Mold-a-Rama Rama

I'm Ape For You!

2010-03-20T09:29:00.000-05:00

I've recently realized that this fine coffee mug from the Milwaukee County Zoo has a chimp and an orangutan hugging each other like best buddies. This mug also says "I'm Ape for You" in big letters on the side. In real life these guys would tear each other apart. Seriously.

I will potentially write something of substance soon. I just thought this new mug discovery was funny. It's cute anyway, and maybe we could learn something from these little fake illustrated apes. Or just drink coffee out of them.

Barnacles

2010-03-03T11:32:00.008-06:00

I had to snag this photo from à la garconnière.

All the things I own I will share with you

If I feel tomorrow like I feel today

We'll take what we want and give the rest away

I've spent a lot of time, in life and in this blog, waxing "boo-hoo." I'll admit it. Some of it has been a necessary catharsis, and some of it has been self-indulgent whining. Nobody is perfect, and I shall refrain from casting stones from my glass house.

At the moment I'm feeling pretty content. Urges to keep one foot (or the entire left side of my body...) out the door have waned, and I'm feeling like there's a person who might actually "get" me. Scary, right? It's hard to find someone who knows exactly what you're talking about when you confess that you made something up at your first confession because you got stressed out about not wanting to go down in flames in front of the priest, your family, and the entire parish. That's a special bond right there. P.S. I was 10 at the time. Talk about neurotic.

The interesting part is, that behind the puppy love and the smooches which annoy anyone and everyone in a 2 mile radius, there's a shared financial/employment struggle that could very easily be a disaster. Money or lack thereof always seems to derail everything. While our empty wallets are very much a roadblock to many things, for example a long dreamed of trip to Mexico, it's not a relationship roadblock. I'm not resentful and I want to share the little bit that I do have. I want us to be a team, each of us be on the other's side. Refreshingly, I feel like we are that.

Of course it's fun to have someone to go to the movies with, yell Simpsons quotes at, go on sweet little dates with, but sometimes it's actually more satisfying to have someone to lean on when it's going all wrong.

Sisterhood

2010-01-22T14:46:00.008-06:00

What is Blog for Choice Day?

Each year, NARAL Pro-Choice America poses a question to pro-choice bloggers before the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, and then asks them to blog their answer on January 22.

This Year's Topic

In honor of Dr. George Tiller, who often wore a button that simply read, "Trust Women," this year's Blog for Choice question is:

What does Trust Women mean to you?

As most of you know, I'd classify myself as a woman's woman. I like to wear pretty dresses, and have dinner parties. It's not a crime, people. I also know how to use power tools. I have a hard time with women who claim that they don't get along with other women, and yet it seems that they're everywhere, claiming that other women are "catty," "bitchy," or don't "get" them.

Every day, in high school hallways, or, I'm sorry to say, in more adult scenarios like a bar or on the bus, it's hard not to hear women calling other women bitches and sluts, putting other women down because of their weight, or smugly analyzing some starlet or high school classmate's "poor" life choices. It's shameful, but I won't lie, I've definitely been guilty of this at one point or another. This is partially a call to myself to stop setting myself and my sisters back.

Worse than this is the way many of us, myself included, treat ourselves. Just this morning, I sat around my bathroom pulling at my blouse, sweating, tearing my hair because I just felt undeniably fat.

It's time to start trusting ourselves and trusting our fellow women. This means respecting ourselves and each other. Band together. Cut the bullshit.

In 1981, Regina Polk spoke to a Teamsters' stewards seminar about reminding union members that every right, every wage increase, and every benefit is something that is fought for and earned. As a fighter for workers' rights, especially women's rights, Polk's words are as relevant here. Row v. Wade isn't something that was just given to anyone, it was something that activists had to struggle to take. It's something that a lot of women's (and men's) hard work, struggle, blood, sweat, tears, and sometimes defeat went into.

Apparently in this country, we have to struggle to keep our hard earned victories. Earning them is not simply enough, and let's be serious, it takes a lot of people's collective hard work to fight. Instead of being jealous of one another, or thinking of ways to cut each other down, as women, let's trust each other. Let's try to hold each other up.

Solidarity, sisters.

P.S. Regina Polk's wardrobe would put mine to shame, and she was still a Teamster badass, so we can really be anything we want to be, with each other's support.

I found out about this thanks to Paige Worthy's blog. Thanks, Paige!

A Little Bit of Resolve. A Little Bit Late.

2010-01-13T11:23:00.006-06:00

Photo by Ben

For a variety of reasons, I've been hesitant to post a requisite "New Years Resolutions!" post. This is probably because generally I find New Year's resolutions to be silly and trite, but in the interest of my ever-evolving quest for self-improvement and my insatiable lust for finding a little bit of accountability, here are some goals, some hopes for the future, some things for me to keep in mind. Maybe they'll inspire people to not just make silly resolutions for the sake of a new year, but think about improving the quality of their lives.

Commit myself to better dental hygiene. This one's a sad one, but let's face it, not all of us have been good little flossers. I found my old Timmy the Tooth timer. So far he's both mocked me, and helped me brush longer.
GET A JOB! I will not do this in an extremely self-critical way, that's just proven to be counter productive. It's hard to look at job descriptions if you're crying all the time.
Cut myself a little damn slack.
Stop being so oversensitive. This one has been a lifelong disaster, like a rollercoaster with the tracks bent out of shape. It's wrong when you're 7 and your mother has to tell you to lighten up and take a joke. I still can't take a joke. I'm working on this one.
Try to work out, without feeling like a shitty person when I don't. Self-abuse is rarely a good motivator.
Make out more.
Become disgustingly adept at vegetarian cooking. And I don't mean heating up Chick'n nuggets (though my lust for them is out of control).
Write more
Make more art
Get involved.
Don't worry. Be happy.

Par for the course... this is not a hole in one.

2010-01-13T09:01:00.002-06:00

Why is it that we always want to believe the worst about ourselves? Hear only the bad things others say about us? I'm sure there have been countless blogs, musings, diary entries, and the like, on this very subject. I'm sure one could devote an entire course of study on why people are so hard on themselves about everything from their ability to get a decent job, to their lack of skill in the kitchen (at least that one isn't me). Why is it that a perfectly lovely phone conversation, a calming "how was your day" chat, can get perfectly derailed by one flip comment? Is this a woman thing, a low self esteem thing, a person thing?

Yesterday, a friend of mine sent me a message, mental cogs grinding furiously, because she'd accidentally "liked" a Facebook post that wasn't particularly likable. Suddenly, a tiny Blackberry related error became a whirlwind of "will everyone think I'm a bitch?" Certainly technology has made it easier for misunderstandings to crop up and mushroom horribly out of control, but what is it in us, psychologically, that fuels these little fires?

I've had a few sleepless nights this week, spent obsessing about this very subject. Slips of the tongue analyzed to death. It's hard to dive into something new when you suspect that the other person always has one foot out the door. The problem is that this type of suspicion is like a familiar friend, a security blanket frayed around the edges from self-indulgent stroking. I've been down this road before, the memory whitewashed by the years, and then cropping up in a new person, a new place. I want to jump into the deep end, but something is holding one foot on the deck, just in case. Wouldn't want to get all my toes wet. Someone needs to just push me in, but unfortunately, I suspect that the only person who can do that is myself.

So my tears won't fall...

2009-12-28T23:53:00.004-06:00

Post holidays (which, this year, were everything any young lady, including myself, could dream of) all I can think of is Hyu Sakamoto's tune Sukiyakyi which is loosely translated as "I look up when I walk." I am reminded of 5th grade recesses in which my feminist, but serenely un-severe, teacher told us to ",walk with a purpose." I've been spending these many years searching for just such a purpose.

Here I am. I am ready to march forward into 2010 with a purpose.

Home and Hearth, Kith and Kin...

2009-12-16T12:13:00.003-06:00

Tell me I'm the best Christmas present you've ever gotten.
You are.

