1eY8-VXTuaP2v6udMLwZpO60zA_MWjIKLP-wQPGa8Yo_OBLyK5j65FyRvtj-C8SDsDzLJ04JJTV612f_zI/s320/westsidestory4.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Courtesy of <a href="http://www.photosayshello.com/of-sharks-jets-a-modern-day-westside-story-inspired-shoot/" target="_blank">Photo Says Hello</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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--<b>Combat boots are
always awesome.</b> Okay, so maybe I didn’t say that as eloquently as I could
have, but seriously. I love them with dresses because I think the mix of soft and
tough is effortlessly cool and oddly beautiful. And with skinny jeans, they’re
just plain badass. I made Chloe wear those boots pretty much all day. With
everything.</div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b><br /></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Retro Twists</span></b> </div>
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AKA Everything Chloe Wore</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0UpO8yg4hJwfXa3xlwUoVQNaEo5aPukn-UyxFs7Jswflx-Grpww8ZSJeR8QH0UTjyFajqrE3Y_fpiw2gvt0BFhEYa8dIjf4veWBGB9s3EeXe9CgJ6DY1lhHVQLw5xuKWuuSHgnAzSfag/s1600/westsidestory3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0UpO8yg4hJwfXa3xlwUoVQNaEo5aPukn-UyxFs7Jswflx-Grpww8ZSJeR8QH0UTjyFajqrE3Y_fpiw2gvt0BFhEYa8dIjf4veWBGB9s3EeXe9CgJ6DY1lhHVQLw5xuKWuuSHgnAzSfag/s400/westsidestory3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Courtesy of <a href="http://www.photosayshello.com/of-sharks-jets-a-modern-day-westside-story-inspired-shoot/" target="_blank">Photo Says Hello</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p> </o:p>Okay, so this entire shoot could probably go under this
trend, but I’ll focus on the black and white ensemble, and then simply, the red
dress with pearls.</div>
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<b>Tips For Trying the Trend:</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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--<b>Beware of the
costume.</b> If you want to look retro and chic, you have to wink at the past
with your clothing, not take a time machine to the 50s and buy your outfit. For
Chloe, each outfit had something that whispered years gone by. The shape of the
red dress with its ¾ length sleeves and full skirt, the black skinny pants that
channeled Audrey Hepburn, and the boxy, ¾ length sleeve white, lace top that was
cropped just enough to look slightly 60s. All pieces tiptoe along the decades
without jumping off a cheesy cliff of cliché.</div>
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--<b>Shop at thrift
stores.</b> I know it may be difficult to find clothing at thrift stores that
fits or isn’t so literal, but accessory shopping at thrift stores for retro
pieces is essential. Chloe’s layered pearl necklace with the beautiful jeweled
clasp? Goodwill. The long, twisted gold chain? Local thrift store.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amanda Raehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10480217936686165367noreply@blogger.com0