Amber L. Carter's Blog, page 81
August 11, 2011
Summer of Hummers, 8.11.11
But...Randy doesn't want to wait a whole two weeks for Hummers!
NOBODY wants to.
NOBODY wants to.
"Espresso" which you should pronounce as, "EX-PRESS-OOOO."
Becoming a barista is something I've been wanting to do for a long time. As with anything, I feel like getting in on the ground floor is the most valuable thing you can do when you're trying to learn about something new. In learning about coffee farming and production and Fair Trade, it makes sense to learn more about all of those things by being hands-on when it comes to turning those coffee beans into a viable product. Also, it's kind of nice to shatter that glass wall between customer and barista. Because let's face it: Some of them are total dicks, and act like what they do is the most complicated and precious thing in the world.
So a few weeks ago, I noticed that one of my favorite spaces, Mooselips Java Joint, was hiring. I kind of winged about when it came to getting a job this summer - I didn't really need to, and I was afraid that it was going to take time away from writing. But I was also starting to feel like a fundamentalist Mormon who never left the compound...there have seriously been two weeks spans this summer when I did not leave the home grounds (granted, there's a lake and a forest on those said grounds, but still) or interact with anyone face-to-face except for my family. So I told myself to give it a shot - if I hated it and was losing all of my writing time, I could always quit, right? And at the very least, it would teach me something new and give me a wider knowledge base.
Here's the State of The Union on it so far:
1) I couldn't get the foam on cappucinos right on my first day. So that night I had my mom dig out her old espresso machine and I practiced night and day. Now my foam is amazing. It's light and fluffy and frothy and not too hot. Do people actually go to school for this stuff? Those people are stupid.
2) At the coffeeshop we have an XM/Sirius station that we tune to the "Coffee Shop" station. The station is, on the whole, pretty decent - mostly acoustic, some really great songs, a lot of fantastic rare covers. The only problem with the station is the same problem that shows up on every XM station - they seem to have 2 to 3 artists that they rotate constantly...like the artists are your dosage of prozac or something, and if you don't hear them once ever three hours, you're gonna turn the station and join up with a traveling jam band.
These artists are: The Indigo Girls, Tracey Chapman, and Natalie Merchant. Tracey Chapman I can totally handle...I truly believe she has one of the greatest voices of our generation. The Indigo Girls...
I was part of St. Paul T.E.C. in high school. One year I was on Kitchen Team, where we listened to The Indigo Girls constantly while setting up and taking down the kitchen area. At one point I asked, "Can we maybe listen to something else?"
"What?" the female T.E.C Pastor asked. "Don't you like The Indigo Girls?"
"I do, but...I'm getting a little tired of them."
"How could you possibly EVER get tired of The Indigo Girls?"
"Oh, it's possible. Trust me."
And it still is.
But Natalie Merchant....first of all, I can't really stand her. Natalie Merchant was to the generation of girls before me what Regina Spektor is to the girls coming up behind me. You want to like them as artists, but you're also put off by the type of fans they attract. I've done some research on this, and it seems like the majority of Natalie Merchant and Regina Spektor are typically big-busted, art-majoring, naturally curly-haired, annoyingly-judgy-about-environmental-stuff college chicks. Like, girls who still color in coloring books in college because it gives them back their childlike wonder and joy.
And she gets in your head and she STICKS. That's the worst part.
The only really good thing about this phenomenon is that it gave me this FB status update and subsequent comments. Randy quoting Indigo Girls in context is still one of the highlights of the summer.
3) Pooks, having just gotten over being moved to a cabin up north where she's even MORE bored and put upon, is none too delighted by my change in time and attention investment. Every night when I get home, she's all, "I don't GIVE a shit if you're tired. I've been waiting all day for you to play with me. So now it's MY time. MY TIME."
Or, "Oh, you think you're gonna get on this laptop and start writing, huh? Yeah, try that."
In other related news, I have decided to rename her Deloris Pookerton Carter The Cat. And she actually answers to Deloris. Which a perfect name for her, because she's an old crabby lady who loves the sound of her own voice and can't seem to mind her business.
The End.
August 3, 2011
Summer of Hummers, 8.3.11
After a brief hiatus, we're back!
Randy says: Oh. My. God. Entire gardens with hummers everywhere!
Randy says: Oh. My. God. Entire gardens with hummers everywhere!
