Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Fourteen by Kaylie Crowley

I have no idea when I wrote this, but I'm posting it anyway. 


Moira hated her name. It was all wrong, like pink lipstick with brown eye shadow- it didn’t match up. The mousy, freckled, wisp of a girl playing the piano did not fit a name so bold. She made it her business not to draw any attention, but those five letters screamed out windows and in marketplaces, “I’m different! Notice me!” The truth was Moira didn’t want to be noticed. She tried very hard to fade, like the stamps you get on the back of your hand from theme parks. She wanted the world to just scrub her off.

When she was even smaller, more freckled and unbelievably mousier, she once raised her hand in class. Mrs. Rulchuck was asking about Arithmetic, and Moira found she was mildly adequate at Arithmetic. The answer was fourteen, and she knew it. No one else in the class knew it, and there, up front and covered in chalk, was Mrs. Rulchuck, waiting for the answer. Fourteen. Someone say fourteen. Moira looked up and around at the fidgeting hands and the rolled socks. The children were looking down in their laps or out the windows or at their friends. No one was going to say it.

 Before she knew what was happening, she raised a trembling hand, three, four inches from the desk, and suddenly she heard her loud, brash named called out to her, joltingly. “Moira,” eyes of bewilderment, “Do you know the answer?” Her mouth opened, knees knocking and hands sweating, the boy in front of her had turned completely around. Staring at her loud name. She had never considered his face before, just the back of his head. That cowlick that reminded her of an eye of a hurricane. She tried to say… she knew the answer… she knew the word that described the number that was the answer. But nothing came. Mrs. Rulchuck’s expectant look diminished and her disappointed one replaced it. And at recess she was laughed at, mocked. Dumb, they called her. Stupid. And that she was.

She would have said the answer if her name had been Mary. Or Ann. But that big, clunky name hit her in the face so hard she lost her entire mouth. It winded her until there was no breath to use. Fourteen. Fourteen.


The Defining Day by Kaylie Crowley


I wrote this quite a while ago and found it the other day. I did a little editing and, well, here you go.

It wasn’t that he was nostalgic. He was a 64-year-old farmer for God’s sake. No, not even for God’s sake, he was a farmer for no one’s sake but his own. His leathery hands didn’t exactly clasp in prayer on a regular basis, nor did they feed the hungry mouth of a baby or caress the soft skin of a woman much in his life. These hands were built for labor, and labor was all they knew how to do. They were satisfied to be cracked and blistered and strong. He’d done all that a man could do in his life--he’d worked hard for his bread and eaten that bread with whiskey and he was quite satisfied. Quite satisfied.

There was just…a quiet. Not a content end-of-the-day quiet that puts one to sleep with tired muscles and full belly. More of an empty quiet. One that was just void of all things. When he walked up his creaking porch steps in his muddy boots after a long day planting tomatoes and squash, when he shed his clothes and collapsed on the couch, it was so… silent. Deadly still. There was nothing else. When his work day ended he was truly finished.  A life with no one to greet him seemed ideal when he was a boy in a house bursting with children. Even when he was a young adult, solitude was both preferred and, well, blissful. But now, in his old age, he noticed the quiet.

He was sprawled on the couch dusty and aching, beer in hand and shoes on the floor, listening to the silence. It was May 14, and as he sat and ached and drank he thought back to another May 14, decades ago. This was the day of his wedding. Can you imagine? Him, tux and tie and shiny black shoes, kissing cousins and in-laws and laughing about flower arrangements. He remembered his nervous pacing and sweaty hands. He smiled to himself at the absurdity of it all. At the time, however, he felt that this day was the most pivotal day of all his life. This was the day that would define his entire future.

He was wrong about May 14. He was defined by a different day.

It was outside in the yard, his wedding. He had pruned and shaped and weeded for weeks so that every flower, every petal was in place. And she. Strong and loud, laughing at sunshine and crying at babies, she was the last thing he thought he needed. She brought him wildflowers, and slept until noon every Sunday. She had freckled, rosy cheeks as soft as goose feathers, plump and dimpled as she laughed so hard her eyes disappeared. After all this time, he still remembered those cheeks. But the eyes, were they green? He saw them, envisioned them for a split second and then they were gone, hazy and colorless and all he could see were her perfect cheeks. He had loved her, but he couldn’t remember her eyes.

Their bliss was cut short, of course. Those cheeks became hollowed and papery as they grew whiter and whiter and whiter. But pale was the least of their worries. He thought back to those days of bed rest, spoon-feeding like an infant. Life had just begun. It was at the end of this beginning that those leathery, weathered hands clasped in prayer for the first and last time. Hours of every day, all through the tear-soaked nights. Rocking. Please God, not her. Please God, not her. Please God. Not her.

He could still feel the warmth of her breathing in his bed, still taste the first burnt dinner and feel the coarse lace of her white dress when she died. He smelled her honeysuckle hair amidst his wallpaper-glue living room even now. They didn’t have time to say hello before it was goodbye. There were still boxes of curtains, or bloomers, or something of hers, that he could never unpack alone, so they stayed in the same boxes. Moth-eaten, probably.

It was October 2. That was the pivotal day. The defining day. The day he buried his wife and all her loveliness and all his happiness. Every shovelful of dirt was a memory they never made. A moment they never had. He felt now, sinking into his couch and staring at nothing, holding his own hands that all the sound of his life was buried in that hole, and now there was only silence. Dead silence.

Scorned by Kaylie Crowley


I wrote this for my Fairytales class: it will mean nothing to you if you are not somewhat familiar with traditional fairytales. Regardless of your familiarity, take a gander at will. 

