text:
No single thought is more important than any other, at least at the outset.
The trees remain bare all over the city. From my chair on the third floor of the main library I can see across the city to the hills on the opposite side of the fjord, and it is all still black and gray and white. An overcast sky, mottled whites and grays, snagged by the lazy gray turns of seagulls. Spring is on the verge. Spring is tightly wound. Spring is kinetic. There is a paper cut on my thumb. The man beside me at the desk has neon green plugs stuffed deep into his ear canals to block out even the slight rufflings of pages, the scratch of pens, the gentle tapping of keyboards, the sniffing back of running noses, the gurgle of upturned water bottles, the muffled footsteps, the swish of closing doors, the whir of a distant printer, the whispered questions at the reference desk, the unzipping of backpacks. All white and gray noises--delightful sounds--of library life. The man with earplugs finds even these distracting. I don't envy him. And perhaps I am him, too. These sounds now populate this paragraph because I couldn't or wouldn't shut them out and focus on something else. But this is as it should be, perhaps, if I stick with my original thesis. In the moment, unguarded, open, no single thought is more important than any other.
My semester is drawing to a close. There are a few weeks left, but most of it will be dedicated to research and paper writing. Finals come in mid-May, but there's much to do before then. I find it easier now to sit someplace and focus on my assigned readings and writings. I find it easier to tap into that sacred vein where I keep my words and release them onto the page.
In the beginning--January--it was not like this.
Honestly, I felt a bit dead. When I tried to read, the stuff--plot, philosophy--couldn't find purchase in my mind. It was like throwing undercooked spaghetti at the kitchen wall and watching it bounce stupidly and disappointingly to the floor. It was like trying to eat something delicious with a no taste buds. Ash in my mouth. Not for the first time since my daughter was born, I began to wonder whether I would ever be the same again. Whether it would always be this new, numb way. Dread came in a flood and sat there, a stagnant pool. When I moved, everything felt heavy. Heart, hands, head. But I kept trying. And there were, occasionally, shudders and sparks that reminded me of my old self.
It was Whitman that got the gears moving again. A bilge pump. "The young mother and the old mother comprehend me."
It was Hemingway that said, "Don't worry. You have always written before."
Offered in memory of Mimi Chiang
In the fall, I had the honor of receiving an invitation to write an artist's profile for Brygg Magasin's debut all-English issue. Brygg is a big, beautiful magazine covering Scandinavian culture, with an emphasis on coffee. (Brygg is Norwegian for brew.) I opted to interview Kenneth Karlstad, a young, award-winning Norwegian filmmaker. We met at a cafė downtown and talked for a couple of hours, and I drank my first coffee. Ever. Because I wanted to stay true to Brygg's mission... and because I'm a 32-year-old mom of an infant, so, though she is a "good sleeper," I still desperately need caffeine.
Kenneth was a great interview subject. Easy to talk to. Candid. Funny. And we were both pleased with how the piece came out.
An excerpt:
For this creative native son of Sarpsbog, the injustice of these regional stereotypes weighs heavily. He sits forward on the couch now, shoulders squared to me, hands clasped in front of him, a position of strength and confidence and resolve. Life begs for examination, even--perhaps especially--in the most dismissed places.
"I just want to tell stories about Sarpsborg that are serious, because it's a part of Norway that's not taken seriously."
The subject matter of Gutten er Sulten is potentially painful for many people, including those whose lives actually inspired the script. I can tell by the set of Karlstad's jaw that there are corners of his life, his family, his work, he would like to remain secretive about, but steering clear of what is personal would go against his principles as an artist.
"You just have to stand in it and try not to worry about how your art makes other people feel."
Of course, this rhetoric is tested rigorously when an artist's chosen medium is film. Putting your memories and commentary up on a screen, people see it as a mirror. The only way to move forward is without personal judgment.
In September, the Oslo Writers' League (OWL) launched its third annual anthology, These Twisted Roots. Our whole crew gathered in one of the beautiful halls at Deichmanns Biblioteket, the main library in town, and lots and lots of people showed up to support us! (Turns out offering beer and wine for sale in a gorgeous library really brings in the crowds.) Authors read. A choir sang (Dagsangerne på Sagene). We auctioned off the work of our resident illustrator, Evelinn Enoksen. And all proceeds from the sale of the book and the auction--roughly 17,000 kroner on the night--were donated to Redd Barna, Save the Children - Norway, and its work aiding Syrian refugees.
What a night! It's taken me six whole months to get over the excitement. Okay, okay. It's taken me six months to get my act together and post a blog about it. I'm writing this now with one eye on my busy, busy, busy nine-month-old daughter. She's everywhere, and she takes my brain with her for the ride.
Anyway, I'm proud and happy to say that "Invisibility," which is possibly the best short story I've every written, is one of the fine works available in These Twisted Roots. You can buy your copy today via Amazon, soft cover or Kindle, or via The Book Depository, which offers free international shipping.
A couple of photos from the night:
TOP: Deichmanns Biblioteket on the big night; MIDDLE: Me with my partners in crime and hilarity, the inimitable Zoë Harris and the incomparable Chelsea Ranger; BOTTOM: All the OWL authors and poets who could be present to celebrate. Such a great group!
If you're a writer in Oslo, you're welcome to join us. The Oslo Writers' League meets monthly in the basement of Deichmanns Biblioteket; but you can also join our Facebook group and lurk for a while until you're ready to take the next big step. We're already prepping for our 2016 anthology. Hope to see you there!
Book Launch: All the Ways Home (2014)
Book Launch: North of the Sun, South of the Moon (2013)
It takes guts to say, I am an artist.
I read to my daughter: I am an artist and I paint a blue horse and... a red crocodile and... a yellow cow and... a pink rabbit...
Jonathan juggles to distract her while I clip her nails. How did they get so long so fast? Her fine motor skills are developing quickly. I have the pinch marks on my throat to prove it.
Then I sit in class and sip my coffee. The coffee is new. It makes me shiver with energy, at least for a while.
