From a Plane, Next to Annoying Teenagers.

Lately, when I travel, I am struck by two things:

How lucky I am... and how much I hate flying.  The second is neither here nor there (But I do.  I really hate flying.  And, like the traveller version of Benjamin Button, I seem to be going in reverse: the more I fly, the more I hate it.  I have never grown into it and am still not yet growing to love it).

But I digress- yes I have flying.  But it is that flying, those flights, that serve as a very blunt reminder of my luck:

I get to fly.

I get to leave Stavanger, Norway on a random Friday morning and fly to Dublin, Ireland for a combination concert/girls' weekend.  (It might seem somewhat insignificant, but give it a minute to sink in.)

I get to hop around Europe and play.  And that for a lot of people- hell, for a lot of people I know- is not necessarily a normal thing.  It's a lucky thing.

And all of this luck is a circumstance of something else.  It's a rambling something else, but go with it, I promise not to ramble too long.

On my first trip to Norway, much to my chagrin, I met a man.

By the end of my second trip here (I say 'here' meaning Norway even though I'm sitting, as aforementioned on a plane, next to annoying teenagers), again to my chagrin, I realized that I was in love with said man.  And for whatever strange twist of fate and reason (he's a quiet, reasonable, calm engineer to my wild child, nonsensical, non-linear whatever-I-am) he fell for me, too.

So then fast forward a move overseas and up major latitudes; some adventuring; and a shotgun wedding... and here's why I can't help thinking about my luck, and why it matters so much when I fly:

I got to marry the man I love.  It's this man that anchors me, and has given me a home in Europe- a home abroad.  I'm lucky because I get to travel with my best friend; I get to travel without him; I get to come home to him when I'm not with him.  I get to move through this world knowing that I am satisfied, regardless...

Dublin, Stavanger, Amsterdam, Budapest, Peru; husband, solo, with girly best friend; I am satisfied.  Life is good.

So I fly and I hate it.  But I get it.  And I'm thankful for having these sorts of problems day to day- versus the sillier and the worse.

February Obsessions

Nothing forces you to sit down and consider writing like tripping over your dog, falling full-on down, and busting your knee.

And so I now have some enforced time to just be.

Which gives me just enough (enforced) time to confess my newest obsessions.

Let's begin with The Newsroom.  I know, I know, I'm late to it again.  Like, really late.  Late enough that I just found out that the series is no longer in production, DAMMIT!  I'm a pretty big fan of Aaron Sorkin as it is.  Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip is my favorite series of all time.  His writing is fast and smart and he takes glee in challenging his audience- a trait I find severely absent in most of pop culture.  The Newsroom, like Studio 60, like The West Wing before it, is witty and unforgiving- almost abusively entertaining.  Talk about binge watching.

Plus it's on HBO- so no commercials.  Boom.

Next on we have my obsessive compulsive travel disorder.  This month I'm to Dublin (to take in this concert!).  March I'm in Amsterdam for the Easter holiday.  And possibly the Hague.  (I know, so boring- so many places I've already chronicled on this site).  Not so sure about April but then in May we're off to Prague.

And then there's July.

Oh yes.... already we've reached July... and already I have a safari window open with four tabs detailing the time, dedication, and potential wallet suck it takes to get to Machu Picchu.  Oh yes yes!  Away we go to Machu Picchu- a destination that has been on my go-to list for (hang on, I'm doing the math of my age here) nearly two decades.  Not kidding, not even a little.  In July Steve and I are headed back to the State's for a jaunty little reception in New Orleans followed by a (and I'm literally humming with excitement about this already) week long stay in Peru.  Which, of course, means I've got this book on pre-order.  I really should just buy stock in Lonely Planet.

Really.

This tattoo idea- more refined and more Corvus Genus, but you get the idea.  I need to start working on my birds again. There is a distinct probability that by the end of this there will be a sleeve.

This cover.  Gotta love the jam.  Especially when a bunch of dudes do it.

Homemade Almond Milk Chai Teas.  Yes, it really is a mouthful.  (In more ways than one). When I lived in China, I used to make homemade chai tea all the time.  It's easier than Starbucks makes it out to be- you don't need a premade mix, you don't need fancy latte machines.  You need milk, black tea, and your particular palate of spice and sweetness.  The trick is to put the tea back in with the milk or water before you even begin to heat the liquid.  Then as the milk begins to heat, it simultaneously brews the tea which heightens the flavor in the most delicious way.  And almond milk is just plain yummy.


