new.

I have a new routine that I'm loving. Well, to be honest, I'm not exactly sure what constitutes a real "routine," but I'm pretty sure this has potential. Conveniently, on the route I drive to work every morning is located a Whole Foods. It's more of a neighborhood-ish type of WF--still overpriced and a bit sold out, but with more of a local, home-y feel. Despite its shortcomings, I prefer it to the other stores. Today I had a few extra pre-work minutes, so I stopped in for a coffee. The barista, who I will only refer to as Beanz, quickly talked me out of an iced coffee + soy because it would be too watered down and instead convinced me to have an iced Americano. It only took me about 3 seconds of contemplation to cave and go with her suggestion. In retrospect, I wish I wouldn't have because now I have this weird, mildy nauseating coffee buzz that I fully blame on Beanz. Lesson learned.

While Beanz was brewing my Americano we had a little conversation about cold vs. warm coffee and of course . . . the weather. Gross. She told me some elaborate story about biking in gorg weather which turned into sleety hail within minutes and then ended it with a "that's Colorado weather for ya!" OK. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is convinced that their state should take home the blue ribbon for eff'd up weather. Nebraskans, Michiganders, Connecticutters, Californians (seriously? get over it CA.), Wyomians (?) . . . the list goes on. So I took Beanz with a grain of salt, wished her well for her day, and went on my merry way to the muffin case. Mmm raisin bran muffinnnnn.

The checkout line guy is by far my favorite part of this little routine. I think I'll refer to him as Chip. He looks like a Chip. He's this teeny sprite of a man with enough energy to power seven of my office buildings. He always has something obscure to say and truth be told, I want to be his friend. I hope he hasn't fully picked up on that fact yet because I'm really trying to play it cool and ease into our regular customer/cashier friendship, but he seems pretty perceptive. Anyway, today Chip was asking another customer and me what "wie getz" means . . . so I think to myself, "Self: this is your chance! You know this!" So I nonchalantly said, "it means 'what's up' in German . . . " (loosely. I know it's more like "How are you?" but whatever) Chip's face lit up and the other customer, slightly shocked, turned to me and said, "Ahhhh well, danke schoen" in what had to have been the worst German accent recorded in the history of sound waves. I'll give him credit for knowing at least that, I guess. Chip, on the other hand, was ecstatic. He then told me that he knows how to say hello and good-bye in seven different languages, but that's as far as it gets. I assured him that at least he has some way to speak to other people and the rest could be done through visual cues . . . and some other pointless jargon . . . then he pointed to a button on his apron (ooo flair) that was a picture of Earth, leaned in and half-whispered, "Hey, we're all on this crazy life boat together, right?"

He couldn't be more right about that.

bob.

Today is a Bob kind of day. Three Little Birds. No Woman No Cry, Redemption Song, Turn Your Lights Down Low (with Lo Hill). Saang it saang it Bob. If I could live in any other era, it would be his. And I would be friends with Janis and Jimmy Cliff and Peter, Paul and Mary. Yes.

Ooooooooo can you imagine? Wake up on a Thursday morning in July, which would be at like . . . 10 . . . roll over and give your hungover love a kiss, then relax under the sheets for the next hour knowing the only thing you have to do that day is put some jeans on and a t-shirt over your bra-less bod (duh), then go for stroll in the park picking daisies until you have to mosey over to sound check at your local venue, which happens to be a run-down coffee-shop-turned-bar at night. Then you might throw your hair back (guys, this goes for you too), change into a smaller t-shirt, then hit the stage and blow some minds. At least that's what I picture Janis' life was like, or Mama Cass . . . obbbbviously mine is sans "nose treats" and "ham sandwiches," but then again, that wasn't my point. I think Bob knew something too many people don't: how to liiiiiiiiiiive. And then he sang about it. Even. Better.

energize.

I'm halfway through a Vuka (my new favorite thing) . . . and am reminded for the 500,000th time that I should only drink energy drinks unless I rrrrrreally need it. [Case in point: I drank a Red Bull (mmm) right before ascending my first 14er. Hungover, dehydrated and I decided to throw in some artificial energy. Awesome. About a quarter of the way up I could have sworn up and down I was drunk, then soon after my legs stopped wanting to move (thanks RB), but once I saw the little fat kid bounding down the trail I felt a renewed sense of purpose and somehow made it to the top. I guess I'm an adrenaline junkie. Or something like that.]