We are reading Joyce. Easy Joyce. Dubliners. When the teacher asks if anyone has read Ulysses, no hands go up. I volunteer, "I've tried and failed to read Ulysses," which gets a laugh and murmurs of agreement from the class.
I think of Ireland. We visited two years ago and traveled from Dublin to Killarney by train. I wrote and enjoyed both the flicker of emerald fields through the windows and my own reflection in the glass. It was a simpler, vainer time. There was a stop called Mallow. I ate butterscotch ice cream. We tramped the Dunloe Gap.
Back to Joyce. "Araby." I wonder what a rusted bicycle pump is doing in the Garden of Eden.
There are people who are compelled to write what they see, what they know, what they think, even if it isn't popular. Even if it is ridiculed. Even if it earns no money. Glimmers are all they need.
I listen to a podcast. The host says she has decided not to use the word "should" anymore. There is no need to obligate herself to the whims of life. When she does that, she saps her energy and emotional health, leaving only a depleted version of herself for her husband, daughter, friends. The people who ought to receive the best of what she can offer.
Ticket controllers move through the tram car. This happens frequently now. A change since we moved to Oslo five years ago. The boy across from me shrugs and gestures to his dead iPhone. He can't pull up his ticket. He waits for the control officer to give him a receipt for his fine. Instead, the officer reaches into his pocket and presents a portable iPhone charger, a small purple cylinder, and the boy is able to show his ticket. I can feel his relief.
A bitter wind fights the static electricity for control over my unwashed hair. The next bus is eight minutes away. I stomp my feet to warm them.
When I'm acting in my role as mother, I am keenly aware that I'm not reading enough, that I'm falling behind on my schoolwork, that my writing life is disintegrating in my absence. When I'm acting in my role as student, I am painfully aware that I am not holding my daughter in my arms, teaching her, protecting her, enjoying her. When I'm writing, which is almost never, I know I'm neglecting my home, as well as the work I would get paid to do. I am divided against myself.
I felt my mind shudder. Like a disused door pulled unexpectedly over warped floorboards and open for the first time in many dusty years. Like a cold engine under the rusted hood of a car long parked in the drive. Like the thick, taut, chestnut skin over the hock of a horse bitten by the first nasty fly of summer. Like the empty shake of the faucet head after the pipes thaw and water surges forth again.
It happened in my 19th Century American Literature class at the University of Oslo.
Some might think 8:00 a.m. on a Wednesday is a bit early for Walt Whitman's famous ego-trip (or transcendental treatise) "Song of Myself". Not I. It's one of my favourite poems. Fourteen hundred-odd lines. Alliteration and assonance and anaphora abound. Catalogues of people and jobs and points of origin. Hot, sweating, teeming, odorous imagery. Free verse. God and god and you and I and democracy and sex and the procreant nature of our species and a lens on the world that zooms in and out and violently, reverently in again.
Being back in the program after a year of maternity leave has not all been easy. Leaving the Cheeks with her dad three days a week took some adjustment. And though I managed to step into the classroom setting in the same old way--taking a seat near the front, speaking soon and loudly and often--I felt rusty, to use a seriously predictable cliché. I still feel that way in Week 3.
But as we delved into Whitman's "Song", zeroing in on one of my favourite sections, the dust seemed to shake itself out of the crevices of my brain.
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
My teacher chose me to read these lines aloud. Lines I love dearly and have thought about a thousand times since I first read them as an undergrad more than a decade ago. Lines I'd forgotten, along with all other literary references and artistic trivia, due to my pregnancy and the birth of my daughter.
Ammetåke, the Norwegians call it. Breastfeeding fog.
Reading again of grass and the many things it could be--for Whitman, for you, for me--I felt my mind shudder. Like the sulphurous snagging of the head of a match dragged fast across the rough panel of a matchbox. The rasp of it was delicious even in its unsparking first effort. I could smell the potential.
I offered my close reading of the text and enjoyed the viewpoints of my classmates. When the two-hour lecture ended, I sighed with pleasure and exertion and packed my bag in a hurry so as to return home for a couple of hours and see my husband and daughter. That's how fast my mind can regress into those lower gears. It's a relief. A retreat.
But suddenly a girl who sits near me in class was standing before me. Her eyes were wide and bright, her smile the same, as she asked, "Do you teach?"
I struggled to pull myself back into student mode. My mind shuddered. Like a stick shift pushing against a sluggish clutch.
"I have taught," I answered carefully. "But only writing."
She nodded. I recognised in her all the things I was in the years before I became a mother: enchanted by literature, smitten by learning, eager and interested and dying to be the one who has the answers if only to keep these conversations going with any kindred spirit wiling to join the fun. And then I heard myself say:
"Actually, that's why I'm here. I want to teach literature someday, and this degree will allow me to do that."
Would you believe, friend, that my time in the rabbit hole of early motherhood had made me forget that? I'm in school for a reason. There is a goal. A return to an original dream. To teach. To connect Whitman and his everyman, all-consuming love, pondering of the divine skin-to-skin with people who have never read him before.
That goal feels far away. Impossible, to be honest, particularly with my mind in this shuddering state.
"You would be a wonderful teacher," she said.
This time, beyond the shudder, there came a spark.
We barely remember what life was like without her. Until we do. And then we wish for the old ease. Time, energy, money, the ability to focus on and tend to one another. But then we hear her wake from a nap, and we both want to be the one to collect the grinning, nine-month-old babe from her crib.
I was asked if it's been worth it. This monumental change. This tectonic shift. The trials and tribulations of trying to change something that wasn't in need of changing by being crazy enough or foolish enough to stuff something else bigger and shaped differently inside of it. Was it worth it? The way no single thought will remain solidly in my mind; like undercooked spaghetti hurled at the wall, everything just bounces and flops disappointingly onto the kitchen tile.
The truth:
She is worth it because she is here and full of exuberant, inspiring promise. And because there's just nothing else you can say about having a child once she's no longer a luxurious and naïve hypothetical.