August 1, 2011
Revisitation.
I try to go down to the dock every night. It's the stars. I missed them so much when I was in the city, that I sometimes feel like I need to drink them in as much as I can, now, and here, or I will end up regretting it for the rest of my life.
Tonight, though, it was the fog. Carrying Pooks in from a long day at my parents, I lower her to the floor, then float through the cabin, pulling on my rolled-up jeans, hooded sweatshirt, and flip-flops. I threw my hair up into a ponytail, grabbed a towel and my iPod, and drifted down the wooded slope and onto the platform.
Sitting on the bench, I cued up Bon Iver's new album and stared out at the mist, the thick, comforting gray of the lake. On my bulletin board in the cabin, I have a collection of pictures, sayings, and clippings that I like to stare at in the early morning and night. There's a scrap of a Chinese fortune that says, "Discontent is the necessity of progress."
I took a job as a barista at a local coffeeshop about three weeks ago, after finding myself wandering around the cabin at night, bored and restless and with little to look forward to. Long stretches of open days, in the early summer, were heaven. In the past few weeks, they've become time to waste. I resisted the idea for a while, telling myself that I didn't really need one, that it would take time away from my writing, etc. But then the little coffeeshop I had been watching for months, with the thought in the back of my head that it might be fun to work there, posted an ad in the paper, and without a second thought I called and interviewed and was hired all in the same day.
I've been thriving. I delight in my hours there, ideas are tumbling out, and the structure of only having so many hours to write has actually churned out more writing than the last few months of open-ended days. It's caused me to think of all the other things that I've been arguing against that might also end up being really good for me.
Like people. Filling in for a server the other night, I looked up to see a tall, tanned, bald-shaven man walk in. I threw out a smile and a hello, then watched as he smiled back and walked into the kitchen. A new coworker, a cook. He already knew my name, and though he looked familiar, I couldn't quite place him. I didn't find out his first name until the very end of the night, though I did manage to collect a few other facts about him as I overheard his conversations with others: Baseball player. BMX biker. Fishing guide.
The next night I was having drinks with my old friend Adam, and somehow the cook came up. Adam instantly knew who I was talking about, and told me that he used to go to the same parties and hung out with the same crowd as we did when I first lived up here, which is why he probably looked familiar. "That's probably not a good thing," I stated to Adam, thinking back on that turbulent time and all that could be interpreted from it. "I'm wary of getting involved with anyone from around here. I know that sounds snobby and narrow-minded, but it's the same thing – I already did that. I already dated you. I'd prefer to shop from a different store." It's the guys who fish, who make jokes about Mexicans, who stand around in the bait store or gas station, bitching about their jobs and their wives. The loud-mouths in the bars, the ones who make me cringe with their loud engine-revving as they blast out of the parking lot. I know it's not true, and there are always exceptions to the rule, but sometimes it feels as if Hayward and Cable is a garden, and this is the only crop of men it grows.
"If he asks you on a date, I would tell you that you have to say yes," Adam insisted.
"Really?!" I sat up and stared at him. "I've never heard you endorse anyone, especially not someone from around here."
"He is one of the greatest people I know. He can fall into the trap of being an asshole when he's with his friends, but one on one, the guy is like Killian."
Killian is, hands down, one of the coolest and nicest people we've ever met, anywhere, ever.
"Hmm." I sat back in my chair again, thinking.
"Seriously. If he asks you out, I would definitely go out with him if I were you."
Later that night, while sitting in bed and reading, my mind wandered. It only happens once in a blue moon, but the feeling had become palatable...I wanted someone else. Something else. All the feelings and longings and buzz and pull that usually lay dormant during my solitary life starts to awaken, and suddenly if feels as if my nerves are on fire, that I'm ready to jump out of my skin. Usually, going on dates and kissing and the dance of flirting seems so boring...but during this small span of time, a flip is switched, and now everything is so boring without it. And I want it now. I know it will usually pass...I'll sigh a lot and stare off into daydreams and wander around in the discontent for a few days, but then it will slowly melt away and I'll be back to my happy life of just myself and Pooks to take care of.