In this place, there are tales of wolves. It is said that they were once men, corrupted and carnal, lusting until they could stifle their hunger no more. They grow hair, the body displaying the beast of the soul, and they use their hands as feet and snatch naughty children from their beds. Some say they eat the children for luncheon, but the trees whispered to me that they teach them their demon tricks and spells and turn them to wolves themselves. They work for the devil, because he does not have claws and teeth and cannot rip humanity apart himself, so he finds men to do it for him. They live in the deepest woods, far from the paths, and hunt by themselves, frightening women and children with their bloody muzzles and matted fur. They are damned, immortally doomed to roam the earth in their sin, like the dark faeries of old. This is a tale of a wolf and a beautiful woman.

There was once a young woman and her father, and they lived in a small town near a river. It does not matter where, for this is a tale for all places. The girl’s father was a lunatic, he scratched his own eyes and broke all the windows of the house, and he slept during the day and screamed all of the night. Despite the burden of her father the girl was beautiful, beyond the grasp of the town, and they called her Beauty, for they knew nothing of her but her appearance. Every day, while her father slept, she slipped out of the front door of their house on the outskirts of town and headed into the woods, whistling at the birds. The women of the town whispered ‘witch’ and reached for their children’s hands, advising them never to enter the wood alone. But the men, full of love for this pure, lovely creature, scolded old wives’ tales and demanded repentance, for no witch could be as lovely and as kind as Beauty was.

There was one man in the village who claimed Beauty loved him, and told every man, woman, and child that he would make her his wife. They warned him of the madness of her father, and advised him to kill the lunatic before bedding the bride. He nodded and grabbed his dagger. He asked for Beauty’s hand, wearing all manner of finery, but she gazed listlessly at the wood and refused. The man was enraged, and swore revenge on Beauty and her lunatic father, and so the next day he followed the girl as she whistled through the wood. She carried a basket and followed a path, like all girls do when they walk through the wood, until she came to a particularly gnarled tree. She stopped suddenly, and the man hid from her sight. Just in time, for she turned around and looked at the expanse of the wood for strangers. Old crones and wood nymphs were said to inhabit the place, and there’s nothing like being too careful. The man looked again to where she was standing, but she had disappeared in an instant. “Poor, innocent girl has been kidnapped!” he said under his breath, “I shall try again tomorrow.”

For three days he followed the girl into the wood, and at the same tree every day she disappeared. On the fourth day he went early, before the sun dappled the leaves, and waited at the tree for her. When he heard her whistling he hid, waiting to see where his love disappeared to. As usual, she stopped and looked about her, silent and still, until she was sure she was alone. Then she whistled once more, and a great beast came and swept her away. The man was so astonished, he almost forgot to follow them, but he was a fast runner and remembered just in time. He lost the pair deep in the heart of the wood, where barely any light could pierce the canopy of leaves. He searched and wandered for six hours, exhaustion and fear taking hold of his heart. Finally, he came upon a small cottage, and saw inside Beauty and a man, sharing bread. The man was naked, and he kissed Beauty, unaware of the peering eyes at the window.

“The devil!” the man said, “the devil has enchanted her,” and he turned in such a fright that he fell on a stone and cut his leg. The stone turned rose red with blood, and he gasped in pain. With his leg bleeding, the man ran as quickly as he could back to the town, but a beast, large and ferocious, roaring so loudly the trees shook with fear, caught him up and ate him slowly, crunching his large bones and laughing at curiosity.
The next day the town stormed the house of Beauty and her father, demanding that the lunatic die for witchcraft and devilry, for they believed he had killed the man who loved his daughter. She laughed and said, “No man loves me,” and fled the mob into the wood. The people slashed her father’s neck and then followed her, felling trees and slaying creatures until they came to the small cottage.

But there was no Beauty there, only a naked man, sitting by the door, peering at the people approaching. They demanded to know what he had done with the girl, but the man stood, crudely, and laughed at curiosity. Then he howled and bent, his mouth growing large fangs and his hair spreading to his fingertips. A wolf stood before them, a terrible monster, and he charged at the crowd. He killed many people, but one young boy knew the story of werewolves, and thrust a silver dagger covered in wolf’s bane through the beast’s heart. Immediately the beast turned back into a man, but he was not dead, for it is very hard to kill a servant of the devil.

The village brought the man, bound and bleeding, back to the town square, where he was to be tried. The council shook their heads and the people shook their fists and before the moon rose they tied him to a stake to burn him. The firewood was lit at the beast’s feet, and he howled as it licked his legs and singed his skin. He died screaming to the sky in the pain of heat and flame.

 Suddenly, Beauty was there, amid the fire as if it was a pleasant field of yellow loosestrife, and she cut the beast’s bonds and carried him from the platform. The people were stunned, staring at her terrible beauty among the flames, hypnotized by her splendor. They half fell in love with her again, for her long lashes were dewed with tears and her red lips were the very picture of sadness. She set her lover down and stood, gazing at his fallen figure. They saw one tear from her eye fall to her cheek as she bent and laid a single rose on his still chest. The people were ashamed that they had caused such pain to such an angel. Her eyes closed and she slowly reached her arms to the sky, as if pleading with the moon. The town’s hearts audibly ached, like creaking rocking chairs. She whispered words in a forgotten language, and suddenly her blowing hair and light, clear eyes were aflame with the fires of hell itself. The people watching her screamed and turned to flee, but the fire burning behind her flared and caught on every house, stable, and cart in the town. She walked into the wood by her usual way, but she had no need to whistle, for she walked to the music of the screams of burning flesh.

Moral: Though man and beast be dangerous to all, it is often woman scorned that is mankind’s downfall.