She is worth it because she overwhelms us with joy at odd and surprisingly frequent moments. And because she looks exactly like both of us at the same time, even though that doesn't seem like it should be possible.
I don't know that I'll ever forget those first dark, chaotic weeks of her infancy, but maybe I will. I'm still not myself. Often I feel like I've ransomed my intellect and my emotional well-being just to have her.
Worth it. Absolutely.
Or at least that's what I'll say without thinking about it too hard. After all, anything less than reckless and total commitment to the cause of motherhood will get you branded as some very unfortunate things in this world.
And besides, I love to sing to her--Red River Valley tonight at bedtime--and I love to kiss her toes, and read her books, and brush her hair. I drop down on all fours in our dirty hallway to coax her forward in the rolling walker. I burn my fingers as I skin hot sweet potatoes to puree and I wipe her running nose again and again. The indiscriminate ma-ma-ma sounds she makes send my heart scampering in my chest, because soon she could say it to me and mean me all at the same time.
Won't that be something? Her Eve moment. Naming the things that walk, crawl, swim, and fly in her garden.
This is motherhood. Parenthood, actually, as Jonathan is now on papaperm three days a week.
We've put the ball in the air and we're moving downfield. Tomorrow we get the keys to our new home. It's all so adult, I can hardly stand it. And though we're exhausted, and though we sometimes question who we are, and though my self-esteem has been hobbled, and though our bathroom often smells like dirty diapers, we wouldn't trade that little girl away.
She tried to pinch a freckle right off my soft, fleshy forearm today--thinking it was just another small thing to be inspected and picked up--and I laughed through the smarting tears in my eyes, because that girl is the most precious, perfect little being in the universe. And we get to keep her for a while. Guide her, guard her. It's a privilege.
You couldn't pay me to have another, I don't think. (And Norway would!) But this little one, this Cheeks McGee, this Little P, this dancing baby... oh, we thank everything from God to our lucky stars for letting us be the ones who have her.
Perhaps, one day, my brain will unfracture; perhaps my hands will refind their places on the steering wheel of sanity. Until then, I'll be taking photos and videos of my giggling, squeaking, precocious girl child and hoping she'll look back on her life with us one day and decide it was all also worth it.
The husband and wife who stormed a work party and murdered 14 people in San Bernadino yesterday left behind 6,100 rounds of ammunition, dozens of unexploded bombs, and a six-month-old daughter. A six-month-old daughter. A six-month-old daughter.
Just when I didn't think these acts of terror could be any less explicable, a mother leaves her six-month-old daughter to follow her husband on an errand of murder and suicide.
A six-month-old daughter. A six-month-old daughter.
My daughter just turned seven months. She is a delight. Her eyes are incredibly blue. Her cheeks are as soft as whipped cream. She is strong, dexterous, curious, patient, determined. Her innocence abounds. The only way I could abandon her on the way to commit an act of violence would be to do it on her behalf. To throw myself in front of her. A mama bear. Walking through fire because it's the only way to secure her safety.
Maybe that's what this woman believed she was doing as she worked in her garage, fitting together the parts of a makeshift bomb. Or as she knelt to pray. Over and over again.
I feel ill at the thought of this woman, because new motherhood binds us. I don't want to be anything like her, but we are alike, simply because having a new baby requires a level of base, primal, survivalist thinking that is unique. I know how many diapers this woman has changed. I know how long she has stood on aching feet, holding a warm, wiggling, wailing bundle. I know she has sung lullabies and blown tummy raspberries and counted piggy toes and played peek-a-boo endlessly. And I can't sync any of those rituals--rooted as they are in tending to the future--with someone who sought violence on any level.
Then again, mothers are sometimes soldiers.
"Tell me this isn't the worst the world has ever been."
Yesterday, after the Hazelnut had been tucked into bed, I sat beside Jonathan and pleaded with him to help me sort these things through. The honey-sweet smell of our baby girl's freshly shampooed hair still clung to my nightshirt. "Tell me that we haven't brought her into the scariest time in history."
It took a few minutes of discussion before we agreed.
No. The world has always appeared to be on the verge of absolute disintegration. World Wars and Cold Wars. Epidemics and pandemics and plagues. Holocaust and genocide. Religious fanatics and witch burnings. Mankind has been attempting to annihilate itself for centuries. The rise of mass shootings in the United States and the rise of ISIS in the Middle East are only the latest in a long, sad, predictable string of avoidable catastrophes, and have replaced things beaten back by the better elements of our society (e.g. HIV/AIDS and other diseases, destruction of the world's rainforests).
This didn't cheer me up.
Since the November attacks in Paris, I've been sitting under an especially dark cloud. I still go out almost every day. I dutifully dress my baby girl in layers of wool and fleece, buckle her into her pram, pull a beanie low about my ears, and walk out the door. I remember where I was on 9/11, and I know that hiding at home and changing my personal prerogatives means the terrorists win. So, we go out.
Sleet melts in the gutters, and I move the way the Norwegians do on the colder days, leaned forward to avoid slipping on black ice between the painted white stripes in the crosswalk. The tree branches are bare and dripping with moisture in the perpetual shade of late-autumn this far north. Until recently, I have always felt safe in Oslo. Even after a Norwegian Christian man set off a bomb in front of the Labor Party's buildings downtown, then massacred almost 70 children on an island in the fjord, I have felt safe. But I'm losing my grip on that feeling.
A pair of cafés. A concert hall. A soccer stadium.
A work party.
A Planned Parenthood office.
A campground.
A shopping mall. A movie theater. An elementary school.
Today, Oslo's police force is armed. When we moved here, beat cops didn't carry guns, but that changed as terror threats against European cities began to rise. The government almost disarmed the police again recently, just days before Paris. Now I doubt my daughter will ever see the peaceful, optimistic city we once moved to. Rather, she'll grow up believing that all law enforcement officers must carry weapons because criminals are likewise armed, and she requires that level of protection.
Perhaps she'll be right, too, which is more depressing.
Good god, what do I tell her.
And who am I addressing when I say things like Good god?