And with that, I leave you all to redress a bandage, take a painkiller, and download more episodes of *ahem... doesn't really matter.

Until next time, enjoy the show :).

Not Enough.

I am a person who is frequently annoyed.  I am opinionated, brusque in those opinions, and thoughtful.  I may not be many other things- or I may be loads of other, less pleasant things- but I am certainly those.

Once, for example, when I was living in China, I nearly launched a computer out of the kitchen window.  This bout of potent potential violence came in the wake of an article I read about Congress removing Grey Wolves from the Endangered Species list largely because some wealthy elk farmer, somewhere in the Northern MidWest, had the ear (wallet) of a Senator and apparently did not like his herd becoming prey.

News Flash, Old MacDonald, wolves eat elk.  Normally for subsistence purposes.  So get over it.  The other 5,000 animals on your farm are fine and the four that are serving as lupine feasts, well, that's that.  There are 1500 Grey Wolves left in North America- at least there were when Congress gave them the axe from the list.  If there were 1500 people left in the wild, elk farmers notwithstanding, we'd probably eat and elk or two to survive.

Don't fret.  The computer survived.  The table it was sitting on did as well.  My throat, having yelled at said computer for a solid hour, was less lucky.  Amongst other thins.

Onward, now.  I am constantly learning, my awareness evolving as information is presented to me- as arguments are won and/or lost.  So my annoyance is a fluid thing, my opinions changeable within reason.

There is one thing, however, that never ceases to fry my brain... ever.  And that is inconsiderateness (that might not be a word, but I'm going for it because I can).  Inconsiderateness.  It's like the rich man's unsubtle-yet-can't-be-bothered version of cruelty.  And the thing is, I know I've been inconsiderate to people.  I know I've done it heaps of times to heaps of people.  I know I've been ungrateful and pissy and bitchy.  In fact... I, Kathrine Seyfried, confess right here, right now- I am not the nicest person on the face of the Earth.  Not even close.

And that's okay.

Because I'm not constantly inconsiderate.  I'm not consistently cruel.  I have, though, been on the back end of both of those things.  And whether I'm callous or adult enough to have reached the "I don't care phase," I really don't care.  I don't take it personally, I take it opinionatedly.  And it annoys the ever loving bejesus out of me.  Honestly, how much time does it take to stop and think "hey now, what if... hmmm?"

The answer is- not enough.  Not enough time to NOT stop and think about someone else's feelings- what they might think about that email or that text or that story told about them in their absence.  Again- I am NOT absolving myself of anything, I could take the exact same second to do the exact same thing.  And hopefully, having preached and ranted here for a little while, I will do it much more often in the future.

Hopefully.

Holocene.

You know those days when you wake up, start going, and suddenly realize that you should have stayed in bed?

I've had about a week of them.  A week of days that should not have been.  

So here I am, standing in the kitchen, cooking and sipping wine and thinking about everything that's gone wrong and right- over the past few days and over a much longer time.  I am thinking about the past, the present, the future.  I am considering good days, bad days, days that made me stronger and days that nearly killed me.  

And standing here, I'm listening to music that is guaranteed to make me cry- music that defined the bruised time, the time when I became a walking corpse, a non-thing.  This is the music that was the soundtrack to my pain.  This is the music I used to weep to, to fall asleep to every night- night after night after night.  

Why am I listening to it? Why am I thinking all of these things?

Because it's good to remember.  When forgetting is too easy, it's all the more important to remember.  It's important to remember the wrong, to relive it from time to time, to shock yourself with the pain of  badness.  

The bite of brutal memories makes the fight so much stronger.  

I'm not a perfect person.  I'm not even remotely close to it.  I have lost count of all of the stupid things I've done, the people I've let down, the people who have let me down.  I haven't forgotten any of them, though, even if I deliberately attempt to keep them out of my mind.  

So why am I thinking, listening, remembering?

Because the bad makes the good better.

Resolved.

I don't really do New Years Resolutions.

To be fair, I don't usually do New Years (Eve) unless you count sitting on the couch, surrounded by dogs, watching bad movies as "doing New Years (Eve)."  There's something annoying about it to me, something arbitrary.  Every day is, technically, the beginning of a new year.  So why is this one evening, into one midnight, into one day, so much more significant than any other?

I digress.

Similarly, however, I don't think you need one specific day out of the year to decide to change your life, your tune, your whatever.  I don't dig on resolutions.  Pick a day, pick a moment, pick a minute in time to commit to, and you can change.  You just have to stick to it.  I don't see the point in torturing yourself into a smaller pant size, a more courageous lifestyle, a more intensive work-out routine... just because everyone else has decided to something similar on the same day.