As we start to get older, the holidays tends to bring people of a certain age to discussion of home, displacement, growing up, etc. I'm starting to notice a shift in myself that has been growing, slowly, like a crack in your car windshield. The farther away you get from Christmas breaks from school and talking about going "home" for the holidays with the intense need to get away from dorm food, and as significant others or close friends fill in certain gaps in your life left by your parents, the more confused you get about where you fit during the holidays.

When my mother passed away last year, two months before Christmas, in typical fashion, my sister and I plowed forth in an attempt to scrape together some semblance of a holiday, with little room left for reflection, maybe because at the time that sort of contemplation would have shattered us like blown out Easter eggs.

In preparing for the holidays, I've thrown myself full force into the superficial trappings of Christmas, egg nog, and ornaments, and the Grinch, but as the holiday itself, and my Christmas Eve birthday, draw near, I'm starting to feel a bit blue, detached, like there's something missing. I almost said no when sister asked if I still wanted a red velvet birthday cake. I want my mom to make it. Since we've started doing holiday functions at sister's house, that connection between myself and my home feels like it's dwindling despite the fact that my father lives directly next door. My precious baby Christmas ornament lives on my sister's tree now and the angel on the Advent calendar sits on a little shelf waiting for me to put her on the tree. I can't help but miss the days spent in pajamas with cousins tearing open gifts and as we got older poring over the crappy holiday blockbuster movie listings for our ridiculous trek to the cinema after the parents decided it was bedtime.

This year a new beau asked me what I was doing on Christmas Eve, and at first I was a bit shocked. I'd never really considered an alternate activity. Nothing and nobody (including the CCD Christmas pageant) has ever been able to tear me away from the same exact birthday activity that I've acted out my entire life. It's like a slightly tastier version of the film "Groundhog Day."* Even during my horrible, "I hate my family, I only want to hang out with friends" early teen years, I would never betray birthday Christmas Eve tradition. We skipped Christmas day altogether some years, but never Christmas Eve.

I think Christmas Eve in our family is the one constant that we'll always have, and I fear the possibility of any change in programming. Even though there's a big empty spot, there's a sad comfort in eating the same soup, the same cookies, the same birthday cake and waking up to the same casserole brunch the next morning, year after year. Here's hoping that the comfort of familiarity will help me shake off some of this lost feeling.

*For the record, I hate that movie more than almost anything.

!

2009-12-14T14:24:00.002-06:00

She wrote his name in marker in all her bras and underwear...

I'm hesitant to write too much here and possibly "jinx" things. I know, I know. I really am a teen. I even have a giant zit, mocking me from just below my lower lip. My inner blabbermouth won't let this blog go un-posted in, and in order to acquiesce to its fervent demands for disclosure, I will say this: I am in big trouble.

Same Ol' Crap, Merry Christmas...

2009-12-03T16:09:00.007-06:00

Right around Halloween, and for approximately the thirty following days, I went on an endless rant against all things Christmas. Not really against Christmas, but I just couldn't fathom why these people would be putting their decorations up. I was still clinging to my fake spiderwebs and slightly sagging gourds from the pumpkin farm. Don't you dare make me give up my rubber centipede and my jiggly skeletons, not yet! I began to get extremely militant about it. And loud. Imagine that. Then suddenly, on the morning of Thanksgiving, I went on a cleaning rant, taking down all traces of All Hallows Eve, leaving nary a decoration on the wall but a few gorgeous little hand turkeys. Those are still up, I might add. Hand turkeys are decor for all seasons... all seasons in which one might want a turkey.

Then suddenly I wanted nothing but Christmas. Maybe it was the frosty, sea green ice cream trees in the freezer case at the store, or the crispness in the air, or the realization that my birthday is less than a month away (!!!), that made this little Christmas baby take it all back. I didn't mean it, Santa, really. Now I find myself wanting nothing but to bask in the radiant multicolored glow of my tree, make popcorn strings (eat popcorn strings), listen to the same Christmas mix CD over and over again, trying to figure out how one can listen to "Baby It's Cold Outside" and watch "Rudolph" at the same time. It can be done. Others will just damn you to Hell for it. I can think of little else besides candycane reindeer, and the gentle sounds of my Frosty the Snowman music box in all it's battered, dusty glory. If I could burrow into my Christmas tree with a Santa mug of eggnog, I would. Maybe I'll try later if I can sneak another mug into the house unnoticed. I'm not sure what it is inside me that snapped, but until Christmas, I'll be making tiny Santa hats for my animal friends, and watching every claymation 70s Christmas movie that the Family Channel has gifted upon me this year (and no they are not playing the Life and Adventures of Santa Claus and for that I hate them).

My best ornament ever:

Hello, Friends

2009-12-01T08:19:00.000-06:00

Thanks.

2009-11-27T19:01:00.004-06:00

I tend to put up a hard front, and keep my important cards close to the vest. Either that or I make fun of everything. That said, I really am thankful for all of the people in my life that I consider to be family, blood relative or not. Life is a lot easier when you know there are so many people just waiting to hold you up.

Gobble, Gobble...

2009-11-25T12:16:00.003-06:00

Time to take a break from the self-indulgent boo-hooing that I've been doing on here of late. Hopefully a long break. What can I say, the occasional late-night glass of wine tends to pave the way for the occasional late-night posting of whiny blogs. Also, I'm a whiner. Obviously. At least I'll put that card right out on the table. Instead of the clichéd whiny girl rant, I shall post a clichéd list of things which I'm thankful for this year. That's how I roll, my friends.

A pretty rocking family, including the most adorable baby in all the land. I dare your baby to compete with her. That baby will lose.
Friends willing to not only put up with, but encourage the kind of behavior that makes most people want to either roll their eyes, laugh in my face, or slap me upside the head. The kind of friends who concur with the brilliant plan to do a Photobooth photo shoot of baby dolls in a bar are better than gold.
The ability to recognize my own whining at face value and laugh at it.
Dinosaurs
Hand turkeys
Things made from and flavored like pumpkins
Sister
The ability to find a picture of a pin-up girl dressed as a pilgrim, holding a turkey who is making the oddest face to ever grace a fowl's head.
Uncle Fun

We had a promise paid, we were in love...

2009-11-24T01:34:00.005-06:00

The day we went to that concert, a homeless, drunk man harassed me outside my apartment for the first, but not the last time and I'd never felt so violated, and yet I felt that you didn't care much. At least not as much as you should have. It was a gift for your birthday, those tickets. José, a special pact between the two of us. You never knew that I'd hoped to play those songs at our wedding, but I know that it wouldn't surprise you. You always pretended that nothing I said could surprise you. What would have surprised you is that my feelings about that had been stripped away like the peel of an onion. José would have once brought me to tears, but I can see the beauty in his music again, without you.

A friend discussed the idea that a mate is the person whom you can see yourself with down the road with, five, ten, twenty years into the future. For me, that person was once you. For you, that person wasn't even yourself. You have no concept of a road into the future. It's pretty hard to compete with the vision of nothing.

Time to do the nighty night....

2009-11-16T01:35:00.002-06:00

This Fraggle book truly is an essential when it comes to forcing your children to go to bed at bedtime. Oddly enough, this book, which was never a favorite bedtime story of mine, (those top prizes went to my mother's two most hated books "Karoleena's Red Coat" and "The Very Special Badgers") is one that sticks with me to this day. I try to make myself remember the message of what I dub "The Wembley Book" when I'm getting grumpy about going to bed at a reasonable hour. The basic premise is that there's nothing that you're missing, no party, no goings on, by going to bed when you should. Tonight is yet another night when I could use the benefits of "The Wembley Book" to coddle me and ease my fears that I could be missing something so exciting and exhilerating... and yet, I'm just puttering around and drinking a glass of wine. In all seriousness though, on nights like this when I'm left to my own devices, dreading the oncoming work week and the not so bright early morning, I could really use someone who could read me "The Wembley Book" and pat me on the head and turn out the lights.