But sitting here feeling all jittery and wishing I had a 14er to climb, all I can do is wait it out. Good thing I bought some Valerian Root to knock me out tonight. For those unaware, Valerian is an herbal supplement that is supposed mellow you out before bed then support a full night's sleep. One of my volleyball teammates gave me a sample last week. You have to get over the fact that the pills smell like poo. Like, literally, thought I was eating a George'n'Stella drop. But once you're over and above that, it's pretty magical. Or at least it was when mixed with the tropical vodka-squirt and beer deliciousness I threw back at our most recent victory party. Didn't hurt, that's all I'm gonna say. Funny also that I happen to be jammin to Collie Buddz at the moment... Be faithful to your brother man, Be faithful to your herbs . . . And such things.

Good thing tonight my volleyball team is playing again. Hopefully I'll get rid of some of this energy (and can settle in for a quality night of Victory Valerian Dreams--ummm yes please). It's amazing how great it feels putting the ball down in front of (or in) the other team's face. Or blocking a shot; holy bliss. I tend to get really animated and yell mostly unintelligible words with the help of my friend Alex. He encourages it, really. Probably not the best thing, but actually I think I live for it during the games. We're the king and queen of the back row in our vball world so yelling random sheeit just fits. Thank God I'm not the only weird kid out there. I've also been weighing the pros and cons of implementing the butt-slap into our point celebrations. To be honest, I've always been more of a fan of the classic high-five, leaving other people's booties to themselves. I think I did it once in a high school hoops game and immediately regretted that decision. Sorry, but slapping girls' asses isn't in my repertoire of forte's. Strong point? I think so. But maybe it's time to mix things up. Or who knows, maybe an elbow grab? Ooooo always a winner.

musings for the half-hearted.

Driving from an insurance meeting (to be discussed later) this morning and back to my office, it was all I could do to turn up loud, angry music to drown out some thoughts. It's a rare occasion that I have moments like this, but like my brother told me a couple days ago, "Just listen to some music. You'll feel better." He's always right with that. Soooo I listened to Sun's Gonna Rise for a little inspiration (not angry, I know, but therapeutic nonetheless) then went through a shuffle until I could find something loud and even borderline obnoxious, particularly at the volume I was blasting it. Yeasayer, Florence + The Machine, Outkast. I'm pretty sure Outkast ended up being my favorite--Gasoline Dreams--a little anti-American of them, but whatever, they just needed to say what they needed to say. It all was wrapped up with my favorite song in the universe: Your Body is a Wonderland. Yes, yes it is John. That song still makes me happy, even after 8 years of constant replays in my car. And I'm not even ashamed to admit it.

But onto happier? musings . . . I attended my second elite insurance group meeting this morning and by gum this one was actually good. I still don't really know what I'm doing there and continue to get weird looks that say, "Um, excuse me honey, the mall is that way," or "I wish my boobs were still above my belt line," or "Ha I'd like to see you try to come up with a sweet insurance claim story that can top what I've experienced in my 20+ years here--I'm a veteran, bitch, start taking notes . . . " Really endearing. I walked in and immediately was greeted by someone who said in a very patronizing tone, "Oh and don't even worry about being late because we're having some technical difficulties . . . (as if I cared about being late) but go ahead and have a seat; breakfast is in there." I forced a polite smile and found a seat in the back (thank God).

The information from today's presentation was really interesting (one point: my job). What of course was more entertaining to me were the severe techincal difficulties they kept enduring, particularly because it was being run by a group of private investigators, or as they more affectionately refer to themselves: "gators." These gators all looked and sounded the same. Mid-forties, slicked back hair, relatively fit, tight pants not leaving enough up to the imagination, and voices so soft I forgot a couple times I wasn't actually sitting in a library learning about Mr. Dewey and his silly system. After two hours of build-up and those same two hours of fanangling with a Quicktime app to show a video, we got to watch 5 minutes of a man walking to and from a doctor's appointment and around his filthy yard. Negative five points to the presenters for falsely advertising an awesome vid. Good thing we were ensured an email that will contain all content: video, powerpoint and presentation synopsis. My palms are sweating just thinking about seeing that in my inbox! Regardless, as I mentioned before, this was definitely a step up from my prior experience. I enjoyed the information just as much as the malfunctions and of course even guffawed a little bit at some people's goofy remarks and references to their "real-world" experience. <--To which I received a few brow-raises. Pardon my inability to take too much too seriously.

earth trends.

