Today I'm holding auditions for the play I will begin directing. I'm under-prepared and over-exhausted. That should make for a good combination of crabby director and whiny actors. This promises to be a delight.
It's lunchtime, but I'm not excited about my turkey sandwich. There are still some cinnamon rolls in the fridge...
My outfit today is ridiculous. It looked much better in my mind. I was late, so I didn't have the time to switch shirts for the fourth time. I'm hoping the black belt and black and white scarf tied like a skinny tie is hiding the fact that I'm wearing a white undershirt to work...
I slept with my hair in six braids with the intention of flat ironing them this morning into beachy waves. Right now, my hair is a giant ponytail full of static electricity. Like some sort of deranged Pomeranian Chia Pet...
There are deep thoughts in my mind, discoveries I uncovered over the weekend. Things I'm not sure I'm ready to share...
I'm fighting yet another cold, longing for spring flowers, and enjoying Jennifer Lawrence's trip up the Oscar stairs...
I badly need to start eating healthier and running. The sink is full of dishes. I think I'll plan a little spring break vacation for the two of us...
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
What Kind of Girl
I really don't know what kind of girl I am.
So says Juno in Juno at the point where the film goes from overly-kitschy to beautiful. This is the moment where the dialogue moves from oh-my-gosh-did-she-really-just-say-"honest-to-blog"-please-stick-to-stripping-Diablo-Cody to art.
Because that is every girl everywhere, sitting on that couch, facing her father, regardless of the extenuating circumstances, and not knowing who she is. It's every teenager. Heck, it's everyone. It's all of us—at the coffee shop with your best friend, a phone call to your mom, a late night moment when you sneak into your older sister's bedroom, looking into the mirror on your 25th birthday—when things just aren't turning out the way we thought they would.
I really don't know what kind of girl I am.
I spent the last several weeks at work preparing for a conference. It was a big, regional event with over 30 important speakers. To prepare for the day, I put together a packet with photos and bios of each presenter. This is always my favorite part of a big event—collecting all the bios and organizing them, reading how each of these highly successful people choose to write about themselves in a short paragraph. Each has held several high-level positions with powerful corporations, they hold multiple degrees from top universities, they serve on the Board of Trustees to grand organizations. I'm fascinated by what they choose to include, and in what order, in how they present themselves to strangers.
And I wonder, when was their moment when they chose to say instead:
I really do know what kind of person I am.
There are days I know exactly who I am. I paint my toenails red, pull on my favorite tights and boots, curl my hair in messy waves, and knot a scarf. I present my designs and copy at meetings truly happy with what I've created.
And other days I wonder if I'm alone in the big sea of designers and writers who submit their work even when they aren't happy with the finished product, knowing a photo could use another hour of editing, submitting for a deadline even when the lines aren't just right in the bottom left corner.
Those are the days I wonder, Do you really know what you are doing? Sometimes I slip on nylons and a blazer and those painfully pointy black pumps and try to look older.
Maybe I'm still becoming the kind of girl I really am.
So says Juno in Juno at the point where the film goes from overly-kitschy to beautiful. This is the moment where the dialogue moves from oh-my-gosh-did-she-really-just-say-"honest-to-blog"-please-stick-to-stripping-Diablo-Cody to art.
Because that is every girl everywhere, sitting on that couch, facing her father, regardless of the extenuating circumstances, and not knowing who she is. It's every teenager. Heck, it's everyone. It's all of us—at the coffee shop with your best friend, a phone call to your mom, a late night moment when you sneak into your older sister's bedroom, looking into the mirror on your 25th birthday—when things just aren't turning out the way we thought they would.
I really don't know what kind of girl I am.
I spent the last several weeks at work preparing for a conference. It was a big, regional event with over 30 important speakers. To prepare for the day, I put together a packet with photos and bios of each presenter. This is always my favorite part of a big event—collecting all the bios and organizing them, reading how each of these highly successful people choose to write about themselves in a short paragraph. Each has held several high-level positions with powerful corporations, they hold multiple degrees from top universities, they serve on the Board of Trustees to grand organizations. I'm fascinated by what they choose to include, and in what order, in how they present themselves to strangers.
And I wonder, when was their moment when they chose to say instead:
I really do know what kind of person I am.
There are days I know exactly who I am. I paint my toenails red, pull on my favorite tights and boots, curl my hair in messy waves, and knot a scarf. I present my designs and copy at meetings truly happy with what I've created.
And other days I wonder if I'm alone in the big sea of designers and writers who submit their work even when they aren't happy with the finished product, knowing a photo could use another hour of editing, submitting for a deadline even when the lines aren't just right in the bottom left corner.
Those are the days I wonder, Do you really know what you are doing? Sometimes I slip on nylons and a blazer and those painfully pointy black pumps and try to look older.
Maybe I'm still becoming the kind of girl I really am.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Our Story
Today marks nine years.
On February 6, 2004...
This boy:
asked this girl:
to be his girlfriend.
Then, on New Year's Eve 2009, came the ring:
Then this happened August 14, 2010:
And now:
My dear Brett,
I still smile every time I see Husband come up on my Caller I.D.
I love the way every kid instantly becomes your best friend.
I cannot fathom the string of songs you must
have stuck in your head all.the.time by the rotation you choose to sing
them out loud.
I love that you ask me if your tie matches your shirt every Sunday.
When we slow dance together in the kitchen, I close my eyes and breathe deep because this, this is what I always imagined our marriage would be.
Love,
Bean
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