S.S. Snack Attack

2009-11-16T00:24:00.010-06:00

Some photos from the opening of S.S. Snack attack, an art show by myself and Stina Kaczmaryn. I'll let the fun speak for itself.

I am prepared for amazing things to happen. I can handle it.

2009-11-16T00:19:00.004-06:00

We have a whole life to live together, you fucker, but it can't start until you call.

A Book by its Cover

2009-10-25T10:14:00.001-05:00

If I look like a child in an old woman's coat, it's because it's the truth.

Sleeping in a Lion's Den

2009-10-17T15:45:00.008-05:00

Once I stole your Bob Dylan CD and drove around town listening to nothing else. I imagined Bob Dylan arriving in New York at age 21, looking like the young kids who hang around on street corners in our neighborhood. The way he said "Green-witch" reminded me of you.

I used to know that every song on that album, but now the things that stand out from the backdrop are a song about Woody Guthrie, and this:

A lot of people don't have much food on their table, 
But they got a lot of forks n' knives, 
And they gotta cut somethin'.
  
Got that right

I Hope You Have a Nice Trip, See You Next Fall...

2009-10-17T02:02:00.006-05:00

Autumn is hard. For a girl who prides herself on steeliness it is difficult, having to smell, feel, hear, taste a season. Hard because it means something. Fall has always been that time for me. Apples never taste so crisp, so tart at any other time of the year. Leaves crunching beneath the feet. The air smells different. Is it because I share a hometown with Ray Bradbury and all his Hallowe'en carnival madness? If that was so, I may as well live on Mars... and yet... It makes having to attend municipal events based on this very nostalgia that much more bizarre.

I love the fall because it truly is the time that I feel emotions most deeply. Maybe I should fear it for the same reasons, and yet I do not (or maybe just a hair). I've always loved the changing of the colors of the leaves, the briskness in the air, and the sudden impulse to pull a jacket towards oneself. I love the artistry of a hand crafted caramel apple and the silliness of a child's Halloween costume. I've never felt anything as deeply as I've felt "FALL" and oddly enough it's hard to admit that it's my true vice, more than the call of a fine wine, exquisite sex, or a the artistry of a gourmet meal. I'd rather have my ear screamed in by the teenaged employees of Great America's Fright Fest than any other siren song. This is the modern times' Dust Witch.

Bittersweet is the only word that can truly be used to describe this feeling and yet, it can never fully describe the pounding in my heart and ears, the chill on my skin, the freshness in my nose, the crisp taste on my tongue, and the mist in my eyes.

The sound of a foot crashing through a pile of crimson and gold leaves, the taste of cheap chocolate on the tongue, the impressions and tightness of the band of a cheap drugstore mask; These are all the marks of the season, the intonations of both the newness of the school year with it's pop culture folders and newly sharpened pencils, and the the dying of a season, the smell of mud and leaves and life returning to the earth for another turn.

The stakes always feel higher for me at this time of year, perhaps because everything is felt with that much more intensity.

My Baby's All Grown Up: Volume 3 of Rachel's Bridesmaid Tales

2009-10-05T11:00:00.027-05:00

This weekend was the bridal extravaganza known as Melissa's wedding. Thanks to my commitment to try to stop crying in public, I chickened out of a speech. It probably would have been a more speech-like version of this. This fine photo is the first picture of me and Melissa together, and is the photo inside the locket she gave me as a bridesmaid gift. Outside my immediate family, I've known this little lady longer than anyone, even my sister, who was a mere sea creature swimming in my mommy's big belly, making her sweaty and uncomfortable at the time this photo was taken. Melissa's been like another sister to me, complete with all the heartwarming moments, tears, embarrassments, great times, and petty jealousies that come along with being that close to another girl. As my father would attest, Melissa can be a handful. Ok, let's face it, he dreamed of a permanent "time out" for all of us when she'd come over. That said, and despite the fact I thought I'd never consider any boy good enough for Melissa, I think she's found a perfect complement in Joe, and now I know that nobody could ever treat such a great girl so well, handle all her craziness, put up with her messiness, and love her as much as I do. Despite some of the feelings I've had surrounding weddings recently, and all the inevitable jealousies that come to a so-called spinster of nearly thirty, I had a great weekend celebrating my dear friend's wedding. Congrats to Melissa and Joe. I love you guys!

Here are about five million photos:

Ladies at Kit Kat Lounge

Another kind of lady at Kit KatBaby girl!Making new best friends!Makeup for the big day!Me and the brideSistersMelissa and Caroline, one of the maids of honorCandid shot with RhiannonBouquetImportant propsMight as well have a sense of humor about itPlace settingFirst dance with Joe

Grandma stole all Christy's dance moves
Hava Nagilah- this is right before Joe fell off his chair
That crazy Curren familyNewlywedsWhite girls can breakdanceOwlface
Onward to the Honeymoon Suite

Zombie: A Mindless Affair (also an awesome one)

2009-09-26T16:56:00.003-05:00

Night Cemetery
Deborah Boardman
gouache on paper
2007

Zombie: A Mindless Affair
Curated by: Edra Soto

Also Project Wall Space:Irene Perez

ZOMBIE ARTISTS:
C Through Outfit (Erik Brown, Catie Olsen, Carl Warnik and Dawn Reed)
Deborah Boardman
Nate Lee
Jason Mena
Mindy Rose Schwartz
Amanda Browder
Derek Chan
Christopher Simkins
Christopher Smith
Ann Toebbe
Harold Mendez
Paul Nudd
Noah Berlatsky
Vladimir Kharitonsky
Dan Peters
Gretel Garcia
Susannah Kite Strang
Rachel Hewitt
Corinne Halbert
Bert Stabler
Beatriz Monteavaro
Miguel Cortez
Edra Soto
Candace Briceno
Death by Design Co. (Teena McClelland and Michelle Maynard)
The Wiener Girls (Sydney Croskery and Katey Rafanello)
Betsy Odum
Jen Thomas and Bobby Lively
Chris Hammes
Andrea Jablonski
Jeff Libersher

ABOUT: Zombie: A Mindless Affair

Celebrations that invite us to observe a historical occurrence are still strongly practiced in contemporary culture. Halloween, as celebrated is America, profoundly depicts the strongest features from gothic and horror literature, film, TV, and graphic arts. Among the repertoire of traditional characters, the zombie distinguishes itself for possessing the biology and behavior of a normal human being, yet lacks consciousness. This exhibition uses the vernacular of the mythological zombie as a starting point to engage in ideas of death, mindlessness and symbolisms for the occult and inexplicable. The term zombie also intends to address issues referring to the mindless self in a social spectrum: leading and following; acts of automatism and fanatic behaviors.

From 6:30-7:00pm on opening night:
Join author Scott Kenemore, artist Mindy Rose Schuartz and collaborators Teena McClelland and Michelle Maynard from Death by Design Co. in conversation. They will talk about the darkness that enlightens their work. Screening of the film made by Death by Design Co. immediately after the conversation. Moderated by Edra Soto

Opening Friday October 23 from 6pm-10pm
October 23 - November 21, 2009

ANTENA
1765 S. Laflin St.
Chicago IL 60608
www.antenapilsen.com
antenapilsen (at) gmail.com
(773) 257-3534
Hours: by appointment only

This is all the info on a show that I'm going to be in. It will be great because I will be there, as will a few zombies, no doubt.

Rolling Down to Old Maui

2009-09-20T09:55:00.004-05:00

"We're not like other women. We don't have to clean an oven. And we nev-er will grow olllllllllld....We've got the world by the tail!"

I heard a song that sounded as though it were coming from a ballerina music box under the sea. Melodic whalesongs for the mermaids. It made me want to dive into the ocean. It made me want to come over to your house and force you to drive me to Florida so we could go to Weeki Wachee Springs. Right now.

I won't lie, though sometimes I can be impulsive, I struggle with spontaneity. I don't always "get" it. I panic when my "To Do" list is thrown off track. I'm learning.

Thank God for the little things that actually allow me to embrace impulse. Sometimes they just make my day.