Monday, December 3, 2012

Nail Chewers of the World:

All you nail chewers, finger biters, gum smackers, lip chompers, and those of you who just make annoying sounds all of the time, this is a message of peace from us misophonians:
All we ask is that you stop.
Cease and desist.
I'm sure it is very satisfying for you to snack on the finer bits of your fingers--we don't deny you that right. Just please, PLEASE lady on the bus, I beg you student I'm to tutor, I kindly ask chick in my math class, that you just keep your nasty habit to your bedroom.
All your nasty habits, actually.
And you, gum chewer at the pulpit, if you shut your mouth the rest of us, I'm sure, would love to listen to your presentation. Is that gum attacking you? Are you giving it a good beat-down, eh? Could you please discipline your gum when you aren't trying to speak at the same time?
Honestly.
I just want to punch every kitten in the room when I hear smacking, slurping, chewing, and loud, abrasive swallowing.
All we ask is that you shut your mouths. At least when you're within eight feet of us.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Paris



I wish now that when (or before) I was in Paris I would have read Victor Hugo's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame". I read it some months later, and the descriptions of the buildings and the streets and the smell of Paris just took me back to when I trudged those ancient streets in the rain myself. For anyone who is going to Paris: read Hugo first, not after. 
In December, 2011, I went to Paris with my roommate and two other girls-sisters-and Dudley. After, of course, a brief stop off in London. You see, we took the trunnel (this train that goes UNDER THE OCEAN-nbd-from one country to the other), which we almost missed (literally SPRINTING), to Paris. Cold, wet Paris. 
The city of Paris was very different than I imagined. It was beautiful, yes, and gaudy, absolutely, and it smelled like urine, so true, but it was just... different. It was so packed with history, the walls and the streets were reeking with art and literature and... urine. I just wanted to sit by the river and paint. We did a lot of walking, we did all of the tourist-y things like visit the Eiffel Tower and Versailles and The Louvre, all of which were breathtaking. No wonder everyone goes there! We also visited, like, a zillion museums. Which is cool, because, to me, to experience Paris you have to absorb as much history and fine art and French as you can. 
French, can we just talk about FRENCH for a second? I don't want to offend anyone (not that anyone reads this blog), but le français est stupide! Seriously, it is such a difficult language, I couldn't even fake it enough to ask for a bathroom or flat water! I always kind of pictured myself speaking French, it's so romantic and sophisticated and all. But then I actually went to France and realized that it's STUPID! Or...more like...I'm stupid and can't grasp it. 
Anyway, here are your picture, word, and experience: 
This is me in Napoleon II's apartments. See that look on my face? Yeah, I'd say that was me emoting the general feeling Paris gave me. The splendor of everything was just...unbelievable. It made you feel so small and plain and poor. This picture really doesn't do the room justice, it was SHINING. I mean actively glowing with wealth. Gold walls? A must! Crystal chandeliers? At least a dozen! Giant portraits of moi in a powdered wig? Obviously! I wish you could see the true grandeur of every piece of furniture, every chair leg, the rugs...hence the bug-eyed expression. 
I was really torn about which picture to include here, there's this other one of Notre Dame...oh heck, I'm breaking my own rules and posting it.
Isn't that gorgeous? I'm justifying it because it coordinates with my other picture-it makes you feel so small and lame. Can you imagine living in this place? I loved Notre Dame, the inside was extraordinary, even more elaborate than the outside. It's amazing to me that men with chisels could create such delicate stone work! Paris is a little suffocating, like, it smothers the will to live out of you or something, because it is so unfathomable. "You will never amount to anything," it tells you, "You could never achieve anything even a fraction as great as the people who built this city." The parisian people kind of make you feel that way, too, like they're always judging you as you walk by. They know, they know you're an American before you even open your mouth, and they kind of look down their noses at you and their gaze says, "Yeah, I live here. Take that back to Rock Springs" (that French guy just spat the words 'Rock Springs' at my feet).

Okay, my Paris word has got to be 'Splendor'. It's kind of a lame word but it's synonymous with Majesty, Grandeur, and Marvelous, all of which apply to this city. I know this is all I've talked about, but when I think back to last Christmas, what I remember the most was that feeling of splendor. I was in a movie, I was in Paris When It Sizzles (except it was really cold), I was in a romance novel (except for the romance part), it was unreal! The streets, the shops, the people, and I just scratched the surface! When we climbed those billion steps of the Eiffel Tower or the half a billion steps of Notre Dame and looked out from the top over the roofs of the entire city, I realized how little of Paris I had seen. I knew nothing. I know nothing. Houses of stone and rooftops of clay clamoring on top of each other up the sloping hills, hundreds and thousands of things that made up this place that made up so much history. Splendid. 

Speaking of the cathedral, the experience that sticks out to me as one of the most unique was our opportunity to go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. IN Notre Dame. I'll admit, I didn't think we would get in, and I'm not saying we got front row seats or anything, but we made it in just as it was starting. Our cold group sat huddled between stone walls and stone floor and pressing bodies as we tip-toed to see the top of the Whatever-Bishop's big hat. It was amazing, there was the processional walking down the carpeted aisle, swinging their smoking lanterns and chanting Latin (or something). Don't ask me what any of it meant, but it was freaking awesome. I will confess, after about an hour of not really seeing the ceremony I sat on the stone floor and watched some tiny French children weaving between the big candle stands. 'One of them is going to catch this whole place on fire' I kept thinking. Miracles do happen on Christmas Day in the Notre Dame in Paris, however, because not one child was roasted that evening. There are a lot of candles in that cathedral. And a lot of stained glass, and wax saints and depictions of bleeding Christ. It was a good place to be on Christmas Eve, it gives one a bit of perspective.  
When you, reader, go to Paris, know these things:
Crepes with Nutella are the only delicious French food. And croissants. 
The Eiffel Tower is very difficult to photograph up close...
...and when you get there, take the elevator. Trust me. 
Do NOT feed the pigeons.
Disneyland Paris is, basically, just like Disneyland California. Still cool though. 
You WILL get lost. 
A lot.
Au revoir jusqu'à la prochaine fois!