Every time I see a news story like this one, I hear Lieutenant Dan's voice in my head. Where the hell is this God of yours? he asks Forrest, a man of childlike faith. Indeed. Where the hell is this god of mine?
Politicians slink around and pay lip service and cower before the dismal and confounding fact of the NRA's power. Some of these politicians even claim to pray for an answer to tens of thousands of gun deaths. More than 330 mass shootings in 2015 alone. The Daily News ruffled some feathers today by declaring on its front page that God Isn't Fixing This. Which is true. It's not fixed. Some people think He can't, because He doesn't exist. Some think He won't, because He does exist, but He isn't involved in our everyday lives. Some think He can and will, and so they keep on praying. And some don't think about it at all, but toss out the sinfully easy hashtag with their morning coffee-and-status-update, as though that counts for something.
I did that after Paris, too.
Dear Husband & Father of Our Child,
Thank you for stopping by the grocery store on this cold, drizzly morning to pick up bread and milk. Our cupboards need refilling so much more frequently these days, and the kid isn't even eating solid foods yet!
And thank you for swinging by Crepes d'Elen for a pain au chocolat, as well. It was a lovely treat to have awaiting me after I failed to put our daughter down for her morning nap. Again. After having been cried and screamed at for almost twenty minutes in the dark.
Drinking a cup of hot tea and eating a French pastry allowed me to hold it together a bit longer. Meanwhile, you played on the bed with our daughter, distracting her from her fatigue, making her smile. You know, by juggling or making hand-fart noises. Whatever works.
Isn't that smile beautiful? And isn't it a rare kind of privilege to be one of the two people on earth who know exactly what to do to coax it from her?
I love watching her draw a tiny, pink palm across your face, perplexed a bit by the texture of your stubble. This is Daddy, she is thinking.
Daddy. The guy who woke and sat up in bed beside me last night at 3am as the kid cried herself into an unprecedented frenzy. This, after I'd fed and changed and burped her. We were all up for more than an hour for the first time in months. Your hand on my back as I sat on the edge of the bed, sighing heavily at the thought of returning to her room again--oh, again--made the whole thing infinitely more bearable. Your level of calm maintained my level of calm. You refusing to blame me for any of these tough moments makes it easier for me not to blame myself.
Well, no. I still blame myself for every failure--major or minor--but I don't have the added pressure of your blame. And I can turn to you in those dark moments of self-flagellation and hear you say, No, she's not still awake because you're doing something wrong. She's still awake because she's a baby. She's 25% the product of what we do and 75% random banana. (Which, by the way, is my favorite thing you've ever said to me. Ever. When she goes bananas, I always think of this. It saves me. It save us all.)
In one of the least explicable parts of early motherhood, I find that, after battling to get her down for yet another nap, and finally finding some peace and alone time, I spend some measurable amount of that priceless time flipping through photos and videos of the kid sleeping in the next room. As if I miss her. Which is true. This shocks me. It's like the way I miss her when I manage to get away for a quick, afternoon run--the way an astronaut's body must miss gravity while in space. I run in a loop, and I find myself picking up the pace to get back to her, even though my bondage to her was what I was running gratefully away from in the first place.
These days, the Hazelnut is more alert than ever. She bounces and wiggles when she wakes up and sees me. Being awake is her joy. As I hoist her from the crib and press my lips to her cheek, I am simultaneously overcome by two thoughts:
Look how marvelously big and healthy she is, and
Where is the the little newborn she was just yesterday?
There's so much I won't miss about those first weeks. For example, how in the dark I was about why she was upset and how I might stop it. Attempting to problem-solve through the air-raid level of her wailing.
Actually, come to think of it, that's it. That's all I won't miss. I mean, I wouldn't want to go through the physical discomfort of labor or breaking in my breasts for nursing again, either, but other than that, it wasn't so dreadful. What I do miss is the general tininess of her. The crumpled, curled-up look of her. The dark eyes meeting the light in the room as if for the first time each day.
She is always making new sounds. The latest is a high-pitched peal that seems half sigh, half screech. She explores the bounds of her mouth with itself, sucking at nothing and pushing her tongue in behind her upper lip so that she looks like a little monkey. Every part of her seems to be moving unless she's asleep or leaning that way. I'm exhausted and I yearn for her to nap long and deep and without needing me.
Then, the second this happens, I begin watching videos captured after her last bottle of the day before--huge smiles and prolonged, happy noises--or of her twisting on the activity mat in a bid to roll over. Or, many weeks ago, swaddled and gazing uncomprehendingly into the camera's lens uttering the faintest, least intentional, most darling series of little coos. What a thrill that was, and how far we've both come since then. My heart cracks at this thought.
There's no going back. There's no again. From here on out, there is only new and different and forward and bigger and louder and more complex and more sophisticated.
That crack in my heart mends quickly under the balm of hope for the future--hopefulness being a byproduct of the mere presence of such unabashed and vital youth in our home every day--but there remains a scar. A hairline of glistening, slightly stretched skin. It joins the rest of the little splinter-sized heart scars: one for the first night we moved her out of our room; one for the first time Jonathan fed her with a bottle, and my breasts went disused; one for the first onesie she outgrew; the swaddle we discarded; the first time she seemed to recognize her name; the first time she looked for me when placed in the arms of a stranger. All these good milestones I prayed to come to pass. They hurt. And they are what make me want to run into her room and pull her close and breathe her in just the way she is now. Bottle the moment. Never let her go.


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subset: commoncrawl


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Jet Jeans
Khloe Kardashian in JET Skinny Patch Jeans
Khloe Kardashian got snapped by the photographers while bowling at The Robin Hood Project Celebrity Bowling event at Pinz Bowling Alley in Los Angeles, California. I'm sure the last time I went bowling I had to wear correct shoes!
Khloe wore a pair of JET Skinny Patch Jeans with some Louboutin Pigalle heels and a simple black top for the evening. I think these jeans fit her really well actually, JET always seem to suit her figure, as does Rag & Bone. I don't think she looks bad in any skinny jeans she wears from these two brands! Buy JET online by clicking here.