That's just silly.

But, before you all write me off as a curmudgeon and a Scrooge, let me tell you what I think of the new year so far.  I think it's going to be a really good year.  I do.  While that is uncharacteristically positive of me, I'm going to stand by it.  Sitting at home yesterday, indulging in a Game of Thrones marathon, snuggled in between the husband and the puppy, I thought about the year that had come and gone and the year that is coming up.  I thought about all the things I have been through, and will go through soon enough.  And for some incomprehensible reason, I could not help but be really excited about "the Future" (another arbitrary term).

I guess in my own way, that's resolution enough for me.

To make the year as good as I think it can be.  Nothing too specific there, no easy way to utterly fail at it, just pull my weight for a good year.

A Great Year.

And so, a couple of days late... Happy New Year, All.

And until next time, Be Good.

The Lucky One.

Well. 

So. 

It's been a while, I know. 

I've been on vacation for about a week and a half at this point.  From Stavanger, Norway to Heathrow, London to Newark, New Jersey to Charlotte, North Carolina.  And that was just the flight pattern to get back to the States.  Next up we traveled from Charlotte to Key West, Florida.  From Key West to Pine Island, Florida. 

So.  A loooong ride. 

And it's been an interesting ride.  I've had some bad things happen- I've been called a beached whale (oh you know who you are...); I've sat in a bar with my father and my husband, listening to songs about scrotums (thank you Sloppy Joe's house band); I've put on more holiday weight than I like to admit (thank you fried food, booze, holiday cakes and bacon).  Not to mention the fact my silly-ass little puppy is in a kennel in Norway, probably freezing his wee blond tail feathers off....  But then I've also had some not-so-bad, but still a little wonky moments.  I've had a fruitless crabbing expedition; a couple of arguments; maybe a silent treatment or two; I've had to navigate places and people with whom I'm not utterly familiar.  

And still for all that bad, wonky, what-have-you... I'm lucky.  Like, I'm so lucky.  I'm lucky because the bad has happened alongside this incredible adventure with my family.  The wonky has happened while trying to find crabs in the shallow waters of the Gulf Coast alongside the aforementioned husband, his Mom, my Mom, my Father.  I got to come home to the people I love, with the person I love, to spend time with all loved ones. 

I am the lucky one.  My Christmas is spent with my most loved ones.  

So. 

The adventure continues tomorrow.  But for now... 

Merry Christmas to All and to All a Good Night. 

In Retrospect...

I was having drinks with friends this weekend when the conversation turned to marriage and relationships- the trends, the success stories, the epic failures.  This conversation then mutated a little but remained nonetheless a somewhat personal storytelling time.

And, relating to the relative marriage rate of early twenty-somethings in the American South, I told my cohort the following tale:

Here's the thing- I didn't have my first "real" boyfriend until I was a senior in college.  I dated here and there; made out a time or two, but never had a proper boyfriend until I was 21 years old.  It was doomed to fail- not because of him, he was (and remains) an intellectually interesting, funny, kind, charming and genuinely lovely man.  No, it was doomed to fail because I was (am?) a cowgirl.  I wore (wear?) my independence like a mantle.  It was doomed to fail because what I wanted as a 21 year old was not what he wanted as a 21 year old- it was not what a lot of 21 year olds wanted.

In fact I had that conversation with my college boyfriend pretty early on...

Him:  So what do you want out of life?  What are your dreams?

Me:  I dunno.  I mean...

Him:  Come on, Kate, everyone has something they want. 

Me:  I guess...(and here's where the cowgirl starts snickering)...  You know, I really only want three things in life.  

Him: ??

Me:  I want a dog, a Jeep, and a house on the sea. 

That's it.  That's what I wanted from my life when I was just a pup on the cusp of graduation and a heartbeat away from being "outside the bubble."  I wanted a dog, a Jeep, and a house on the sea.  And a year after starting college, I bought myself a green Jeep Cherokee: one out of three ain't bad for 21. But ultimately, that's what broke us up.  I didn't want the four-bedroom, four-bath McMansion.  I didn't want the white wedding or the "security" of an engagement out of college.  I wasn't afraid of being alone on my own.  I wanted to adopt a dog.  I wanted to travel around, dog in tow, in a gas-guzzling, break-down prone Jeep.  And I wanted to go home to a small house- a cabin even- that overlooked the sea.  I was comfortable with myself.  And I was brave enough to think I could do it all.

