Out East Road Trip Day 1: Minnesota to Ohio

Good morning from scenic Dayton, Ohio.  We got in late last night, so I can’t speak to much of why it’s so “scenic,” but from what I saw of the bluffs and the trees, it is.  I love a city with bluffs and trees.  Probably because I’m partial to my native St. Paul, which has both.  Which leads me (I kid you not) to my next point: isn’t it funny how when we travel (or at least, when I travel) we admire or gape at or disparage sights based on where we’re from?  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said “This or that looks like Minnesota,” often with an air of disappointment, because for heaven sakes I’m driving cross-country!  I want vast scenic differences!  It’s not your fault, Ohio.

This post, by the way, will cover what happened yesterday.  I meant to write it last night, but you know how comfy hotel beds are, and how tempting they are after thirteen hours on the road.

The drive yesterday from Minnesota to Ohio was punctuated by two primary events: 1. I ate a McDonald’s egg McMuffin for breakfast that made me feel, for the next eight hours, like I had a softball-sized ball of grease roiling in my stomach.  It was awful, and the likes of Tums, Coke, and pretzels (to soak up the grease) were of no avail.  I really should know by now that McDonald’s never ceases to have dastardly effects on my innards.  No worries that I’ll forget again: I think yesterday served to build up a strong aversion.  2. The van began to act up whilst we were on the seven-lane freeway in the traffic-y Chicago area.  I pointed out to my Mom that our family, not unlike the Griswolds, never ceases to have car trouble on road trips.  She didn’t think it was very funny.  Anyway, luckily there’s a Chrysler dealer in Dayton that was willing to have a look.  It was a loose battery cable, apparently, which would explain the flickering of gauges and the random bursts of hot air from the vents.

Today, after I shower and clean up the contents of my suitcase–which always seem to end up strewn about the room–we’re heading over to see the Wright Brother’s flying field.  Then it’s off to Virginia, which I feel certain will not “look like Minnesota.”

P.S. I know I’ve neglected to talk about the Killers concert.  I’ll write about that soon.  Right now, I’m under the pressure of a looming check-out time.

Inaugural Friday Favorites

When I’m not writing blog posts–that is, when I’m not slaving away in a garret with only a stubby candle to light my laptop and a small mouse for company (A Little Princess style)–I am often reading other blogs.  And what I have noticed over the past few months is that many “other blogs” have a feature called “Friday Favorites.”  Friday Favorites is typically a pictorial-with-captions list of some of the blogger’s favorite products, techniques, memes, recipes, etc. from the week.

I’ve explained before how much I love information in blurb form when it comes to the internet and magazines (funnily enough, since I am a rather long-winded blogger myself), so needless to say, I am a fan of Friday Favorites.  I am also a fan of having a weekly tradition.

Therefore, I have decided to start a kind of Friday Favorites of my own.  I can’t promise anything cute or crafty or delicious, but I can promise you a pictorial representation of my week.

Here goes:

This book

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I’ve been eyeing The Pillars of the Earth for years.  Every time I passed it on the shelf in library or bookstore, I would pause briefly, sometimes pick it up, but always eventually put it back.  For some reason, it never seemed the right time to dive into such a massive volume.  But last week I was finally finally in the mood for a real story.  A story that wouldn’t be over quickly.  Now I’m almost 300 pages in and entirely hooked.  I plan to write a real review once I’ve finished the thing, but if you’re another TPOTE (pronounced tee-p-oh-t) stalker, I advise you to give it a chance now.

This song

Can I like Taylor Swift now?  Now that she’s pop and punk and all grown up?  Because I’ve been listening to this song all week.  What can I say?  I swoon for acoustic duets.

Writing at a desk

Hemingway_at_his_writing_desk.

Yeah yeah, it’s a little presumptuous to choose a picture of That Crazy Genius Bastard Hemingway* to accompany this post.  But to get back to my point, I have only recently begun to write at a desk.  Before, I was in the camp that believes that in order to truly focus on creating, one can’t be distracted with the discomfort a desk chair often provides.  Now, I’m in the camp that believes that in order to truly focus on creating, one needs to get their rear out of bed and into the kind of chair that screams NOW WE’RE GOING TO WORK.  And you know what?  I’ve never been so productive.

This Brand

imagesLike most high quality outdoor outfitting brands, Patagonia is ridiculously expensive.  But they also make the kind of comfy, fleecy, that-girl-could-climb-a-mountain gear that I could quite easily live in.  In fact, Patagonia fits perfectly into this daydream I have about living in the North Woods of Wisconsin and rolling out of bed each morning for flannel, coffee, and writing.

This child

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There were some fiery Facebook posts this week concerning young George Alexander Louis.  Apparently, it’s a terrible sin for people to stop and pay attention to the birth of a baby when there are so many “more important”–and much more sober–things happening in the world.  I say, the world would be a terrible, terrible place if we couldn’t take a break from tracking violence and death and injustice to celebrate something joyful.  I certainly admit that I will likely never actually meet George.  Nor do I live in the country which he will someday preside over as king.  But I think it’s silly to pretend that the small family in the country above doesn’t impact the world at all, or to pretend that the way they live and dress and speak to the public doesn’t say a great deal about the modern times and the modern monarchy.  This is culture happening, and I think it is deserving of our attention.

Road trip planning

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I will not at this time disclose the destination of the road trip, nor the date of departure.  But you’d better believe I’ll document every sweaty, touristy, awe-inspiring bit of it.  For if any family can match the Griswolds, it is surely mine.

*A literature professor called Hemingway this when I was a sophomore.  Since then, I haven’t been able to shake it.