But this had me wondering. I know that I may only be attracted to him because he reminds me of another bald-shaven man down in Minneapolis with a similar build and a quiet confidence, someone I also find myself wondering about on a semi-regular basis. I know that it would be hard for me to resist all of my preconceived notions and ideas of what he is probably like, even though I would fiercely declare that that's not fair if the tables were turned. And I know that the story is still much the same that it was the first time I lived in this place: That I don't really want to date anyone from up here, because I don't want to have a reason for why I have to stay. And what if he's actually really ugly and stupid and dumb and I'm only thinking about him because he's the best of what's immediately around? But the book has already been opened, I thought to myself, as I turned out the light and flipped the covers over my chest. And once it's opened, I never can quite let it go until I find out what finally happens in the end.
There was a chance that we would work together on Friday. On Friday nights, the coffeeshop morphs into an upscale eatery, and I fill the role as hostess, a role I relish if only because it gives me a rare reason to put on a dress and get glossed up. This evening was in particularly top form: It was one of those moments when everything just seems to come together and you know that you look as swell as you had hoped to. But he wasn't there, and even though I told myself to not be stupid, you knew there was a chance he wouldn't be, I couldn't help but feel a little bit disappointed. The thought of this dress and these boots only being worth a Friday evening that held a few hours of work, a long ride home, and an empty cabin with nothing to do but write and go to bed...it just seemed...sad.
Bored and needing something to do, I picked up a couple of empty glasses from the table to take into the main bar. Walking through the middle room, I envisioned magnets reaching out from my black-dress-clad body and pulling the cook in. "If this is worth anything, then he has to come in, I have to get to see him tonight." And literally right on cue, I rounded the corner as he was walking in the door.
Tonight, though, it was the fog. Carrying Pooks in from a long day at my parents, I lower her to the floor, then float through the cabin, pulling on my rolled-up jeans, hooded sweatshirt, and flip-flops. I threw my hair up into a ponytail, grabbed a towel and my iPod, and drifted down the wooded slope and onto the platform.
Sitting on the bench, I cued up Bon Iver's new album and stared out at the mist, the thick, comforting gray of the lake. On my bulletin board in the cabin, I have a collection of pictures, sayings, and clippings that I like to stare at in the early morning and night. There's a scrap of a Chinese fortune that says, "Discontent is the necessity of progress."
I took a job as a barista at a local coffeeshop about three weeks ago, after finding myself wandering around the cabin at night, bored and restless and with little to look forward to. Long stretches of open days, in the early summer, were heaven. In the past few weeks, they've become time to waste. I resisted the idea for a while, telling myself that I didn't really need one, that it would take time away from my writing, etc. But then the little coffeeshop I had been watching for months, with the thought in the back of my head that it might be fun to work there, posted an ad in the paper, and without a second thought I called and interviewed and was hired all in the same day.
I've been thriving. I delight in my hours there, ideas are tumbling out, and the structure of only having so many hours to write has actually churned out more writing than the last few months of open-ended days. It's caused me to think of all the other things that I've been arguing against that might also end up being really good for me.
Like people. Filling in for a server the other night, I looked up to see a tall, tanned, bald-shaven man walk in. I threw out a smile and a hello, then watched as he smiled back and walked into the kitchen. A new coworker, a cook. He already knew my name, and though he looked familiar, I couldn't quite place him. I didn't find out his first name until the very end of the night, though I did manage to collect a few other facts about him as I overheard his conversations with others: Baseball player. BMX biker. Fishing guide.
The next night I was having drinks with my old friend Adam, and somehow the cook came up. Adam instantly knew who I was talking about, and told me that he used to go to the same parties and hung out with the same crowd as we did when I first lived up here, which is why he probably looked familiar. "That's probably not a good thing," I stated to Adam, thinking back on that turbulent time and all that could be interpreted from it. "I'm wary of getting involved with anyone from around here. I know that sounds snobby and narrow-minded, but it's the same thing – I already did that. I already dated you. I'd prefer to shop from a different store." It's the guys who fish, who make jokes about Mexicans, who stand around in the bait store or gas station, bitching about their jobs and their wives. The loud-mouths in the bars, the ones who make me cringe with their loud engine-revving as they blast out of the parking lot. I know it's not true, and there are always exceptions to the rule, but sometimes it feels as if Hayward and Cable is a garden, and this is the only crop of men it grows.
"If he asks you on a date, I would tell you that you have to say yes," Adam insisted.
"Really?!" I sat up and stared at him. "I've never heard you endorse anyone, especially not someone from around here."
"He is one of the greatest people I know. He can fall into the trap of being an asshole when he's with his friends, but one on one, the guy is like Killian."