P.S. Let's go to Weeki Wachee and stop by Dollywood along the way!

Amen

2009-09-20T09:39:00.003-05:00

Because there's never an excuse NOT to wear a pink dress, pearls, and gloves. Even while floating down a river.

Keeping the Baby, Tossing out the Bathwater, Hanging onto a Few of the Bubbles

2009-09-14T20:44:00.006-05:00

I lay on my back in the not deep enough tub, bellybutton filling with a smaller bath, bare knees, bare breasts, bare belly poking out of the shallow water. In boredom, pretending, and failing, to languish in a Marie Antoinette tub recalled another time, and another place. A tub in Paris that was so deep that the water came up to my little button nose when seated fully upright.

Left footed toes turning the hot water on, warming the water like a toddler pissing in the baby pool. I got bored and drained the tub, remaining in repose until the water was gone, watching the whirlpool in the drain the way my Ahmaw had shown me as a child.

Left to my own devices, I've never had any idea what to do with myself. Left in my own head, I can be downright ridiculous. Thoughts as self-indulgent as Cleopatra's perfumed baths find their way into my brain, but who can blame a girl for wanting all things sensuous and beautiful and pretty?

Is it so wrong to imagine a utopia populated by various versions of myself, arm in arm with a charming beau, waltzing down tree lined avenues, eating dinners on rooftop balconies, and sipping champagne, engaged in effortless conversation? Is it so wrong to imagine a scenario in which my suitor is not touched in the head, in the slightest? Methinks not.

Perhaps we should forgive ourselves our little slips, our little dreams, our little fantasies, and not be so hard on ourselves for otherwise misguided wishful thinking.

Please Sir, I'm a Lady

2009-09-05T09:24:00.006-05:00

I thought you were the kind of girl who knew when to say when...I don't really know what kind of girl I am...

I've been thinking about what it means to be a girl, a woman, a lady a lot these days. I was never the low-maintenance, tomboy that my mother had probably hoped for. She could never do hair, and I could see her cringe as I changed from one pretty dress to another, or wore my ruffle butted little panties backwards so I could see the ruffles more easily.

In conversation with a friend, she expressed her concern at a certain boy's potentially chauvinistic views towards women, afraid that his old-fashioned ways come from the idea that boys are better than girls. In my own special brand of naiveté, all I could think of was "How could that be? Everyone knows girls are better. I would never want to be a boy!"

There's always more to every story, obviously, than what's right out there in the table of contents, but here's a veritable table of contents about what kind of girl I am:

I'm the kind of girl who wakes up at 6:30 A.M. to talk to her stuffed animals about their feelings.

I'm the kind of girl who will help you tear wet carpet out of your flooded basement.

I'm the kind of girl who rides her bike in a skirt.

I'm the kind of girl who understands the importance of matching glasses and a tasteful thank you note.

I'm the kind of girl who has read the complete works of Shakespeare and also PostSecret.

I'm the kind of girl you'd least expect.

I'm the kind of girl who appreciates a healthy, mature debate.

I'm the kind of girl who legitimately wonders why ladies shun the full slip nowadays.

I'm the kind of girl who can cook anything you could dream up. Even poached eggs.

I'm the kind of girl who refuses to accept less than the best (though I've been guilty of doing otherwise at various points in my life).

I'm the kind of girl who just signed up for a 2.5k open water swim. It's next week.

I'm the kind of girl who wants to figure out exactly what she wants, figure out how to get it, and then do that.

I'm the kind of girl who appreciates a man's man.

I'm the kind of girl who loves her family and friends more than they'll ever know.

I'm the kind of girl who is taking back all the things that seemed like they were lost.

I'm the kind of girl who wants to live in a treehouse, but also really wants to have a beautiful home and a beautiful family.

I'm the kind of girl who reads 1950's etiquette books.

I'm the kind of girl who can take apart a futon and pack your U-Haul like it's a game of Tetris. I will do this wearing pearls and a smile.

I'm the kind of girl who can appreciate what kind of girl all the other ladies are.

What kind of girl are you?

Wherever You Go...

2009-09-01T15:55:00.010-05:00

"Our battered suitcases were were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life."

For some people, the urge to flee is like mother's milk, and they thrive on the casting off of tethers. In needing to be settled, I on the other hand, tend to find comfort in the familiarity of a home, a designated place. Yet, that same urge comes creeping in, on occasion, clawing at the edges of my nerves like a curious little kitten.

It would be easy for me to say that my current urge to relocate to a tiny rust belt town and start a new life on some dusty porch comes from a recent trip to Michigan. This is partly true.

The other part is the scary part. When faced with the possibility of real risk, or of making an adult decision, or of coming too close to something that I desperately want, my initial reaction is to turn coat and leap off a bridge. I think the crux of the problem lies in that in facing the final confrontation with risk, I have to imagine myself vividly in another life, in an intricately painted tableau, just to cushion the blow of a possible letdown. I have to give myself an imaginary out.

Though I would never just drop it all and run, there's comfort in knowing that I've talked myself into the possibility of an alternative, because really, wherever you are is the place to be.

That said, I'm attempting to make a conscious decision to look at the real lesson in that philosophy and remind myself that wherever I am right now is the place to be.

Here's to embracing life with confidence and gusto...and taking a few chances.

Subconscious

2009-08-25T07:28:00.006-05:00

I tossed and turned all night, like a baby bunny spiraling down its warren after its mother. In the dream you told me that I was the most sane person in your life right now. When I woke up, I realized I'd never felt crazier.

Are Clams Really All That Happy?

2009-08-24T15:58:00.003-05:00

Clams may not be that happy, especially the ones that end up on my plate at Red Lobster, and later leaving crumbs all over my dress while I damn myself for not putting on a Red Lobster bib, but here are a few things that make me happier than even the most oblivious mollusk.

Happiness is:

Cool sheets on a sunburn.

The times when you're so smitten with someone that you've managed to whitewash away all of their flaws, as glaring as they may be, and you can't understand why they aren't the most adored person in all the land, but you're really glad that they aren't. Who needs the competition?

Watermelon agua fresca.

Drinking hot cider, crunching red and gold and copper leaves under your feet, wearing a jean jacket, and having a serious discussion on the intricate details of the perfect Halloween costume.

Swimming outdoors at sunrise.

Picking the perfect gift for someone really special.

A good cry.

The kind of hug that you can feel in your rib cage for a few minutes after the other person lets go.

Sharing a lobster roll on the pier and letting the coastal breeze tangle your sea salt hair.

A solo bicycle ride along the lake on a brisk day.

The satisfaction of a job well done.

The smell of my mother's perfume.

Babysnuggles.

The memory of a good bedtime story from a long ago childhood night. One that's still so clear in your mind that you remember the story and the pictures and how it felt not to have to worry about anything but how the story would end.

The smell of chlorine in your skin when it gets wet, long after you've gotten out of the pool.

A perfectly excecuted design in any area from a well put together outfit, to a technical drawing, to the most beautiful cake ever baked, to an Eames chair.

The feeling in your muscles after a good workout. That and getting to eat a huge breakfast.

Knowing that you have a lot of love in your life and that's why nothing is really and truly the end of the world.

Sisters.

Hop on Pop

2009-08-14T19:04:00.001-05:00

Yes ladies, this is my dad, and no I do not have a brother...

The other day a friend asked me how my relationship with my family was, and honestly I should have sent him to this blog which is becoming a sounding board for how obsessed with them I am.

My sister and I hosted a surprise 60th birthday party for our dad on Sunday (though the surprise was spoiled by a person whom I suspect is my high school math teacher). Despite some electric emotions, I think the party was a success, and I'm pretty sure my dad had a good time.

I've always been a daddy's girl. I'm convinced that my hilarious, easy-going mother had no idea what to do with me when I came into this world, serious, no nonsense, and completely like my father. Imagine his pride and her confusion when I took to the streets as a toddler, with a snotty, deadpan expression, announcing to the neighbors, "People are Homo Sapiens" with all the conviction of a Rhodes Scholar. That's how I roll.