Images courtesy of Winston Burris/WENN.com.
Kendall Jenner in JET Ripped Skinny Jeans
Kendall and Kylie Jenner were seen leaving Barneys New York after going shopping in Los Angeles, California a couple of days ago.
Kendall loves denim, so she wore a pair of ripped and distressed skinny JET Jeans for the day. We don't get that many sightings of JET anymore, I remember when they used to be seen every week on numerous celebs. How many of you still love yours? You can buy JET Jeans online at Singer22.com.
Images courtesy of INFdaily.com.
Carmen Electra in JET Skinny Jeans
Carmen Electra was seen doing some shopping at the Westfield Mall in Los Angeles, California over the weekend. We don't often get to feature her on DenimBlog, so it's great she's wearing denim!
Carmen wore a pair of JET Skinny Jeans with Ripped Knees, which she paired with a leather biker jacket, Giuseppe Zanotti sneakers and a studded bag. I feel like the jacket is too bulky for this outfit, so I would prefer it without, however if Carmen chose a v-neck tee instead of the roll neck, I think it would have looked better too! You can buy JET Jeans online at Singer22.com.
Images courtesy of RCF/INFdaily.com.
Khloe Kardashian in JET Vintage Slim Leg Jeans
Khloe Kardashian was spotted arriving into Sydney, Australia to promote her clothing line. The TV personality wore a pair of JET Vintage Slim Leg Jeans with a Rails plaid shirt and some red Celine sandals.
I am usually not a fan of matching the colors of the shirt with the shoes, but being that they are 'barely there' sandals, I think it works here. The cuff of the jeans also helps give the look a more relaxed vibe and takes away from the redundancy of the color. You can click here to purchase these jeans from the JET website.


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Famous Birthdays
Irish actor who is known for playing the title role in the BBC series Merlin. He has also performed in several stage performances.
Colin Morgan Popularity
Colin Morgan Popularity
# 3496
Most Popular Person
# 2
Born on January 1
# 7
Born in Northern Ireland
# 5
Person Named Colin
# 12
30 Year Old Actor
# 4
Actor From Northern Ireland
# 30
Capricorn Actor
Colin Morgan Fans Also Viewed
Sean Penn
Movie Actor
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TV Actor
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TV Actress
Colin Morgan Is A Member Of
Merlin Cast
TV Actors
Born in Northern Ireland
Famous Colins
More January 1 Birthdays
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More Capricorns
Rankings are based on boosts and other user activity.


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Clarion Hotel Portland, Portland
- Free WiFi and free parking
Main amenities
- 149 smoke-free guestrooms
- Restaurant and bar/lounge
- Indoor pool
- Breakfast available
- Free airport shuttle
- Fitness center
- Business center
- 24-hour front desk
- Coffee/tea in a common area
- Air conditioning
- Daily housekeeping
- Computer station
What's around
- University of Southern Maine (1.3 mi / 2 km)
- Portland Museum of Art (1.5 mi / 2.4 km)
- Children's Museum of Maine (1.5 mi / 2.4 km)
- Wadsworth-Longfellow House (1.6 mi / 2.6 km)
- Victoria Mansion (1.6 mi / 2.6 km)
Clarion Hotel Portland, Portland
Hotel Info: 0800-886-061 (New Zealand Toll Free)from NZ$226
- Standard Double Room, 2 Double Beds
- Business Double Room, 2 Double Beds
- Double Room, 2 Double Beds, Poolside
- Standard Room, 1 King Bed
- Business Room, 1 King Bed
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At a glance
Key facts
Hotel size
- This hotel has 149 rooms
- This hotel is arranged over 6 floors
- Check-in time 3 PM-2 AM
- Check-out time is Noon
Required at check in
- Credit card or cash deposit required
- Government-issued photo ID required
Travelling with others
- Children (18 years old and younger) stay free when occupying the parent or guardian's room, using existing bedding
- Pets stay free
- Restrictions apply *
- 1 per room (up to 50 lb)
- Free WiFi in public areas
- Free WiFi in rooms
- Free airport shuttle at scheduled times
- Free self parking
- RV/bus/truck parking
Other information
- Smoke-free property
Nearby Three Star Portland hotels
In the hotel
- Buffet breakfast daily (surcharge)
- Restaurant
- Bar/lounge
- Room service
- Coffee/tea in a common area
- Indoor pool
- Fitness facilities
- Spa tub
- Business center
- Number of meeting rooms - 6
- Conference space
- Conference space size (feet) - 5540
- Conference space size (meters) - 515
- Computer station
- 24-hour front desk
- Dry cleaning/laundry service
- Laundry facilities
- Free newspapers in lobby
- Multilingual staff
- Porter/bellhop
- Elevator/lift
- Safe-deposit box at front desk
- In-room accessibility
In the room
- In-room climate control (air conditioning)
- Air conditioning
- Coffee/tea maker
- Iron/ironing board
- Pillowtop mattress
- Free toiletries
- Hair dryer
- Pay movies
- Cable TV channels
- Video-game console
- Desk
- Free weekday newspaper
- Free WiFi
- Free local calls
- Daily housekeeping
Top Portland hotels
Nearby hotels
Special features
DiningPete and Larry - This restaurant serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Clarion Hotel Portland, Portland's small print
Also known as
- Clarion Hotel Portland
- Clarion Portland
- Portland Clarion Hotel
- Clarion Hotel Portland, Maine
- Portland Clarion
Pet-friendly rooms can be requested by contacting the property at the number on the booking confirmation.
Optional extras
Rollaway beds are available for USD 10.00 per night
Buffet breakfast is offered for an extra charge of USD 9.95 per person (approximately)
Cribs/Infant beds are available for an extra charge
We have included all charges provided to us by this hotel. However, charges can vary, for example, based on length of stay or the room you book.