(Thank heaven for Google translate. Stupid language.)


Wednesday, October 10, 2012

All I do

All I do all day and all night is LOOK FOR SCHOLARSHIPS!! Please, somewhere wonderful, let me in!

Monday, October 8, 2012

Anne Sexton


For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be, finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself;
it was you, or your house
or your kitchen.
And if you turn away
because there is no lesson here
I will hold my awkward bowl,
with all its cracked stars shining
like a complicated lie,
and fasten a new skin around it
as if I were dressing an orange
or a strange sun.
Not that it was beautiful,
but that I found some order there.
There ought to be something special
for someone
in this kind of hope.
This is something I would never find
in a lovelier place, my dear,
although your fear is anyone's fear,
like an invisible veil between us all…
and sometimes in private,
my kitchen, your kitchen,
my face, your face.
-Anne Sexton

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

The Rory Gilmore Book List

Speaking of Life Goals...:


The Rory Gilmore book list

1984 by George Orwell
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser
Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank
Archidamian War by Donald Kagan
The Art of Fiction by Henry James
The Art of War by Sun Tzu
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
Atonement by Ian McEwan
Autobiography of a Face by Lucy Grealy
The Awakening by Kate Chopin
Babe by Dick King-Smith
Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women by Susan Faludi
Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress by Dai Sijie
Bel Canto by Ann Patchett
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Beowulf: A New Verse Translation by Seamus Heaney
The Bhagava Gita
The Bielski Brothers: The True Story of Three Men Who Defied the Nazis, Built a Village in the Forest, and Saved 1,200 Jews by Peter Duffy
Bitch in Praise of Difficult Women by Elizabeth Wurtzel
A Bolt from the Blue and Other Essays by Mary McCarthy
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
Brick Lane by Monica Ali
Bridgadoon by Alan Jay Lerner
Candide by Voltaire
The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer
Carrie by Stephen King
Catch-22 by Joseph Heller
The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White
The Children’s Hour by Lillian Hellman
Christine by Stephen King
A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse
The Collected Short Stories by Eudora Welty
A Comedy of Errors by William Shakespeare
Complete Novels by Dawn Powell
The Complete Poems by Anne Sexton
Complete Stories by Dorothy Parker
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas père
Cousin Bette by Honor’e de Balzac
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky
The Crimson Petal and the White by Michel Faber
The Crucible by Arthur Miller
Cujo by Stephen King
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon
Daughter of Fortune by Isabel Allende
David and Lisa by Dr Theodore Issac Rubin M.D
David Copperfield by Charles Dickens
The Da Vinci -Code by Dan Brown
Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol
Demons by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller
Deenie by Judy Blume
The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair that Changed America by Erik Larson
The Dirt: Confessions of the World’s Most Notorious Rock Band by Tommy Lee, Vince Neil, Mick Mars and Nikki Sixx
The Divine Comedy by Dante
The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells
Don Quijote by Cervantes
Driving Miss Daisy by Alfred Uhrv
Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson
Edgar Allan Poe: Complete Tales & Poems by Edgar Allan Poe
Eleanor Roosevelt by Blanche Wiesen Cook
The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe
Ella Minnow Pea: A Novel in Letters by Mark Dunn
Eloise by Kay Thompson
Emily the Strange by Roger Reger
Emma by Jane Austen
Empire Falls by Richard Russo
Encyclopedia Brown: Boy Detective by Donald J. Sobol
Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton
Ethics by Spinoza
Europe through the Back Door, 2003 by Rick Steves
Eva Luna by Isabel Allende
Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer
Extravagance by Gary Krist
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
Fahrenheit 9/11 by Michael Moore
The Fall of the Athenian Empire by Donald Kagan
Fat Land: How Americans Became the Fattest People in the World by Greg Critser
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
The Fellowship of the Ring: Book 1 of The Lord of the Ring by J. R. R. Tolkien
Fiddler on the Roof by Joseph Stein
The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom
Finnegan’s Wake by James Joyce
Fletch by Gregory McDonald
Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem
The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley
Franny and Zooey by J. D. Salinger
Freaky Friday by Mary Rodgers
Galapagos by Kurt Vonnegut
Gender Trouble by Judith Butler
George W. Bushism: The Slate Book of the Accidental Wit and Wisdom of our 43rd President by Jacob Weisberg
Gidget by Fredrick Kohner
Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen
The Gnostic Gospels by Elaine Pagels
The Godfather: Book 1 by Mario Puzo
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
Goldilocks and the Three Bears by Alvin Granowsky
Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
The Good Soldier by Ford Maddox Ford
The Gospel According to Judy Bloom
The Graduate by Charles Webb
The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
The Group by Mary McCarthy
Hamlet by William Shakespeare
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J. K. Rowling
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders by Vincent Bugliosi and Curt Gentry
Henry IV, part I by William Shakespeare
Henry IV, part II by William Shakespeare
Henry V by William Shakespeare
High Fidelity by Nick Hornby
The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon
Holidays on Ice: Stories by David Sedaris
The Holy Barbarians by Lawrence Lipton
House of Sand and Fog by Andre Dubus III (Lpr)
The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende
How to Breathe Underwater by Julie Orringer
How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Seuss
How the Light Gets in by M. J. Hyland
Howl by Allen Gingsburg
The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo
The Iliad by Homer
I’m with the Band by Pamela des Barres
In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
Inferno by Dante
Inherit the Wind by Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee
Iron Weed by William J. Kennedy
It Takes a Village by Hillary Clinton
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan
Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare
The Jumping Frog by Mark Twain
The Jungle by Upton Sinclair
Just a Couple of Days by Tony Vigorito
The Kitchen Boy: A Novel of the Last Tsar by Robert Alexander
Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly by Anthony Bourdain
The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
Lady Chatterleys’ Lover by D. H. Lawrence
The Last Empire: Essays 1992-2000 by Gore Vidal
Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman
The Legend of Bagger Vance by Steven Pressfield
Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis
Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke
Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them by Al Franken
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens
The Little Locksmith by Katharine Butler Hathaway
The Little Match Girl by Hans Christian Andersen
Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
Living History by Hillary Rodham Clinton
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
The Lottery: And Other Stories by Shirley Jackson
The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold
The Love Story by Erich Segal
Macbeth by William Shakespeare
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
The Manticore by Robertson Davies
Marathon Man by William Goldman