Killian is, hands down, one of the coolest and nicest people we've ever met, anywhere, ever.
"Hmm." I sat back in my chair again, thinking.
"Seriously. If he asks you out, I would definitely go out with him if I were you."
Later that night, while sitting in bed and reading, my mind wandered. It only happens once in a blue moon, but the feeling had become palatable...I wanted someone else. Something else. All the feelings and longings and buzz and pull that usually lay dormant during my solitary life starts to awaken, and suddenly if feels as if my nerves are on fire, that I'm ready to jump out of my skin. Usually, going on dates and kissing and the dance of flirting seems so boring...but during this small span of time, a flip is switched, and now everything is so boring without it. And I want it now. I know it will usually pass...I'll sigh a lot and stare off into daydreams and wander around in the discontent for a few days, but then it will slowly melt away and I'll be back to my happy life of just myself and Pooks to take care of.
But this had me wondering. I know that I may only be attracted to him because he reminds me of another bald-shaven man down in Minneapolis with a similar build and a quiet confidence, someone I also find myself wondering about on a semi-regular basis. I know that it would be hard for me to resist all of my preconceived notions and ideas of what he is probably like, even though I would fiercely declare that that's not fair if the tables were turned. And I know that the story is still much the same that it was the first time I lived in this place: That I don't really want to date anyone from up here, because I don't want to have a reason for why I have to stay. And what if he's actually really ugly and stupid and dumb and I'm only thinking about him because he's the best of what's immediately around? But the book has already been opened, I thought to myself, as I turned out the light and flipped the covers over my chest. And once it's opened, I never can quite let it go until I find out what finally happens in the end.
There was a chance that we would work together on Friday. On Friday nights, the coffeeshop morphs into an upscale eatery, and I fill the role as hostess, a role I relish if only because it gives me a rare reason to put on a dress and get glossed up. This evening was in particularly top form: It was one of those moments when everything just seems to come together and you know that you look as swell as you had hoped to. But he wasn't there, and even though I told myself to not be stupid, you knew there was a chance he wouldn't be, I couldn't help but feel a little bit disappointed. The thought of this dress and these boots only being worth a Friday evening that held a few hours of work, a long ride home, and an empty cabin with nothing to do but write and go to bed...it just seemed...sad.
Bored and needing something to do, I picked up a couple of empty glasses from the table to take into the main bar. Walking through the middle room, I envisioned magnets reaching out from my black-dress-clad body and pulling the cook in. "If this is worth anything, then he has to come in, I have to get to see him tonight." And literally right on cue, I rounded the corner as he was walking in the door.
July 18, 2011
Even if this post only affects one person, it will still all be worth it.
I know this is going to sound like another one of those crazy conspiracy theories, but...I need to speak it out loud. I need to voice my concerns. I've put a lot of thought into this, and I feel very strongly that I could be right.I think Jennifer Garner is paying off People Magazine.
And also US Weekly.
To those of you who subscribe and buy those particular magazines...think about it. She's in those magazines almost every week. She doesn't do ANYTHING. She maybe looks good once a year, and yet both mags gush about her every time they post a picture of her. (Running sneakers with jeans and a sweater, Garner? Really? You couldn't pull it together enough to put on cute shoes - or even cute running shoes, if you must - when you just "happened" to take your kids to the park where there just "happened" to be photographers?)
You can't even say that it's a coincidence she's in those magazines all the time because of her husband Ben, because nobody really cares about Ben. The only other people who are in there as often as her are Katie Holmes and Tori Spelling.
Think about THAT for a minute.
I'm gonna tell everyone, Jennifer. Everyone. They're all gonna know what you've been doing. There is no good reason why you are in my People magazine every week. I'm going to work night and day to bring your dirty little secret to light. And if all it does is ensure that I never have to see you wear running shoes with jeans ever again, SO BE IT.
July 16, 2011
It's been a week of pretty stellar stuff. But, this might beat them all. [VIDEO]
Gorgeous, awe-inspiring, amazeball-worthy, and visually (and musically) stunning, this is the kind of video you want to wake up to* - and since it's 12 minutes long (so worth it, though - trust me. I hate long videos, and even I was mesmerized), it's the perfect cup-of-coffee-and-internets-to-start-your-day mix.
Chris Bryan Films Phantom Reel from Chris Bryan on Vimeo.