Recent reviews
Good 3.8 /5 from 454 reviews
Our daughter was leaving Marine boot camp so I was very emotional and the staff was great! The only down fall was no complimentary breakfast.It the breakfast was a little pricey. We had to leave early in the morning and didn't get breakfast.
Good older style of hotel, close to the freeway and a short way out of town. Excellent clean & comfy bed and good room facilities. Ate in hotel dining room for both nights of our stay and found service & food very good.
Not a lot of restaurants within walking distance. But good location overall because close to highway. Hotel is close to airport. We could hear airplanes taking off.
Our stay was fine; not great. We were able to check in early, which was very much appreciated, and they picked us up via complimentary transportation from the bus station. We requested an infant crib. Front desk staff addressed the latter when we arrived; however, the young man who delivered the crib left it with me, and we had to put it together. I was a bit upset about that. Also, the staff didn't seem to be too knowledgeable about the hotel's restaurant (horrible, overpriced food to our disappointment). When I needed milk for my one year old daughter, a kind staff member retrieved some from the back. What he and the rest of the staff neglected to mention is that there was a convenience store across the street where I could have purchased milk and maybe some quick, cheap lunch since the restaurant was closed during lunch hours. Despite a slow day, the hotel looked short-staffed, so there was a longer than expected wait to get some simple questions answered. I would recommend the hotel for the price, but other than that I would rather spend more money and stay downtown in a less secluded spot and hopefully more accommodating staff for my family's needs.
Great value. Great staff. Has a full bar in the lobby. Stayed for one night on way to Bar Harbor. Would definitely stay here again.
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Star Trek Beyond
The Star Wars-ification of Star Trek continues; better than the others, but still not good enough.
The Star Wars-ification of Star Trek continues; better than the others, but still not good enough.
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Ken Loach's "I, Daniel Blake" wins the Palme d'Or at the 69th Cannes Film Festival.
Barbara Scharres on the cats of Cannes 2016.
"It's a madhouse!"
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CNN Films and Kartemquin Films receive NATAS Best Documentary Emmy nomination for Roger Ebert film "Life Itself."
A report from SDCC on an actor who has been in all three of the new "Star Trek" films. Well, sorta.
The great looming presence all through this movie is the memory of the Challenger destroying itself in a clear, blue sky. Our thoughts about the space shuttle will never be the same again, and our memories are so painful that "SpaceCamp" is doomed even before it begins.
The time is not right for a comedy thriller about a bunch of kids who are accidentially shot into orbit with their female teacher. It may never be right again.
The movie was written and filmed, of course, in the happy days before the National Aeronautics and Space Administration's image became tarnished. It even appears that the filmmakers had complete cooperation from NASA; there are shots that look as though they were taken inside a real space shuttle, and exteriors that look too real to be faked. The movie is based on an actual space camp that NASA operates for bright young kids, who are so well trained during their summer vacation (according to a line in this movie, anyway) that they actually could pilot a space shuttle.
That is exactly what they are called upon to do - but not until after an interminable first hour in which the characters are laboriously introduced and made to recite dialogue of painful predictability to each other. Wasn't there enough imagination to create even one original character for this movie? We follow the exploits of one team of campers, coached by a female astronaut (Kate Capshaw) and her ground-controller husband (Tom Skerritt). The kids in this group are not angels - in fact, during their rehearsal in a flight simulator, they goof off and screw up so badly that it's a wonder they are picked for a real treat: Sitting inside the shuttle while its booster engines are tested. (The movie actually asks us to believe that NASA would let real kids sit inside a real shuttle while real rockets are fired.) Once the kids and Capshaw have blasted into orbit (through the efforts of an annoying little robot), there is an attempt at special effects, but the movie is not state of the art and we see nothing we haven't seen many times before, and better.
There's a hoked-up emergency about the oxygen supply, needlessly confused because the reserves dwindle from 12 hours down to 59 minutes without any explanation from the screenplay. Then, of course, one of the kids has to face the supreme test of piloting the shuttle through the Earth's atmosphere without incincerating everyone. This feat involves keeping the shuttle's nose about 30 degrees, according to the screenplay, but the girl does not do that, and yet the shuttle survives. You explain it.
Would anyone like this movie? Juvenile space nuts, maybe. But they'd be too sophisticated. The premise for "SpaceCamp" is sort of promising, and this could have been a better movie. But the dialogue is dumb and the direction and editing are slow-footed, leaving the movie to linger over moments that shouldn't be there at all.
This movie is trying to kill these women, but they endure.
A Blu-ray review of "Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice (Ultimate Edition)," arriving July 19.
A compilation of reviews defending the new "Ghostbusters" film.
The new "Ghostbusters" film brings a battle between distorted nostalgia and the power of a child's imagination.


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14 Drake Landing Rg, Drake Landing, Okotoks, T1S 0C2
- 3 Beds
- 2½ Baths
- 2,293 SqFt
Okotoks, Alberta
Large Family Home Waiting For A New Family To Love It!! Spacious, Lovingly Maintained With A Great Yard For Kids To Play. Open Main Floor With 9' Ceilings. Foyer With Office At The Front, Leads Through To Large Kitchen With Granite, Easy To ...(more)


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Atiya Haynes, a high school honor student in Michigan, was recently Read More
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We are not "old Black" nor "new Black" we are ALL Black.
Vernon Reid Talks 30 Yrs of the Black Rock Coalition
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2016/2017 Season
Get ready to howl
Stay Connected with Scorpius and never miss a beat! Click below to join us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and see videos on Vimeo.
See what's coming up next!
Get ready to stretch your boundaries!
We would love to hear from you!
The Arizona Republic 2014 Critics' Pick:
Best alternative to Cirque du Soleil
With shows such as the fashion-inspired "Catwalk" and the annual "A Vampire Tale" — dubbed "the 'Nutcracker' of Halloween" — choreographer Lisa Starry's company is inspired more by MTV than Martha Graham. And it has built an enthusiastic young audience by specializing in Cirque-style aerial dance, on ribbons and the lyra hoop. It even has opened its own aerial studio to teach aspiring acrobats the fundamentals of an athletic, spectacular craft.