Fast forward a decade, to me at 31, telling all of this to my friends over Guinnesses and glasses of wine.  This time, I laughed a little and said "I still have a Jeep... I mean, it's tagless and in North Carolina, but it counts, right?  And I've got a dog- two out of three ain't bad, either."  I laughed a little harder until one of my companions said-

"Hang on, Kate.  You've got a house on the sea.  I mean, it's an apartment, but it's a home on the sea."

And I'll be damned.  I have a dog.  I have a Jeep (I'm serious, it still counts).  And I have a home on the sea.  I sat back, sort of flabbergasted.  I look across the table at my husband, who winked at me (this is the first time he'd heard this story), and thought... well Hell.  That's what a decade of wandering, wondering, has gotten me... Three out of three.

And that ain't bad at all.

And until next time...

The Dog. 

The Jeep (at it's finest).

Life in the House on the Sea.

Thanks.

So here's the thing about being thankful... it doesn't have to be for the big things.  It doesn't have to be for Peace on Earth (there's a strong likelihood that that will never happen anyway), or a sweeping amazing thankfulness for all the good that is all around you all the time.  You don't have to thank everyone for everything.  Hopefully all of the people I am lucky enough to know have some knowledge of my gratitude and feelings toward them.

The thing about being thankful is that being thankful can be about all the small things.

Except for a few minutes when the puppy had to go out and we had an impromptu run, I've gotten to spend the day with my husband.  For that I am thankful.  I got to listen to Journey... a little less thankful for that one... followed by Kelly Clarkson, on an utterly absurd playlist, while dancing around our living room.  I got a wreath, as a gift, from a Scrooge.  Thank. You.  Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

And that's just the tip of the small things iceberg.  This is Thanksgiving, you know?  It's the holiday that's about food and laughing and loving and categorically NOT about gifts and shiney things and commercialism- at least not until tomorrow.

I have a healthy, happy (and recently bigger) family.  I get to go back to the States for Christmas Holidays to see them.  I got to talk to one of my best friends this morning via Skype.  I will see another one in less than a month.  My dog is currently sleeping (small things, remember).  It only just now started raining (that might be a big thing, actually).

To all my loved ones, near and far and far-fetched and wonderful...

Happy Thanksgiving.

Be good, be happy, and eat well.

The Short Version.

I could probably pen a treatise on why- and how intensely- I dislike public transportation.  Seriously.  A treatise.  A footnoted, quote-laden, properly educational essay on how much I cannot stand public transport.

But I'm getting ahead of myself... It's really just buses.  I loathe buses.

And here's the thing- I get public transportation.  I do. And it's not like I hate all of it- honestly, it really is just the buses.  In fact, I totally support trains, metros, subways, etcetera.  There is all manner of really grand, functional and functioning, cheap, and environmentally friendly public transportation- which is a win no matter which way you turn it.

But there's something about buses.  (And here's where I have to step back from the edge of the treatise).  It doesn't matter what township, city, county, country you're in- buses are buses.  And pretty consistently awful in some way.

Take China.  In all of my blogging, I think the bus only came up once during the China posts.  Nevertheless, this one's personal.  Every time I got on a bus, which was often then, I was gawked at.  I was scrutinized.  There was pointing, whispering, nudging- and that was between everyone else.  And it was in far too close of a personal space zone.  I mean, there are 1.4 billion people sharing the same poorly planned roadways there- and it frequently felt as though 1.3 billion of them were on the same bus as me.  Hanging onto the same hand rails and bars and grips as me as we navigated potentially deadly trips to the grocery stores.

Fun.

Which brings me to my next point- hygiene.  I mean, it sort of brings me to my next point.  Think of how hygienic 1.3 billion people are when crowded into the same small space as you.

So I'm riding in to work (of course on the bus) today and I notice that the seat next to me has something that resembles dried poo crusted to it.  That's the seat I started out in.  Yup.  So I can only imagine what the bottom of my pants looks like now.  And let me not get started on the two dozen coughing, sneezing kids surrounding me.  Did someone say Flu Shot? (Actually, someone did.  But that process is another story for another post... trust me.)

Buses are dirty.  They are gross (even here in pristine Scandinavia).  And I'm not a germo-phobe.  Far from it, actually.  I rarely remember to to wash my veggie, don't mind at all eating day-old something that has sat out overnight.  And if you could see the things I've plucked out of my puppy's mouth... I'm not grossed out too easily.  (Oh, but wait... Back to China...Do you know how much- and the number of different species- blood I stepped in or had dripped on me while riding on the bus?  I'm not a germo-phobe- but I don't do juices.  And those buses transported a lot of juices. )

Okay- so far: crowded, check.  Gross, double check.  Vehicles for cultural confusion as well as transportation, check.