*Word to the wise, though - not so safe for work or for your kids. It's good up until about the 10 minute mark, and then there's a touch of nudity. I don't know why she's standing topless on the beach, either. Apparently her boobs got really hot and she had to cool them down or something. We can talk about it later, if you're really confused and upset about it.
Chris Bryan Films Phantom Reel from Chris Bryan on Vimeo.
*Word to the wise, though - not so safe for work or for your kids. It's good up until about the 10 minute mark, and then there's a touch of nudity. I don't know why she's standing topless on the beach, either. Apparently her boobs got really hot and she had to cool them down or something. We can talk about it later, if you're really confused and upset about it.
10 Life Lessons from Esquire's "What I've Learned" Interviews | Brain Pickings
10 Life Lessons from Esquire's "What I've Learned" Interviews | Brain Pickings:
"The measure of achievement is not winning awards. It's doing something that you appreciate, something you believe is worthwhile. I think of my strawberry souffle. I did that at least twenty-eight times before I finally conquered it." ~ Julia Child"
"The measure of achievement is not winning awards. It's doing something that you appreciate, something you believe is worthwhile. I think of my strawberry souffle. I did that at least twenty-eight times before I finally conquered it." ~ Julia Child"
July 15, 2011
Rules For How Not To Be a Social Media Douchebag: #2
Rule #2: Stop assuming that all of your followers are hanging on to your every word. Because unless you have a swingy haircut, wear high-tops, and sing ultra-catchy pop tunes about people wasting your time and not being able to make up their minds, then they're not.
Examples of breaking this rule:
"Sorry guys, but I'm going to be offline for a few hours!"
"Sorry I haven't blogged in a while...I've been sooo busy ____ (waxing/walking on the treadmill/listening to my iPod/insert totally boring reason here)"
Is anyone really that upset about the fact that you haven't blogged or tweeted in a while? I mean, so upset that you think they deserve some type of public explanation or apology for why you've stolen their daily online sustenance and joy by using your precious time for something else?
If your answer is yes, then the answer is actually no.
July 13, 2011
Summer of Hummers, 7.13.11
Randy says:
The best hummers are wet like a deep moat.
July 10, 2011
When The Needle Hits The Wax
Because I missed you. All the time, no matter what. And I didn't do anything wrong, but that was almost harder to accept, when I lost you anyway.
I said my piece about it a long time ago. And I learned a lot, mainly this: Even when you're right, even when you tell the truth and do the right thing, it doesn't always matter. People will believe what and who they want to believe. And it's okay now, because I know it happened because it was supposed to happen. And I very rarely regret that it did - that was the strangest thing about it. There were things about it that hurt...absolutely. But those have faded and floated away...until I found myself walking through the gate you held open, until I felt you circle around me, until I caught your eye across the kitchen as I tipped my cup back.
It was heartbreaking. To love and adore you so much, and then to know that I lost you. That what I meant didn't really matter, after all. To see you again and have you be nice to me. To know too many people were there for me to say to you what it was that kept me choking back tears. I miss you. I wish you were still in my life. I wish that things had been different. I hope that you are well and happy and have the best life. I wish you knew me well enough to know that I mean everything I say.
I'm sorry that you didn't believe me. I'm sorry that it didn't matter. I'm sorry that I lost you. I'm only sorry about losing you. Only you, am I sorry about losing.
I said my piece about it a long time ago. And I learned a lot, mainly this: Even when you're right, even when you tell the truth and do the right thing, it doesn't always matter. People will believe what and who they want to believe. And it's okay now, because I know it happened because it was supposed to happen. And I very rarely regret that it did - that was the strangest thing about it. There were things about it that hurt...absolutely. But those have faded and floated away...until I found myself walking through the gate you held open, until I felt you circle around me, until I caught your eye across the kitchen as I tipped my cup back.
It was heartbreaking. To love and adore you so much, and then to know that I lost you. That what I meant didn't really matter, after all. To see you again and have you be nice to me. To know too many people were there for me to say to you what it was that kept me choking back tears. I miss you. I wish you were still in my life. I wish that things had been different. I hope that you are well and happy and have the best life. I wish you knew me well enough to know that I mean everything I say.
I'm sorry that you didn't believe me. I'm sorry that it didn't matter. I'm sorry that I lost you. I'm only sorry about losing you. Only you, am I sorry about losing.