There were those years that I took offense when people told me that I was just like him, though truthfully it was because I wanted to be like my Mama because she was a girl. Can't argue with that, being a girl is rad.

Truth be told though, I'm proud to be like my dad, seriousness and all. If I ever come into any success in life, and yes, in my deepest darkest moments I sometimes doubt the eventuality of this, it will be because my father taught me the importance of hard work, perseverance, and a positive attitude in addition to how to swim, obviously.

If it ain't broke, don't fix it. If it is broke...

2009-08-09T13:03:00.000-05:00

I've come to realize that sometimes people are just "broken" and as much as I personally battle to admit it, this is not the doll hospital. You can't just send the problem away and get it back, as good as new, like gluing on a disembodied foot, or reattaching a loose wig.

My current romantic interests have sent some very well meaning compatriots into states of confusion and shock, for a variety of very understandable reasons. I get this, dear friends, I do. Here's the simple answer to this question, though of course there is also a more complicated one.

This person is not broken. There is nothing here to "fix". There may be small flaws as in any person, but these flaws are akin to a slightly less aesthetically appealing element in a painting as opposed to a giant hole punched in the middle of it.

I need that.

I'm the lady, not the carpenter.

Tales from the trenches of a renegade life makeover

2009-08-08T11:35:00.000-05:00

My current quest for self-improvement has shaken me up a bit, I'm not going to lie. I think this is a good thing, though. Unfortunately, I also seem to be hitting that rut where my love for instant gratification is well, not being gratified. Damn that. I can learn to be patient, je suppose. I have however come across some recent self-reflective gems that will hopefully inspire myself to keep charging ahead, full force, as it were, and maybe they will inspire some of you, or at least make you smile.

Recent self-realizations that are hilariously surprising and shockingly refreshing:

My sister is my best friend.

Whatever it is, it really probably isn't the end of the world and you really shouldn't waste your life sitting around wallowing in self-pity over it. It most likely isn't worth it.

Chocolate milk isn't that vile. Just pretend it's a melted Frosty from Wendy's.

I'm a lot more conservative than I'd like to let on, even to myself, and I think I might just have to be ok with that. This is not to say that I'm a Republican.

I will eventually get a job that isn't completely demoralizing.

If Julia Child can turn her life around at nearly 50, I can certainly do it now. What would Julia do?

I am capable of wearing high heels and they make me look skinnier, taller, and more professional.

McDonald's breakfast is actually NOT the solution to my problems. I wish I learned this while I was working at the frame shop.

I have a lot of people who love and care about me and are not disappointed in me, even though I am far too hard on myself.

"Be classy and act like a lady" is advice that can prevent a multitude of sins and potential disasters.

Just because I feel like I screwed up by not swimming in college, doesn't mean I can't start over now. I'm not that out of shape if I can place 69 out of 809 men and women in the swim part of a triathlon when the water is 58.5 degrees and I am decidedly wetsuitless.

I am a badass for not wearing a wetsuit.

Having a public tantrum is just not as satisfying at nearly 30 as it was at 3. A private one still feels pretty great, on occasion. Just don't be self-indulgent about it and don't punch a hole in the wall that can't be hidden by a piece of furniture or a well placed piece of art.

It is ok to love things just because they are beautiful.

It is paramount not to forget to put your shorts on when you insist on riding your bike in skirts.

When in doubt, and all else fails, refer to "The Little Engine That Could". It will never steer you wrong. Just ask my dad.

In short, buck up, put on some pearls and big sunglasses, brush your teeth, and face the day with as much strength of character as you can muster. If that doesn't work, you can always down a Manhattan when you get home from work. Anything with cherry in it will solve all your problems.

Recommended Reading:

In the Stella Cookies of Life, Sisters are the Butterscotch Chips: Wherein I Begin Sounding Like a Goopy Pink Greeting Card with Fancy Script

2009-08-02T10:15:00.000-05:00

Use Fruit Roll-Ups to bribe your kids to kiss for the camera!
Let clowns hold your children.

My charming sister posted a heartwarming (five hankie tearjerker) post about her birthday over at her blog Curren Town. I shall now write a sister (yuk yuk yuk) entry about this little lady's birthday, considering I have now been saddled with a look-alike for one quarter of a decade.

Last year, on my sister's birthday, I joked that it was the anniversary of the worst day of my life, and her response was that maybe I was mistaken and had gotten worst confused with BEST. This year, on her birthday, I conceded that she was right.

Whenever we'd fight, whenever I was screaming my head off about how this creature, who already looked like me, also wanted to get the same Happy Meal, wear the same outfit, and have the same Barbie as me, our mother would say that we should learn to get along, because someday something would happen to our parents (gasp), or we'd fight with our best friends (horror), and all we'd have is each other.

Then it happened. The other day, I was in the car, and I was thinking, "if someone asked me who the most important person in my life is, what would I say?" I thought about it for a minute, and really, the answer is my sister. If I could pick just one bridesmaid, or pick just one person to be on my team, gotta go with Sister. Who else will let you wallow in self-pity for days at her house when your life is falling apart, or risk having a crabby baby all day and wake an infant so the whole family can watch your first triathlon?

I think she likes me back, because, let's face it, who else will laugh when her baby throws up down their officewear and tear up wet carpet from the basement in a dress? Nobody, that's who.

Sister, you are lucky I love you. I'm pretty lucky you love me back.

My New Big Girl Shoes: A Tale of Self-Improvement

2009-07-29T15:53:00.000-05:00

This tall tale requires that I tell you two things about myself.

One is that I am now, and always have been, a girly girl. Take that how you will. I like ladystuff. I won't be ashamed of it. You shouldn't either.

Two is that I was born an intensely serious child. No mother should have to tell her 7 year old to lighten up on a multi weekly basis.

My constant quest to be the best at everything has been an exhausting journey in pushing the limits of the capabilities of the human creature. That said, these days I feel that in the past year or more, I've wandered off the path of my quest, fallen victim to the siren song of self indulgence, self pity, and cable TV. Well, no more...

So, like, there's this boy. And he's pretty dreamy. And also, he's intensely goal oriented, and loves beautiful things, and things of quality and class and functional design. He has life philosophies (some of them a bit half-baked mayhaps, but considering some of my own daily motto zingers, I will not be the one to cast that stone) and goals and is an excellent listener, and always knows what to bring to a party. All these things got me thinking. I too want to be an excellent listener who always knows what to bring to the party. I want to have beautiful things that serve a purpose. I want to have goals and accomplish more than not spilling spaghetti on my formerly white sofa.

Suddenly I found myself standing in the Jewel at 7AM wearing heels and pearls, picking out 7 perfect pork chops for a dinner party and damning myself for only having two matching wine glasses emblazoned with the logo of a bar called the Dancing Crab. Suddenly I find myself saying things like "should I be wearing hose with this?" and "I need to iron my casualwear." Considering I barely have any casualwear, that second one isn't totally nuts, I promise. I've been finding myself getting up at 6AM to work out, and buying clothing without a big mouse appliquéd onto it (I know, I know).

Here's the deal, before any of you start thinking "What is this crackpot up to? Why is she changing for a boy?" It's not what it sounds like (Isn't that what they all say?). The lovely people who have had both the pleasure, and possibly the headache of knowing me since I was running in fear from my childhood nemesis, styrofoam, ( another neurosis for another day) know that I've always been this way.

A dear friend of mine, and a fellow shamefaced embarrassment to the women's movement like myself, pointed out that I should take his intimidating qualities as a personal challenge and call to self-improvement. Not to impress him, not to get him, but because those were the things I'd always held dear and wanted in the first place, and somehow lost hold of when everything started falling apart.

I'm up for that challenge. Hell, I just did a triathlon, dammit. I can handle this. I'm hoping that my newfound motivation towards improvement will help me lose that pesky 30 pounds, land me that awesome job, make my house cleaner and more beautiful, and yes, get me that boy.