OK. Super major question. This came to me about 5 seconds ago while turning on my iPod to get some things done. I went to Broken Bells, a swanky little group recommended to me by big brother bear, and as the synthesized keyboard started, I thought to myself Wait a minute, is this sound back in or are they being trendy for the sake of being trendy? OR are they being trendy unintentionally because they grew up listening to Devo and think keyboards, synthesizers and keytar/accordians are way too cool fa school. Maybe I shouldn't announce that I let my mind wander that far into analytic oblivion, but I consider it a valid thought. I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea of trendiness. I really do get the whole idea of individualism, but what doesn't make sense to me now is that individualism has become the trend, every individual ranks in with every other individual to form an aggregate of individuals who fit nicely into what is now the norm. I fully support individualism, but feel like it's become this foray of who can out-trend who. Maybe that's just how it's always been though . . . and my thoughts aren't new news . . .

In saying all of that, I actually do like Broken Bells because despite having a few boop boops and da-dat-daas and clap-claps in their songs, they're really talented. Nice harmonies, ya know. Not quite like The Centennial though. Holy smokes that's an underrated group of talented . . . individuals. It's this stellar husband-wife combo whose voices clearly were made for each other. Like warm butta. You can cut it with a sideways spoon.

In other news, today is Earth Day and Whole Foods is giving out free Sheryl Crow grocery totes. The guy was so pleased to tell me that Sheryl designed my bag that I couldn't help but swoon right back. I didn't have the heart to tell him that while it's possible that she has a warm-fuz place in her heart for Mother N, there are clearly some strings attached. But whatever, I have a new trendy bag now. So I can go out and join the masses of one-day-a-year tree-huggers (even though I've just recently hugged another actual tree . . . true story) and proudly show off the fact that Sheryl and I are kindred in our love of dirt and such things.

Today is looking up already.

music morning.

Driving to work this morning I was in need of a little musical love. So who did I turn to? Amy Winehouse. Fuck yes. Bless her messy heart, this woman can sing. I think. I mean, I get it. They signed her because she's an unpredictably loose canon. It's why people loved Janis, obsessed over Steven and lit up at Bob shows. The less predictable, the better. So listening to her this morning, I was soothed by the fact that she sings from the depth of that. It's a parody. People love watching the irony of an addict strutting around on stage singing about how she doesn't actually need to go to rehab because her dad think she's OK. Sounds like something the Bieb might say. On the contrary, I did just gain a little more respect for her (not that it was low in the first place--I think she's great) when I read this quote: "I wouldn't say I'm a feminist but I don't like girls pretending to be stupid because it's easier." She knew exactly what she was doing with her Back to Black album. Kind of like Kesha playing the role of a cracked out idiot. She's not, but the more people buy it, the more money she makes. How did I not catch on? I think I could use a few lessons from Paris Hilton too.

After I got a little bored with Amy (apparently I have the attention span of an ant these days), I moved on to Cee Lo (freaking genius), Cold War Kids, Elbow and ended with Florence + The Machine. Yeah, my drive into trabajo today was that long. Coloradans can't drive as it is and when you add rain, you might as well cash in for the day. I'm almost embarrassed to have CO plates because of it, but then I remember my love for the mountains and all is well with the world.

I digress . . . back to Florence . . .

My friend Heidi described her reaction Dogs Days Are Over exactly how I would have . . . "This song just makes me want to go crazy." Yes. Yes it does. And by crazy, I do mean get up and dance ya face off, which I've grown accustomed to doing in random bars, much to the chagrin of trendy hipster socialites. Don't knock it till you try it. Because. It. Feels. Fantastic.

busta.

I have an undying love for Busta Rhymes that began when I was in middle school. Granted, I generally have no idea what he's saying unless it's in the song What It Is Right Now, but still . . . he's amaaaaaze. I think mostly I started liking him because other people were listening to Nelly, Mace (who the eff is that, I know), Biggie (RIP big guy) and Puff Daddy and I wanted to be different. Soooo why not go for the guy with the weird hair and rhyme-spitter that could rival an auctioneer's. He's brilliant and I'm not ashamed to shower him with compliments.
So when I heard that he had a new song out with Chris Brown, yeah I was excited to watch his mini comeback (or did he really go anywhere?), but admittedly was a little skeptical. CB collaboration? Puh-lease. But if you think about it, putting Chris's moves on stage with Busta's rhymes . . . no pun intended . . . they've got a pretty loaded deal. So sit back, pass the Courvosier, and enjoy Busta's return:

http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/video/chris-brown-feat-busta-rhymes-and-lil-wayne-look-at-me-now-not/20f168f95a58ec5a96b020f168f95a58ec5a96b0-881703912350?q=busta+rhymes+look+at+me+now&FORM=VIRE5

Get it right.