- Kerry Lengel, The Arizona Republic
Best Contemporary Dance Collective Phoenix 2012
Before you try a few new moves, you'll want to take some notes from the pros. And while the footwork choreographed by Lisa Starry for her Scorpius Dance Theatre might be a little much to take to the club, every step, bend, lift, and stretch performed by her dancers would be guaranteed to get you a double take — given you can pull 'em off.
- Phoenix New Times
Best Contemporary Dance Company Phoenix 2010
Most contemporary dance companies are either boring to watch or so bizarre that you practically need subtitles to interpret a performance. That's why we love Scorpius Dance Theatre, a local troupe known for mixing graceful moves and humorous interludes in a way that makes dance accessible to the average Joe.
- Phoenix New Times
Metro Arts Associate Director Lisa Starry's company, Scorpius Dance Theater, won the Dance Organization Award first-ever "Mayor's Arts Awards" at the 2012 Phoenix Festival of the Arts.
- Phoenix Mayor Greg Stanton
That includes individuals like you!


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Check Availability(734) 345-3714(877) 588-8765(734) 796-1408
- Slideshow
- Video
$740 - $900Contact for Availability
10830 Oak Lane, Belleville, MI 48111
- Lifestyles:
- Pet Friendly
Floor Plans & Pricing
Prices and availability subject to change without notice.
Move-in Specials!
Want Value? Look no further, Southport Apartments offers great prices and we pay your Heat/Water! Our application fee is $40 per person. For more information on 15 Metro Detroit locations please visit our website.
Take advantage of this fantastic offer today!
Call or click Activate Coupon
Apartment Features
- Air Conditioning
- Balcony
- Dishwasher
- Some Paid Utilities
- View
- Washer & Dryer In Unit
Special Features
- Pets
- Short Term Available
- Weight restriction: 25Call for Policy Pets Accepted
Community Features
- Clubhouse
- Covered Parking
- Extra Storage
- Garage
- Swimming Pool
- Pet Friendly
Additional Features
- Cats and small dogs allowed-Please call for policy
- Fully equipped kitchens with dishwasher
- Central air conditioning
- High-speed Internet available
- ATT U-verse
- Short-term leases available
- Private lakefront patio or balcony
- Carport available
- Cathedral ceilings available
- Pay rent online
- Storage area in every apartment
- Handicap Accessible
- Police and Firefighter discount available
Ratings & Reviews
3 Reviews for Southport
Sort by:
I don't keep track of the rental market so cannot rate value for the money. Could not see the apartment before move in. Problems with carpet not being cleaned properly. Would like gym at the clubhouse. Whoever designed the complex was brilliant!
The leasing office staff have been pleasant and nice to do business with during my time here. We have even shared a few laughs. They respond quickly to repair requests and follow up on repairs with a phone call from the leasing office. In unit washer and dryer along with free utilities (except electricity) is what convinced me to live here. The pond view from my apartment was the icing on the cake and sealed the deal for me.
I had many maintenance issues, some of which were never resolved. Others issues were not resolved in a timely fashion and went on for months without attention.
What is a Certified Resident?
A resident who lives at the property and has completed a resident satisfaction survey.
Advertising properties provide a list of email addresses of its residents to Kingsley Associates, a third party market research firm, who then sends out the satisfaction survey to the residents. Properties may also conduct satisfaction surveys of its residents through other third party market research firms. In those cases, we will publish those survey responses as long as the questions conform to our standard survey format.
Because reviews are from Certified Residents, and are managed by a third party, you can feel confident that the feedback provided is accurate and trustworthy.
General Directions
From I-94, exit north on Haggerty Road and turn left on the I-94 service drive. We're 1.1 miles down on the right.


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The Nokia Lumia 710 is our favourite Finnish firm's second smart phone running the Microsoft's Windows Phone operating system.
Much less swanky-looking than its big brother, the Lumia 800, the 710 carries a more affordable price tag, pitting it against the ZTE Tania and the HTC Radar in the lower tier of Windows Phone handsets.
The Lumia 710 is due to land in the UK next month, but some retailers are offering it on pre-order from free on £15.50 per month, two-year contracts.
We got our hands on a 710 this week, so read on to find out how it fared.
Should I buy the Nokia Lumia 710?
The Lumia 710's main features are the Windows Phone OS, its snazzy, swappable backplates and free music streaming and sat-nav apps from Nokia -- free despite the handset's mid-range pricing.
Microsoft's OS is slick and easy to use and the Lumia boasts a 1.4GHz chip so performance is impressive. If you're a big Facebook user you'll love how the phone comes alive with your mates' updates.
But the OS doesn't offer as many apps as Android or iOS, so if you're always wondering if there's an app for that, you might find Windows Phone a bit limiting. We'd suggest considering an iPhone 3GS or a mid-range Android mobile instead.
Windows Phone 7.5 OS
The Lumia 710 is powered by the latest version of Windows Phone -- 7.5, aka Mango -- rather than the age-old Symbian platform Nokia used to rely on. Nokia has added some apps to the Lumia 710, along with its very own 'Nokia blue' colour theme, but it's more Microsoft than Finland's finest running the show.
We found Microsoft's operating system responsive, slick and easy to use, with bold, colourful icons and no-nonsense symbols clearly signposting all the functions. Thankfully, it's nothing like Microsoft's previous mobile OS, Windows Mobile, not least because it's been designed from the ground up for touchscreen phones. It also looks and feels strikingly different to Android and iOS, so don't expect an iClone.
If you're new to smart phones, we reckon you'll find Windows Phone a really welcoming place, because it's so simple and straightforward to use. But on the flip side, the software lacks the geeky, tinker-friendly nature of Android and can feel somewhat rigid, because Microsoft doesn't allow any big changes to its interface.
You can tweak the theme and background colours and create, delete and rearrange tiles on the home screen. But if you like to really customise the experience with widgets, as you can on Android, you might find Windows Phone a touch sterile.