I shall be showing up at tomorrow's job interview with pearls, heels, and hose and a whole new life philosophy.

Blabbermouth Betty

2009-07-13T23:51:00.001-05:00

Perhaps, just perhaps, it's a bit contradictory to broach this topic on an internet blog whilst one is in her underoos, drinking cherry wine and listening to ladytunes, and can barely contain her crush gush, but that's just how life is, isn't it miladies?

Mayhaps because I'm prone to a life of Chatty Cathies and a life of small town style gossip despite living in proper metropolitan locales, I've never been that mortified when people spread the secrets I finally spill... and yet... I'm feeling a bit cuckoo bananas over a boy and I'm not sure what to do. Should I remain hush hush or proclaim it from the steeples of my local churches? Methinks I may have just spilled just a bit too much this evening and let the proverbial pussy out of the bag, as it were. I can tell that my own right hand gal pal is stunned by this and can hardly believe my betrayal of my own shyness. Especially in light of the fact that we are living in the kind of world that resembles a game of telephone, minus the misunderstandings.. strike that... replete with as many misunderstandings as any other telephone game.

I can't help but push that envelope and bring up the name of mon amour du jour. Shit, I'm practically standing on the post office counter jamming it into people's faces. What can I say? I am highly dysfunctional in love. I live in secret, hiding my true feelings, even from myself, until my emotions burst forth, like the waters held back by a mighty dam, and I'm practically tattooing it on my face like a walking advertisement.

Christ, I'm completely loony tunes. What can a gal do but dream of a boy who dreams of a ladyfriend who sits around musing on the net in her vintage underpinnings and betrays all the feminist teachings she's meant to embody by wishing of days spent in the kitchen in a pretty dress serving up martinis and winking over French cookery?

When did "boy meets girl" become a tragi-comedy?

Eat this and be happy: Another great recipe

2009-06-28T12:14:00.000-05:00

As per usual, Smitten Kitchen has brought new zeal into my life. The first time I made this, I went out and made it again and again. It's just that good and at around 140 calories for 1/8 of a cake, you can eat it for breakfast...and lunch...and dinner...and dessert. You get it, I'm sure.

Makes one thin 9-inch cake, which might serve eight people, if you can pry it from first two people’s grasp

1 cup (130 grams) all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon (2 grams) baking powder
1/2 teaspoon (2 grams) baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 stick (56 grams) unsalted butter, softened
2/3 cup (146 grams) plus 1 1/2 tablespoons (22 grams) sugar, divided
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest (optional)
1 large (57 grams) egg
1/2 cup well-shaken buttermilk
1 cup fresh raspberries (about 5 oz)

Preheat oven to 400°F with rack in middle. Butter and flour a 9-inch round cake pan.

Whisk together flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt and set aside. In a larger bowl, beat butter and 2/3 cup (146 grams) sugar with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until pale and fluffy, about two minutes, then beat in vanilla and zest, if using. Add egg and beat well.

At low speed, mix in flour mixture in three batches, alternating with buttermilk, beginning and ending with flour, and mixing until just combined.Spoon batter into cake pan, smoothing top. Scatter raspberries evenly over top and sprinkle with remaining 1 1/2 tablespoons (22 grams) sugar.

Bake until cake is golden and a wooden pick inserted into center comes out clean, 20 to 25 minutes. Cool in pan 10 minutes, then turn out onto a rack and cool to warm, 10 to 15 minutes more. Invert onto a plate.

I made it with a combo of blackberries and raspberries and topped with freshly whipped cream. I might try cherries next.

Green Town

2009-06-25T21:34:00.000-05:00

I see me, my eyes filled with tears, because it was all over, the night was done, I knew there would never be another night like this. No one said anything. We all just looked up at the sky and we breathe out and in and we all thought the same things, but nobody said.

Perhaps you may or may not know that the setting of Ray Bradbury's quintessential summer novel is based on Bradbury's youth in my own hometown. The first time I read the book (oddly enough it was curled up under the covers, in the dead of winter) I could picture every scene in my mind's eye, feel the descriptions as though they were my own childhood memories. I recalled the same goosebumps on my arms when I first set foot in the ravine where the Lonely One stalked his victims. Strangely, it's an excellent winter read as well, because you can almost taste that liquid sunshine on expectant lips and feel the freedom of new summer adventures yet to be dreamed. Suddenly gale force winds and the embarrassing, but necessary entrapment of a down filled parka seem miles away.

Sometimes, particularly in older parts of the city, I'll begin to feel lost in the pages of the novel again, and I experience the strange sensation of being between two worlds. This place is a place I feel tied to, and a place I can feel in my bones in a way that's very difficult to describe in words on a screen. In a way that I feel that someone with the same roots can understand. I used to wonder why it seemed like nobody could ever leave, and I always had a sort of "there must be something in the water" sort of attitude. I still do in a way, only because I feel like my life is on a crash course through a chain of events, of which this town is the catalyst.

I suppose everyone feels tied to his or her place of origin in one way or another, and in some ways it's a comfort to be a part of the middle of something, at neither the beginning, nor the end and still feel a sense of belonging, a puzzle piece-like fit.

Back to the grind....or something like that

2009-06-13T09:37:00.000-05:00

So it appears that I'm back to the job search yet again. I've been reluctant to post anything about being laid off, because really, even though it's not my fault, it feels completely demoralizing. Nothing like applying for a job that I'm overqualified for, over-educated for, and so on and so forth, only to hear that 2oo other applicants, probably equally overqualified, are my competition.

I am luckier this time in my unemployment, because I will actually be able to apply for... unemployment. What a concept. I also have a couple weeks til my last day, a job interview already lined up, and the possibility of being rehired by the district before they make a public posting of the job if something opens up.

All that said, I have a very hard time accepting that my personal setbacks are not indicative of stupidity or perceived lack of success on my part.

Wish me luck, and mayhaps I will get a job that doesn't put 500 miles a week onto my car.

2009-05-15T07:44:00.000-05:00

This one is in honor of International First Love Day (a day which is like porno for wordy little ladies like myself who like to overshare). Thanks to a lovely ladyfriend who passed this idea along to me.

In sixth or seventh grade, in the sweaty, sneaker smelling gym of my middle school, I proudly declared my love for my best friend's brother. To my best friend. I made this announcement with all the conviction that anyone with braces and a bowl cut can muster. Who knew I was serious?

Thank goodness I no longer have a bowl cut, or braces, though I suspect that nowadays, I could possibly at least rock the bowl cut with a little more confidence and gusto. Being 12 is rough, what can I say?

Were there other boys whose affections I sought? Of course. There were other kisses, other lovers, other dates. Other boys who I even thought I was in love with and wanted to be with forever (some of which should probably spend eternity alone). However, the years of hand scribbled notes to my very disapproving best friend say it all. "I hate your brother, his hair looks terrible today." Now, that's love.

We eventually actually started dating, no thanks to either one of our skills, because neither one of us has any game whatsoever. I believe making a girl cry on the first date cannot be classified as "game."

At this point we are so intertwined, like a tree growing through a chain link fence, that I'm not sure either one of us could remove the other if we tried. And we've both tried, sadly. This is a story about being able to conjure up the smell of someone else's parents' kitchen amid the aromas of a BBQ. A story about being afraid of someone because they know exactly the cards you've been keeping up your shirtsleeve. A story about what happens when a crush turns into two people standing in Home Depot, arguing about the best way to fix a toilet... and then fixing it.

This story is a difficult one, as love stories often are, because choppy waters and unfortunate circumstances (or our own stupidity, whatever you want to call it) swept us apart, and we're still somewhere in the middle of a long, mysterious anthology.

I guess I'll let you know how it turns out.

The Wife of Bath

2009-05-11T21:49:00.000-05:00

Pulling out of your parents' driveway, struggling as usual not to hit the bushes, destroy myself on the house, or end up digging a new drainage trench for the woodland creatures to drown in, I was relieved when you made me get out and let you finish the job. For once I dumbly kept my fat mouth shut and just got out of the car. The intensity with which I once arbitrarily picked epic battles has faded.