The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov
Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter by Simone de Beauvoir
Memoirs of General W. T. Sherman by William Tecumseh Sherman
Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
The Meaning of Consuelo by Judith Ortiz Cofer
Mencken’s Chrestomathy by H. R. Mencken
The Merry Wives of Windsor by William Shakespeare
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
The Miracle Worker by William Gibson
Moby Dick by Herman Melville
The Mojo Collection: The Ultimate Music Companion by Jim Irvin
Moliere: A Biography by Hobart Chatfield Taylor
A Monetary History of the United States by Milton Friedman
Monsieur Proust by Celeste Albaret
A Month Of Sundays: Searching For The Spirit And My Sister by Julie Mars
A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway
Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
Mutiny on the Bounty by Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall
My Lai 4: A Report on the Massacre and It’s Aftermath by Seymour M. Hersh
My Life as Author and Editor by H. R. Mencken
My Life in Orange: Growing Up with the Guru by Tim Guest
Myra Waldo’s Travel and Motoring Guide to Europe, 1978 by Myra Waldo
My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult
The Naked and the Dead by Norman Mailer
The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco
The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri
The Nanny Diaries by Emma McLaughlin
Nervous System: Or, Losing My Mind in Literature by Jan Lars Jensen
New Poems of Emily Dickinson by Emily Dickinson
The New Way Things Work by David Macaulay
Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich
Night by Elie Wiesel
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen
The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism by William E. Cain, Laurie A. Finke, Barbara E. Johnson, John P. McGowan
Novels 1930-1942: Dance Night/Come Back to Sorrento, Turn, Magic Wheel/Angels on Toast/A Time to be Born by Dawn Powell
Notes of a Dirty Old Man by Charles Bukowski
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
Old School by Tobias Wolff
On the Road by Jack Kerouac
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Opposite of Fate: Memories of a Writing Life by Amy Tan
Oracle Night by Paul Auster
Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood
Othello by Shakespeare
Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens
The Outbreak of the Peloponnesian War by Donald Kagan
Out of Africa by Isac Dineson
The Outsiders by S. E. Hinton
A Passage to India by E.M. Forster
The Peace of Nicias and the Sicilian Expedition by Donald Kagan
The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
Peyton Place by Grace Metalious
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
Pigs at the Trough by Arianna Huffington
Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi
Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain
The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby – read
The Portable Dorothy Parker by Dorothy Parker
The Portable Nietzche by Fredrich Nietzche
The Price of Loyalty: George W. Bush, the White House, and the Education of Paul O’Neill by Ron Suskind
Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
Property by Valerie Martin
Pushkin: A Biography by T. J. Binyon
Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw
Quattrocento by James Mckean
A Quiet Storm by Rachel Howzell Hall
Rapunzel by Grimm Brothers
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
The Razor’s Edge by W. Somerset Maugham
Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books by Azar Nafisi
Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm by Kate Douglas Wiggin
The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
Rescuing Patty Hearst: Memories From a Decade Gone Mad by Virginia Holman
The Return of the King: The Lord of the Rings Book 3 by J. R. R. Tolkien
R Is for Ricochet by Sue Grafton
Rita Hayworth by Stephen King
Robert’s Rules of Order by Henry Robert
Roman Holiday by Edith Wharton
Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
A Room with a View by E. M. Forster
Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin
The Rough Guide to Europe, 2003 Edition
Sacred Time by Ursula Hegi
Sanctuary by William Faulkner
Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay by Nancy Milford
Say Goodbye to Daisy Miller by Henry James
The Scarecrow of Oz by Frank L. Baum
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Seabiscuit: An American Legend by Laura Hillenbrand
The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir
The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd – started and not finished
Secrets of the Flesh: A Life of Colette by Judith Thurman
Selected Hotels of Europe
Selected Letters of Dawn Powell: 1913-1965 by Dawn Powell
Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
A Separate Peace by John Knowles
Several Biographies of Winston Churchill
Sexus by Henry Miller
The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Shane by Jack Shaefer
The Shining by Stephen King
Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse
S Is for Silence by Sue Grafton
Slaughter-house Five by Kurt Vonnegut
Small Island by Andrea Levy – on my book pile
Snows of Kilimanjaro by Ernest Hemingway
Snow White and Rose Red by Grimm Brothers
Social Origins of Dictatorship and Democracy: Lord and Peasant in the Making of the Modern World by Barrington Moore
The Song of Names by Norman Lebrecht
Song of the Simple Truth: The Complete Poems of Julia de Burgos by Julia de Burgos
The Song Reader by Lisa Tucker
Songbook by Nick Hornby
The Sonnets by William Shakespeare
Sonnets from the Portuegese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sophie’s Choice by William Styron
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
Speak, Memory by Vladimir Nabokov
Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach
The Story of My Life by Helen Keller
A Streetcar Named Desiree by Tennessee Williams
Stuart Little by E. B. White
Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust
Swimming with Giants: My Encounters with Whales, Dolphins and Seals by Anne Collett
Sybil by Flora Rheta Schreiber
A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
Tender Is The Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Term of Endearment by Larry McMurtry
Time and Again by Jack Finney
The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
To Have and Have Not by Ernest Hemingway
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
The Tragedy of Richard III by William Shakespeare
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
The Trial by Franz Kafka
The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters by Elisabeth Robinson
Truth & Beauty: A Friendship by Ann Patchett
Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom
Ulysses by James Joyce
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath 1950-1962 by Sylvia Plath
Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe
Unless by Carol Shields
Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann
The Vanishing Newspaper by Philip Meyers
Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
Velvet Underground’s The Velvet Underground and Nico (Thirty Three and a Third series) by Joe Harvard
The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides
Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett
Walden by Henry David Thoreau
Walt Disney’s Bambi by Felix Salten
War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
We Owe You Nothing – Punk Planet: The Collected Interviews edited by Daniel Sinker
What Colour is Your Parachute? 2005 by Richard Nelson Bolles
What Happened to Baby Jane by Henry Farrell
When the Emperor Was Divine by Julie Otsuka
Who Moved My Cheese? Spencer Johnson
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee
Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West by Gregory Maguire
The Wizard of Oz by Frank L. Baum
Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings
The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion


So, obviously

I feel like this sometimes. Life is good.

Friday, September 7, 2012

My Friday Nights are Nerdy.

Yes, it's Friday night. And yes, I'm spending it watching Doctor Who.

English


This is an announcement that I am officially and completely an English major!
I study humanity, I study love, I study terror and fear and prose and magic and history and language. It's like my favorite hobbies are now assigned and graded.
Now when I dress in Oxfords and blazers and people assume I work in a library, it's cause I DO.

Friday, August 31, 2012

No room for roommate


I'm sure you're getting sick of looking at my clothes, but I find this hilarious. First day of moving in, this closet is supposed to fit TWO girls. Comfortably.
Hi roommate, nice to meet ya, are you a nudist by chance??

Let's just talk about...

How I have this uncontrollable need to GUSH about this literature class about Fairy Tales...

If you know anything about me, you are not in the least bit surprised that I am taking and loving this class.

My final project is on Beauty and the Beast, for heaven's sake.

Guys...






School rocks.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

I have a problem.

Someone stop me.
Blog....
You've been neglected. You're like a sad, starving Ethiopian child, that's how neglected you are.
You're like a homeless paperboy living on the streets of New York City.
You're a wet, scrawny puppy with fleas and tumors.
You're a rusting old Chevy swarming with cats in the yard of a trailer park.
You're so neglected, morning glory is twisting around your body, slowly suffocating you.
You're like a blind person's book shelf and a deaf person's guitar.
You're a 300-pound middle-aged man's treadmill.
And that's neglected. We're talking inches of dust.
You're the wrinkly lingerie of a 68-year-old widow.
You're a college student's vacuum cleaner, a teenage boy's cupcake tin.
You, my friend, are Furby.
And I apologize for that, Blog and non-existent readers.
Truly.
I suck.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Costa Rica

In Costa Rica I was always exhausted. My whole body felt like a boulder trying to roll uphill. My mind was mush, my humor and gumption gone.

But that was because Costa Rica was the most fun I've ever had. From 5 in the morning to 11 at night we were running, hiking, swimming, eating, laughing, and exploring a tropical country of exotic people. There was no time for rest when there was zip lining and boogie boarding and chocolate making to be accomplished!
Our Costa Rica group consisted of ten-a hard number to accommodate in restaurants and small rented cars, but an excellent number for fun times :)
Costa Rica was the most fun trip I've ever been on! I mean, other trips were more educational or cultural or beautiful, but this country was just one excitement after another. Never a dull moment in this rainforest! The whole country had a taste, a spicy and juicy experience that left your mouth craving more. The was a kindness and an ease everywhere, people were content with what they had (except for the LOTS of petty thieves. They're going to be the exception to that statement) and they were willing to share their lifestyle with whoever was interested. Costa Rica was beans and rice, green parrots, ferns and saltwater, it was the humid, hot sun and tanned skin. Everywhere you turned there was some other wonder to be explored, something unknown to be eaten or bought our touched or climbed.

Okay, my gushing without purpose needs to stop. Yay structure! Hooray format! Here's your word, picture, and experience:

This is my one picture, obviously, because . . . I mean look how much FUN I'm having! I'm in the warmest ocean ever, at a beach in Limon, and you can't tell in this picture but I'm boogie boarding for the first time. I feel like Costa Rica can be perfectly embodied by these warm, crashing waves. They're beautiful to watch, an amazing work of nature, but the waves are better when they're experienced. Sometimes it's tempting to sit back and watch life-it's safe that way, comfortable. But, as this picture witnesses, it's so much more fun to jump in and risk the rip tides and the sharks and the drowning and hope for the best outcome: a memory of a commitment, a chance taken. Costa Rica is an entire country of chances at happiness, at excitement, and without jumping in the water and throwing caution to the wind, it will just be a lovely place with good food. A distant memory, not a place that changes you. Allowing that influence, that culture and language and all the wonderful things unique to this region of the world, allowing those things into your person can be frightening, but more likely than not, you'll end up with your face turned to the sun, eyes closed, laughing joyously. 

In a word (a nearly impossible-to-choose-word), Costa Rica would have to be described as Rapid. The definition is moving, acting, or occurring with great speed. My trip to Costa Rica was fast-paced and packed with activity, experience and new friends. This word is kind of contradictory because much of the culture of Costa Rica is very laid back, go with the flow, but to me, the country itself was rapidly developing, rapidly exciting, rapidly moving and changing, like the ocean. 