The Lumia 710 runs the Mango version of Windows Phone. Among Mango's additions is multi-tasking, meaning you can listen to music in the background while browsing or composing an email. To switch between apps you hold down the back button, which brings up a deck of screenshots of your recent activity, then you swipe through and tap on the app or function you want to return to.
Throughout the OS are options to share stuff or interact with social networks. So if you're a big Facebooker, you'll love how it's baked into the phone.
After hooking up our Facebook account we did notice the Lumia's What's New feed wasn't always as up-to-date as the full-fat Facebook news feed, as viewed via Facebook.com. Don't expect to always be eyeballing the freshest data or even viewing all there is to see going on in your social circles through Windows Phone's lens.
For a better Facebook experience, there is also a Windows Phone Facebook app, which can be downloaded from the Windows Marketplace. We found this app generally to be more up-to-date than the Lumia feeds. Prolific Facebookers are likely to prefer it over the People hub.
Microsoft organises content in Windows Phone around a series of hubs. We like the convenience of hubs, but can't help but feel a big part of their function is to act as ballast, bolstering the OS in an area where it lags behind other smart phone operating systems -- apps.
From the home screen, tap on a hub Live Tile and, if you've correctly hooked up your Windows Phone to all your social feeds, you'll find yourself in familiar surroundings, high-fiving your email contacts, and poking your Facebook buddies. Think of Windows Phone as a house you've just moved all your stuff into -- the more you settle in, the more it feels like home.
The People hub is a social repository that collates info from your Facebook friends, email contacts, Twitter account and so on, depending on what you choose to connect (Windows Phone also supports LinkedIn, Yahoo Mail, Outlook and more). Swiping left and right within the hub segues through different slices of your data -- such as only the latest updates or a comprehensive list of all your contacts in one gigantic alphabetical mash-up, regardless of the medium through which you talk to them.
We like how hubs make getting to swathes of content straightforward, packaging related info into handy buckets where you can quickly dive in. The Pictures hub, for example, lets you browse photos you've taken with the phone's camera and also view a feed of snaps you or your mates have posted to Facebook. There are some great touches -- we especially like the date view with the Pictures hub. It displays all the snaps you've taken with the phone for each month, like a photo diary.
There's a Music + Videos hub for multimedia content; an Office hub, where Microsoft's productivity apps live, including OneNote for note-taking and Word for word processing; and an Xbox Live games hub where your games and Xbox Live avatar hang out. Apps that don't obviously fit into any of these buckets land on a secondary screen, where every app and phone function is stacked alphabetically in a long vertical list, making it easy to flick down and quickly locate a specific app.
If you want to access the full range of services offered by the Lumia you'll need a Windows Live ID. This is in addition to signing in with your Facebook, Twitter and email, so prepare for a spot of registration fatigue during setup.
For example, a Windows Live ID is needed to link your phone with Microsoft's Xbox Live gaming system. This is in order for it to display and track your Xbox Live gaming achievements and avatar, and to use SkyDrive, Microsoft's cloud storage system. You also need a Windows Live account for syncing with Twitter, because the OS asks you to link your Twitter account with your Windows Live account.
Microsoft has sweated buckets recruiting developers to Windows Phone and recently gave a shout out to the platform's 60,000th app. Lots of app basics are here -- from Spotify to YouTube and the ubiquitous Angry Birds. But there are still notable app gaps, including no iPlayer or Instagram.
There is also a fair amount of overlap with both Microsoft and Nokia bringing their 'assets' to the handset -- so you get Bing Maps and Nokia Maps, for instance. The Music + Videos hub taps up Microsoft's Zune music marketplace, but the Nokia Music app hooks into Nokia's MP3 store. Having two ways of getting the same stuff is confusing, but it does mean you can choose your favourite. Nokia Maps has the edge over Bing Maps, thanks to the helpful addition of public transport routes.
For sheer quantity, Windows Phone can't match up to the might of Apple's iOS -- which is rapidly heading for 600,000 apps -- or Android Market's 400,000-plus. One feature of Windows Marketplace we do like though is the ability to try before you buy. Shelling out £3 for an app that laughs in your face before crashing your phone gets old very quickly.
Nokia Music and Nokia Drive
Nokia makes its own small but significant software splash on the Lumia 710 via the Nokia Maps, Nokia Mix Radio and Nokia Drive apps. The Mix Radio app not only offers free music streaming with access to some 15 million tracks, without the need to subscribe or even register, it also supports offline listening of up to 14 hours of downloaded music. Be warned though, if you're steaming music you can only skip seven tracks within a 24-hour period.
There's no sign-up or even registration needed to use Mix Radio -- you simply fire up the app, select a music genre or radio station and start listening. An impressive spectrum of tastes are catered for -- from mainstream genres such as indie/alternative, R 'n' B and dance to more nuanced offerings like 'Leather jacket rock' and 'Dubstep roots', plus stations built around 'New releases' or 'Best of 2011'.
Another impressive freebie is Nokia's sat-nav app, which brings turn-by-turn navigation to Lumia 710 users. To get started you need to download and install country-specific maps over Wi-Fi. Downloading and installing the UK maps took us less than 10 minutes. There are more than 100 international maps within the app that can also be preloaded -- a great way to avoid data roaming charges when you need to drive abroad.
The Lumia gets access to Microsoft's SkyDrive cloud storage service, with 25GB of free space for each user to deposit photos and documents. This is five times more than Apple's iCloud storage system, but Apple says it doesn't include purchased music, apps, books, TV shows or photo stream data against this limit.
Content saved on SkyDrive can be synced and accessed via other devices. If you want to use your phone to get a spot of work done, this feature should come in handy. There's also an option to automatically upload the phone's camera roll to SkyDrive, so your photos are backed up on the fly. You can also sync the notes you make in the OneNote app.
Bear in mind there's no expandable memory on the Lumia 710, and only 8GB of space on-board, so cloud storage could be more of a 'must have' than a 'nice to have' if you cram lots of media on to your phone.


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