This made me vividly recall the sticky hot tears and screaming that once ensued because you dared to open your mouth while I floundered miserably to simply parallel park my car. I did manage to tell you that I'd never hated you more, as you zipped down the cliff (I exaggerate) with all the skill and precision of an ancient hermit, building a tiny ship in a dusty bottle.

As we drove into the night, I let my day unfold, slowly holding my cards further and further away from my vest, until I dared to bring up my mother, which these days has been a subject most easily pried from my lips by a bottle of whiskey and too many questions.

I asked you if you remembered the bitter night last February, as we drove the same road into the city from the suburbs, that we'd seen a car on fire. I told you that I thought of it often as though the soot and flame and ash itself had burned themselves into my brains.

I wonder if you remember that you hadn't been in my car for more than a block or two from that night until the question escaped my lips. I wonder if you remember what that car ride felt like, how I was literally falling asleep in my seat, eyes struggling to stay open long enough for me to figure out why exactly I had never hated you more in my life. I finally waved my white flag at the sandman and tossed and turned until you pulled into the gas station to buy some ginger ale, because, despite the late hour, our obvious disdain for one another, and a myriad of other reasons, there was no way we were not going to go home and drink ourselves to sleep. Oblivion is a friendlier alternative to the discussion we would inevitably have when drunkeness turned into bitter daylight, n'est-ce pas? That night I fell asleep alone with my thoughts and you built virtual cities late into the night.

Something tells me that you don't remember that night with the same painful clarity and detail, but I know you remember more than the flaming car that forced us off the highway, away from one explosion into another.

Instead, you knowingly kissed me on the forehead and I let you.

A song for Mother's Day...

2009-05-09T14:04:00.001-05:00

Pretty little bluebird, where do you go? Come back, come back, to me.

"I go," sang the bird, as he flew on high, "to see if my color matches the sky."

Road Rage, Road Rash, Roadkill

2009-05-07T20:15:00.000-05:00

There's nothing quite as demoralizing as listening to the song "In Cars" while you're trapped in yours in seemingly unending traffic. Whatever brilliant mastermind is behind the idea to play that winner during rush hour should have to drive through endless bumper to bumper gridlock. Thank God I have the musical stylings of Tom Jones to remind me that I'm a lady, and that a lady probably doesn't kick out her windshield with her little pink Minnetonkas while screaming "Fuck" at the top of her lungs. Thank you, Tom Jones, thank you.

Cake in a Mug... in which you thank me profusely for this little gem of sugary bliss

2009-04-21T21:53:00.000-05:00

Can there truly be anything as awesome as a dessert that takes 5 minutes, can serve up to three people, is made from ingredients found in your very own home, and also looks a little gross and funny? Methinks not.

Here's the key to your future happiness. Don't say I never gave you anything.

5 MINUTE CHOCOLATE MUG CAKE

4 Tbs flour
4 Tbs sugar
3 Tbs baking cocoa
1 egg
2 Tbs milk
3 Tbs chocolate chips (Butterscotch chips or a blend are good too)
2 Tbs oil
1 Tbs vanilla

Grease coffee mug with oil or Pam. Add dry ingredients to mug and mix well. Add the egg and mix thoroughly. Pour in the milk, vanilla and oil and mix well. Add the chips, and mix again. Microwave for two minutes at full power. (Check after 1 minute 30, cake should appear slightly moist.) The cake will rise over the top of the mug,
but don't be alarmed.

God Bless America... then give it a triple bypass

2009-04-08T06:20:00.000-05:00

Are we really so lazy that we can't eat our hot dogs and fries separately anymore? Is it so essential to pack our mouths, bellies, and adipose cells with food so quickly that we start having heart palpitations? Quick! I have to eat my lunch before the bus comes to take me to my second lunch!

Thanks to the fact that people actually eat some of the stuff on www.thisiswhyyourefat.com, we're now getting to the point where the world's fattest twins of Guinness fame are just those two chubby guys over there.

At least I can fit into a child size XL. Thanks childhood obesity!

Matched Set

2009-04-04T14:27:00.000-05:00

One of my feet is getting cold.

Spam No. 1: Bring more happiness into your nightlife

2009-03-27T19:30:00.000-05:00

These fat little froggies will be making their way into a show tonight for lady printmakers. I'm not a printmaker, but at least I think I've got the lady part down. These little babies are the first installment in my series of drawings whose titles have been ripped straight from the subject lines of my spam box, and the spam boxes of other genorous e-donors.

I like a last minute challenge, and sometimes when opportunity knocks, you've got to draw some amphibians getting it on.

The Real Deal

2009-03-24T21:44:00.000-05:00

I feel the need to offer everyone some real food after that fish food in a box bit. Here's a roasted chicken, stolen (and slightly adapted) from the treasure troves of Jamie Oliver that never fails to impress or taste good. It's not even hard to make. This is one moist bird.

The Goods:
1 4½lb free-range organic chicken
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
4½lb potatoes, peeled
1 large, preferably unwaxed, lemon
1 whole bulb of garlic, broken into cloves
a handful of fresh thyme
Olive oil
a handful of fresh rosemary sprigs, leaves picked

You can use dried herbs if you're feeling cheap or lazy, it doesn't ruin the bird and I won't think any less of you. Or at least not much less of you.

The Instructions:
Rub the chicken inside and out with a generous amount of salt and freshly ground black pepper. Do this in the morning if possible, then cover the chicken and leave in the fridge until you're ready to start cooking it for lunch or dinner. By doing this, you'll make the meat really tasty when cooked. Preheat your oven to 190ºC/375ºF/gas 5. Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil. Cut the potatoes into golf-ball-sized pieces, put them into the water with the whole lemon and the garlic cloves, and cook for 12 minutes. Drain and allow to steam dry for 1 minute (this will give you crispier potatoes), then remove the lemon and garlic. Toss the potatoes in the pan while still hot so their outsides get chuffed up and fluffy – this will make them lovely and crispy when they roast.

While the lemon is still hot, carefully stab it about 10 times. Take the chicken out of the fridge, pat it with kitchen paper and rub it all over with olive oil. Push the garlic cloves, the whole lemon and the thyme into the cavity, then put the chicken into a roasting tray and cook in the preheated oven for around 45 minutes. Remove the chicken to a plate. Some lovely fat should have cooked out of it into the roasting tray, so toss the potatoes into this with the rosemary leaves. Shake the tray around, then make a gap in the centre of the potatoes and put the chicken back in. Cook for a further 45 minutes, or until the chicken is cooked and the potatoes are nice and golden. (You can tell the chicken is cooked when the thigh meat pulls easily away from the bone and the juices run clear.)

Chum Bucket

2009-03-24T19:17:00.000-05:00

This morning's bleary eyed commute was marked by a lone memorable mindfuck. The ad for something known as the Popeye's "Tackle Box." Now I've seen some pretty ineffective marketing strategies, but the tackle box? What is appealing about a grease soaked, cardboard tub of bait? Has economic downturn caused Popeye's to search for more affordable sources of product? A box full of fried night crawlers or meal worms, perhaps? Apparently this involves shrimp, fries, and a biscuit, but truthfully the only thing I can think of is that machine at the harbor that stands at the ready, waiting to devour fish bits and little girl arms alike. Popeye's Tackle Box? A big thumbs (flippers?) down.

2009-03-22T19:02:00.000-05:00

A bicycle ride is an excellent, and perhaps inevitable way for one to truly get to the bottom of what's in one's own head. I've zipped through quiet side streets, my head swimming with the sort of thoughts that would possibly cause me to fail a corporate psychiatric evaluation. Today's 15 miles, perhaps ill conceived considering today was only my sophomore attempt at cycling since November, proved to be both an emotional and physical challenge. In addition to proving exactly how out of shape I am, suddenly I was experiencing the gamut of emotions. Anger at my lack of speed lead to feelings of failure and ineptitude. Plowing forward into the wind, pushing my way up hills, over bridges, and winding along the lake seemed like an insurmountable challenge instead of an accomplishment. By the time I reached my neighborhood, familiar smells of tortillas and onions in the air, tears were streaming in rivers down my flushed cheeks. Like many people, I relish a good cry, and despite being made painfully aware of my own feelings, I feel energized and ready to get back in the saddle, so to speak.