Alright, the excerpt from my Costa Rica journal is as follows:
"We finally arrived at the 'Reserva Biologica Tirimbina', or the national park, basically, for our cocoa tour. That's right, people, an entire TOUR about chocolate. Excelente. We went and paid 9,000 colones and they immediately told us to grab our  boots. Our . . . uh . . . huh? Yep, we borrowed these big black galoshes to 'protect us from snakes' . . . foreboding. And then Willie, our guide (and chocolate expert) led us on a trail through dense, natural forest just so alive and thick it was breathing. I loved it, truly. We were able to spot a few wild sloths, very exciting (they're swimming with parasites and the stupidest mammals on the planet. . . what's not to like?!). It was a bit of a hike, a very humid one, FULL of bugs locally called 'bullet ants' that bite AND fly AND jump AND crawl up your pant legs. Gracias, Galoshes. Eventually in our adventure Willie stopped suddenly, whipped out a tiny vial, and plopped it down on the thick compost, successfully catching the world's smallest and best-camouflaged tree frog! How did he SEE that, we all wondered."


Hasta Luego everyone! 
  

Saturday, June 9, 2012

Regina Spektor


The piano is not firewood yet
They try to remember but still they forget
That the heart beats in threes
Just like a waltz
And nothing can stop you from dancing


Rise from your cold hospital bed
I tell you, you're not dying
Everyone knows you're going to live
So you might as well start trying


The piano is not firewood yet
But the cold does get cold
So it soon might be that
I'll take it apart, call up my friends
And we'll warm up our hands by the fire


Don't look so shocked
Don't judge so harsh
You don't know you're only spying
Everyone knows it's going to hurt
But at least we'll get hurt trying


The piano is not firewood yet
But a heart can't be helped
And it gathers regret
Someday you'll wake up and feel a great pain
And you'll miss every toy you've ever owned


You'll want to go back
You'll wish you were small
Nothing will console your crying
You'll take the clock off of your wall
And you'll wish it was lying


Love what you have
And you'll have more love
You're not dying
Everyone knows you're going to love
Though there's still no cure for crying

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Friday, May 25, 2012

Old is Awesome

I love old things. I have a weakness for antiques, the older and uglier the better. I love old clothes, used and worn furniture, vintage luggage. Sometimes, I browse antiques on KSL for fun, even though I can't afford any of them. Old things have a history, a previosity (new word I'm making up-curiosity about what came previously) about them. Tattered ancient books that have been held and read and passes around for generations make me weak at the knees. Old things show progression, they show a value and substance to simplicity. It's like receiving insight to someone else's life. A moment of a different time captured in scuffs and nicks and dents. In the end, old is awesome.

Monday, May 21, 2012

The Bucket List


    I made the first draft of this when I was 13, and I just found it and added a few things...

  • Receive a Master's Degree
  • Be miles away from land
  • Ride in a hot air balloon
  • Own a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and FILL IT
  • Do something that terrifies me
  • Play a Mozart sonata all the way through
  • Buy a $200 outfit just for fun
  • Be reckless and crazy for an entire day
  • Eat breakfast at Tiffany's 
  • Set foot on the Broadway stage
  • Love unconditionally
  • Go to India
  • Give someone something to believe in
  • Kiss a complete stranger
  • Bathe in a waterfall
  • Go inside 15 different temples
  • Write a novel
  • Build a clubhouse
  • Learn another language
  • Attend the Opera
  • Own 100 of any one thing
  • Snorkel. In the ocean.
  • Perform in front of thousands of people
  • Go paragliding
  • Be in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir
  • Publish something
  • Read a Victor Hugo book.
  • See one of the 7 Wonders of the World
  • Feel total and complete joy

Thursday, May 3, 2012

A Tina Fey quote to brighten your day



"Every girl is expected to have caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama and doll tits.

The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes. Everyone else is struggling."

- Tina Fey

Monday, April 23, 2012

Summer. Ahhhh.

Today was beautiful. I mean B-E-A-youtiful. I cannot wait for summer, when I don't have to wear shoes or pants or parkas and I can just picnic and sunbathe my time away.
The world is so different when it's warm. It's living and breathing and growing,one can just decide to take a walk or sketch a tree or do eight cartwheels in a row without bundling or preparing.
Garden parties, that's what.
And ice cream.
Summer means the end of school, and for most people the end of Western. But not me. *thiiiiiird yeeear* shudder.
I can't deal with the excitement. I feel like a child day dreaming out a window in math class, picturing sprinklers and popsicles and sidewalk chalk (all activities my 19-year-old-self unabashedly participates in). I want jelly shoes and a Little Mermaid swimsuit and Trafalga coupons!

Summer. Ahhhhh.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

New Zealand

In New Zealand, I had the best pizza on the planet.

I know I know, I was just in ROME, you know, ITALY, where pizza ORIGINATED. And that pizza was good. I ate it practically every day. But in my New Zealand journal I have a map, and on that map I have an arrow pointing to Blenheim in the South Island and a picture of a smiling pizza because IT WAS BEAUTIFUL.
I know that's not exactly what you expected as an intro to one of the most magnificent countries in the world, I could have talked about the Southern Alps or Hobbiton or the beaches or for heaven's sake the 14 hour plane ride. But that pizza....