But wait, there's more.

And this one is the real clincher for me. Getting on a bus is tantamount to surrendering all locomotive  independence (to be fair, almost all public transportation has this same effect on me). Which is basically the same insult as taking any of my cherished, hoarded, careful independence away from me.

Hear me (read me, I guess) out.  You get on the bus. You are then subject to the whim of both the bus as well as it's driver: mechanical error is just as possible as human- and easily worse.  But I digress.  You are on someone else's schedule.  You are in a moving vehicle over which the only control you exert is your physical placement- if you have even that luxury.  You are on a road, in a flow of traffic, but you have no control over either of those things.  You're not active on a bus, but supremely passive.  I hate passivity.

There could be no stops between you and your destination, there could be every stop. The passengers might start a fight with the driver- thus delay, delay, delaying you.

You could be waiting in wind, rain, hail, snow- or some combination thereof.  (And I have).

You could be running and miss it; you could be standing there and wait f.o.r.e.v.e.r.

You could get where you are going 10  minutes late or half an hour early.  You have no control.

No control at all.  You are utterly dependent.

On a bus.

And that's where this gets curtailed- because I could go on.  And then it would get not a little philosophical, not a little psychological, and not a little at all ridiculous.

A bus is a bus is a bust.  Oi.

And until next time... I think I'm free of the bus until Monday.  Happy sigh, Dearhearts.

November Notables

Oh yes, the monthly (well, almost monthly) obsessions blog.  And, like any other obsession post, this one is scattered: multitasking schools, podcasts, the challenge of staying warm just below the arctic circle as we crawl toward winter. 

Amongst other things.

But let's begin at the beginning.  I am super late on this one, I know.  And to be honest, it would not have been on my radar at all had I not recently rekindled my love affair with BBC News- especially online.  When I lived in China, I compulsively checked BBC every day.  It was one of the unblocked news venues we could get there- and it became my inlet back into the 'real world.'  Anyhow, I checked BBC on Saturday morning to find this article.  I don't know why it really caught my eye, but I followed the link and fell down the rabbit hole.  

About thirty seconds after reading the news brief, I downloaded the entire season of Serial.  I then had a rather impolite argument with iTunes when it refused to sync the podcast to my iPod (yes, I still have one of those- which I also use obsessively).  Several words later, I started listening to the first episode.  I'm actually dreading the end of the season.  It is incredible, interesting, provocative and terribly terrifying.  

And with that teaser, I'll move on.  In October I found out that I was accepted to Oregon State University to pursue a post-bacc (a shorter, second bachelor's degree) in Environmental Sciences.  Those of you who know me know that I was that kid in college who never took math and science because I was convinced of my own failure (rightly so, I would have argued).  Two self-fulfilling prophesied degrees in History later, I still did no math or science.  In fact, two weeks ago as I sat at my computer and took a math placement exam for my new school, I realized that I have not done anything besides 'making change math' in over a decade.  Seriously.  

13 years, to be exact.  

Anywho- I've got no business fearing failure these days.  I've tasted it for sure, I've been there, and now I'm back.  And I'm utterly obsessed with my class schedule.  Building it, molding it, pouring through course offerings and catalogs; I'm getting to know how the skeleton of my time will look for the next couple of years.  It looks a lot like letters: ATS 320; GEO 323; BI 360... you get the idea.  And I'm having a blast. 

This website.  Outdoor goods on supersale?  Living in a somewhat cool locale?  Win. Win.  (Also, the  "Current Steals" are outstanding.  And addictive.)

And Thanksgiving.  It's getting to be that time- when the turkeys go off the shelves and people begin sorting out pumpkin pie? Or cherry? Or both?  Sweet potato casserole or sliced yams with mini marshmallow?  Pearl onions (no thanks but they are a staple at our house)?  Thanksgiving is sort of an ongoing obsession of mine.  This year it will be a new experience.  I've had it overseas before, that's nothing too new to me.  But this year I am mistress of ceremonies- I'm the big kahuna... I actually have to clean the bird, and stuff it, and cook it... and not kill anyone in the process or aftermath.  Plus, I will have guests.  

Yeah.  This will be entertainment at it's finest.  Stay tuned for that post. 

And until then, or maybe before.