Grit

2009-03-16T21:25:00.000-05:00

We drove through Gary, Indiana at sunset. I was sleepy from the sun and I could feel the sand grinding into my scalp and a sunburn already flushing across my face. As we passed boarded up houses, and the kinds of monolithic buildings that it had never occurred to me that anyone would abandon, it seemed as though we were driving through the Midwest's particular brand of Wild West ghost town. I felt the sort of sadness you can feel in the core of your teeth, in the very roots of your trunk, as it were, and then suddenly I was overcome by a rage so intense it made me want to see the entire city razed to the ground. At that moment, sitting side by side in the car, listening to Neil Young, I knew we would always be tied to one another. What I didn't know at that moment was that, like the founders of so many worn out Rust Belt steel towns, I had put all my eggs in one basket, and tied the handle to the bow of the Titanic.

Detritus

2009-03-15T16:11:00.000-05:00

I've always romanticized clutter of a certain sort. If a high school had the sort of superlatives meant for the slightly offbeat, I'd be voted most likely to die breaking into an abandoned building. I love the idea of a room untouched by time, inadvertently discovered; Like coming across Miss Havisham's wedding feast by chance. I've entertained the thought of renting a run-down apartment or hotel for a photo shoot, or better yet, trespassing into one. One day I hope to win the lottery and buy a particular abandoned Masonic Temple and transform it into something glorious, while keeping its original air of mystery and neglect, of course. I think, at least in part, my undying love for The Virgin Suicides has more to do with the brilliant imagery of the slow demise of the Lisbon house. That will probably always hold true, though I think now will always be a little bit tarnished by my in depth look at the upstairs bathroom in my father's house. As I was getting ready for my sister's baby shower, and desperately in need of makeup, I tore through the bathroom, I suddenly realized that it's probably not normal to have unearthed a dusty collection of Love's perfume sprays, Tinkerbell nail polishes, and a variety of gift baskets from The Body Shop purchased in the early 90's. Suddenly the row of little bottles that seemed so precious, felt weird and made me think of a word that seems so much more emphatic en français: malheureuse. Since my mother's death, my dad has managed to have a cleaning lady come or attempt cooking and vacuuming, but there's a definite air of appearances kept up, and my dusty old dolls or crappy wall patching jobs are more signs of a slow decline than of someone's shitty domestic skills. A house in which the "little things" have been ignored for so long makes me feel like I can relate to the imagery in Eugenides' book in a way that I really wish that I didn't.

Ass-burgers?

2009-03-12T21:13:00.001-05:00

There's been more than one occasion on which I've wondered if I might have Asperger's Syndrome. Ok, I actually asked my mother if she'd ever thought I might be retarded. Luckily she had the decency to say no, she never did. See, that's the tact of someone who definitely does not have Asperger's. Maybe I just can't tell the difference between general ennui and a mild form of Autism, or maybe I'm just bored, but sometimes I can really relate to the experiences described by those who have been put on a mood stabilizer and feel like they've completely flatlined. Maybe I need to spice it up a bit? Go on a vacation alone? Meet some new friends? Seek psychiatric treatment? Perhaps I just watch too much TV. So many choices. For someone who cries so much, I really don't get that riled up about anything on either end of the spectrum. I can think of the lone experience which actually has caused me long lasting, soul crushing emotion of any type, both good and bad, and if that's what feelings are, I am terrified. I'm still living the feelings rollercoaster every day and I would like to jump off please. Why couldn't I have been born a Small Wonder? I mean, created... yes, created.

From couch potato to career-girl...

2009-03-07T11:21:00.000-06:00

This leaving the house thing is really quite the transition. I will admit that I got a little too comfortable lazing around on the couch, snacking, watching endless hours of my guilty pleasure, Gilmore Girls and the delightfully trashy exploits of Bret's Bus of STDs. Long gone are the days of getting up at 10am and snacking on bacon which is probably a good thing, considering the grumpy realizations of my recent visit to Corporate Health for a work physical. So hibernation has taken it's toll on my thighs, what can I do?

I've gone from prancing around in vintage jammies, playing house to hunting for vintage careerwear so I can play office. I'm starting to wonder if my overactive fantasy life is taking over my life. Do other people have to try to "play office" just to make it through the workday? When I first got this job offer, visions of myself as the office tart, dressed in pencil skirts and blouses with big bows at the neck danced in my head. I can't help it, life is just that much better when played out as a sexy film noir. Unfortunately real office life isn't quite so glamorous as all that. Insert all the excitement of bathrooms that smell like weird cleansers, disorganized offices, and attempting to master all the nuances of FileMaker Pro. Suddenly corporate fantasy has fallen by the wayside. Perhaps it's for the better for me to be given a dose of reality, because let's face it, it happens pretty rarely, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop hunting for the perfect office attire and trying to make being a secretary all the more sassy.

Recommended reading:

More starving than artist...

2009-03-02T22:02:00.001-06:00

It's true that I've recently started a new full time job after being tenuously employed for about 14 months. That said, and considering today was only my 5th day on the job, I've never been so broke in my life, or so I say today. I've always been one of those people for whom poverty has been in the eye of the beholder. I've always thought I was broke, even when I was scrimping my pennies, not for groceries or bills, but for a pair of Marc Jacobs shades or a jaunt to House on the Rock for the weekend. I will admit that I've never been truly on top of "the value of a dollar." It makes me cringe to say the dreaded words "in this economic climate" because really, I have no idea what it's like for a lot of people out there, but let's face it, things have looked better. I'm not sure the US economy is entirely to blame for my months languishing on the couch getting bloated right along with Vincent D'Onofrio on Law & Order Criminal Intent, but I'd like to believe that I'm qualified enough and intelligent enough to have landed a job more quickly under better circumstances. Having been scraping the bottom of the barrel for some time now, I thought I knew all about being "poor" and having to be a mastermind of monetary delegation, all the while managing to find a way to take myself out for drinks or splurge on a lunch at Fox and Obel more than is reasonably sane considering my income. Today though, I may have turned over a new leaf in being fiscally humbled, yet again. I bought $1.65 worth of gas with change scraped out of the bottom of my purse just so I wouldn't run out of gas on the highway. Here's to getting my first paycheck and using it for something practical instead of blowing it on shoes with the faces of little mice. Feel free to buy me a cheeseburger though, really. I'm not too proud to accept your charity.

Old and Moldy

2009-03-01T13:43:00.000-06:00

As I sit sipping highballs in my vintage underpinnings, I often feel the need to recognize and accept the fact that I'm probably trapped in the past. I have no problem with this, and I'm sure the vintage dollies who are older than I am would agree if they could open their pretty little mouths. Apparently there's this whole world of technology out there that a terminal nostalgiaphile like myself is terrified of. I think I aged myself one thousand years when I told someone that I not only don't "get" Twitter, but I don't want to. I stand by that statement. However, even I will concede to some technology, I do have an iphone after all, I'm not living in a cave. This gorgeous laptop is for all the kids out there like me who still spend their days hunting for old typewriters and rotary dial phones in their attics and basements.

More Wit, Less Crap?

2009-02-28T17:27:00.001-06:00

I'd like to think this blog will be full of intelligent thought, great ideas, recipes, art, and writing by me and not bullshitty, self-indulgent memes that just prove that I'm dying for everyone to know about the last person I kissed, what color underpants I'm wearing, or what I'm eating right this very minute...Well, I may still tell you what I'm eating right this very moment, but I'll spare you the rest. I'll keep up the LJ for giggles and ridiculousness, but here's to something a little less trite.