 Was not better than all of that other stuff. I'll be real, I just didn't know how to introduce New Zealand. It's a hard place to describe, and since I spent the majority of the trip looking out the passenger side window (that's on the left, people. So wrong.), gaping and quite literally drooling over the paradisaical glory that IS this island, this post could be a list of long adjectives, all of which would fall entirely short and my description would be completely inadequate.
As, I assure you, this one will be.
This trip was basically me and Dudley, driving around for ten days. Seriously, we from from Auckland to Taupo to Wellington to Greymouth to Rohan, and all the way up again. New Zealand may look small next to whopping Australia, but let me tell you, after driving around it for ten days, I still haven't seen 10% of the beauty and majesty this country has to offer. The biggest surprise to me was it's DIVERSITY. Not necessarily people wise, they were basically all Kiwis that said "G-day mate" and "lippy", I mean landscape wise. In elementary school I had to do an ecological diagram and report on a certain habitat. I wanted 'rainforest' but I was stuck with 'wetland', I didn't even get 'grassland' or 'desert' or 'mountain range' or something remotely exciting. Wetland. But that's not the point, the point is that New Zealand has all of those habitats.
Seriously, you're driving at five in the morning through the rainforest, you fall asleep and apparently go through a mountain range and an hour later you're awake and in the middle of the desert. You're so confused and groggy and stiff because you've sat in a car for ten days and by the time you think all of these thoughts you see the ocean and miles of beach. I swear I'm not exaggerating.

Now, adhering to tradition (set by the ONE previous post...), it is time for me to post the one picture, one word, and one event that best describes my trip to New Zealand. The picture is this:
Reasons. This picture was taken off the side of the road, which is perfect because we LITERALLY drove for ten days. We were just whipping around the curvy, narrow roads of this particular mountainside when I insisted we pull over to get a picture of the beautiful mist on these hills. We got out, Dudley got out his camera, and I realized the breathtaking quality of the area I was in. It was a 360 degree view, I was engulfed by some of the greatest of God's creations looming all around me. My arms are outstretched, embracing the vast wonder of the possibility of such perfection. How did I get here and how can I stay?! It's kind of a "Can you believe this?!" gesture, I guess.

New Zealand cannot be put into a word, but if I had to, I would say Serene. Defined, it is calm, peaceful, or tranquil; unruffled or clear; fair. The landscape, the weather, the people, all were so settled and so perfect. New Zealand, the land and the people, move with the storms and enjoy the sun when it shines. It is a paradise, an incomprehensible heaven that takes root in the soul and grows there, making every other part of that soul's self more beautiful. 

Here is an excerpt from my New Zealand journal:
"Today we went to Weta Studios, where they do the special effects for movies like The Lord of The Rings and Avatar. It was so amazing, they make all these perfect models of what they create: everything from green-screen filming to computer animation to weaponry to robots. We happened to be there THE DAY they started filming The Hobbit. I tried all the doors so I could sneak onto the set. I had this vision of myself bursting through the door and stumbling into Elijah Wood. In this vision he looked at me from those gorgeous blue eyes and cried, 'I MUST have this girl as my elf queen! Cast her!' Alas, no such luck."
I know Elijah Wood is not in The Hobbit, people, but it's my fantasy and I'll include who I like, thank you. 
Until the next trip, so long, loves!

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Apartment Therapy's Best DIY Blog list

The Art of Doing Stuff http://www.theartofdoingstuff.com/
642 votes
Bower Power http://www.bowerpowerblog.com/
515 votes
A Beautiful Mess http://abeautifulmess.typepad.com
314 votes
Ana White http://ana-white.com/
308 votes
Centsational Girl http://www.centsationalgirl.com
298 votes
Vintage Revivials http://vintagerevivals.blogspot.com
271 votes
I heart organizing http://iheartorganizing.blogspot.com/
252 votes
Little Green Notebook http://littlegreennotebook.blogspot.com/
185 votes
Old Town Home http://www.oldtownhome.com
142 votes
Remodelaholic http://www.remodelaholic.com
134 votes
DIYdiva http://diydiva.net
108 votes
Manhattan Nest http://manhattan-nest.com/
104 votes
Chris Loves Julia http://chrislovesjulia.blogspot.com/
97 votes
Funky Junk Interiors http://funkyjunkinteriors.blogspot.com/
71 votes
House Tweaking http://www.housetweaking.com
70 votes
Chez Larsson http://www.chezlarsson.com
66 votes
The House Of Smiths http://www.thehouseofsmiths.com
65 votes
House of Hepworths http://www.houseofhepworths.com/
61 votes
Improvised Life http://www.improvisedlife.com
58 votes
Just a Girl http://www.justagirlblog.com
54 votes
Thrifty Decor Chick http://www.thriftydecorchick.com
53 votes
The Design Confidential http://thedesignconfidential.com/
53 votes
Dollar Store Crafts http://dollarstorecrafts.com/
52 votes
Not Just a Housewife http://www.notjustahousewife.net/
50 votes
Girl In Air http://girlinair.blogspot.com/
45 votes
BrightNest http://blog.brightnest.com/
45 votes
7th House on the Left http://7thhouseontheleft.com/
45 votes
Our Humble A{Bowe}d http://ourhumbleabowed.wordpress.com
43 votes
Gorgeous Shiny Things http://gorgeousshinythings.blogspot.com/
42 votes
Pretty Handy Girl http://www.prettyhandygirl.com/
41 votes
Natalme http://www.natalme.com
39 votes
Hannah Kate Flora http://www.hannahkateflora.com/
38 votes
Real Housewives of Bucks County http://realhousewivesofbc.blogspot.com/
37 votes
Dans le Townhouse http://dans-le-townhouse.blogspot.com/
34 votes
Honestly WTF http://honestlywtf.com/
34 votes
My Repurposed Life http://www.myrepurposedlife.net
32 votes
Revictorian http://revictorian.com/
32 votes
My Blessed Life http://www.myblessedlife.net

I don't know about you. . . but I always need more DIY projects. You're welcome.