Monthly Archives: September 2010

12:365 – So Unfair

I’m experiencing something unpleasant right now, something that I think everyone has to go through as they grow older. I don’t know if there’s a name for it or not, so I’m going to create one right now… Next-Generation Toy Envy or, colloquially, “Why didn’t they have this when I was a kid?”

You know what I’m talking about. Sure, they had pizza hut Barbie (that comes with her own pizza and pizza slicer) when you were 12, but now they have Nina Action Barbie of DOOM with her own car that she can actually drive that actually uses gas. And her own working iPhone 4 that actually receives text messages from other dolls. Etc. Next-Generation Toy Envy. It happens to us all.

For real though… why didn’t they have these when I was a kid:
Ohmygodsparkly

I used to love light up shoes. I had a few pairs when I was young enough to get away with them, and I’ve been known to tell anyone who will listen that I would still wear them if it were socially acceptable.

THESE ARE COOLER THAN LIGHT UP SHOES.

They’re called Twinkle Toes, by Sketchers, and they be ballin’. Each of the Boy’s 5 nieces who range in age from almost-2 to 6 has a pair and I am a little ashamed of how envious I am.

I tend to like things that sparkle. And things that are colorful. These shoes, these Twinkle Toes, are the most harmonious, perfect, balanced blend of those two traits and by God I want a pair! And not only are they sparkly and colorful, there are about two hundred and fifty different styles and combinations of sparkly colorfulness to choose from. I was never too much of a demander as a kid, especially growing up without a ton of money to be had by all, but I would have demanded these. I would have wanted… needed…. these ones, these ones, these ones, and, most especially, these ones. To start.

The most upsetting thing about the whole situation is knowing that soon they’re going to have something even cooler.

I wonder if I could custom order a pair in my size…..

Today’s Reading: Burger King Pizza Burger :: Do Not Eat This!


11:365 – Po. Tay. Toe.

Sometimes my Boy likes to cook food for me. Which is awesome. Despite having majored in Culinary Arts (*cough* for one year), I really hate cooking dinner. I like making pretty fancy food, particularly baked good, for people to enjoy as much visually as gastrointestinally. Dinner is a means to an end. Get me un-hungry please! I find it to be an unpleasant waste of time spending 25 minutes creating what it’s going to take 5 minutes to consume, especially when there are much faster alternatives (frozen meals, easy mac, toast… um… plain Egos…). So the fact that my Boy will take this horrific task off my hands and not only cook food, but make it taste good…. it’s awesome.

The only thing is that, whereas I’ve been exposed to cooking and baking my whole life, both my parents having vast experience in the culinary word, the Boy is a little less… practiced in the kitchen. The food he makes is delicious, and sometimes even not ugly, but he usually arrives at that destination by accident. I’ve dubbed him the Awkward Chef, which is quite fitting. Uncertain at best with a knife, hurts himself peeling carrots, cautiously poking at the spaghetti every two minutes saying, “do you think its done?” Adorable.

However, one thing he can make that he can really really make is homemade french fries. ADDICTIVE. Ohhh so crunchy and salty and YUMMMM. They’re especially awesome because – like i said – he’s a little uncertain with a knife, so some pieces are crispier than others, and some pieces of some pieces are crispier than others, and it makes for beautiful bouquet of flavors and textures.

Tonight for dinner I wanted what I like to call a “Homemade Happy Meal,” that is, frozen chicken nuggets and the Boy’s french fries. As I peeled the potatoes, he asked me if I wanted to have potato chips instead, which sounded just delightful (and WAS.) After he had reduced the potatoes to uneven slivers of ready-to-fry taseyness, we both tried to reduce the last quarter-inch thick slice to something a little slimmer without removing any digits. He failed. Then I did too. I was ready to toss the slice into the trash or into the pot with the rest of them, but then the Boy took it and did something shocking. WARNING: if you have a weak stomach you may want to avert your eyes.

He ate it.

He ate the raw potato.

Oh. My. God.

I tried to stop him. At the last second I screamed, “DON’T YOU DARE EAT…” but it was far too late. He ate the raw potato.

And not only did he eat the raw potato, he then attempted to compare it to eating a slice of raw cucumber with salt on it. Uh, yeah, except that raw slices of cucumbers are routinely used in salads and other raw-veggie dishes. I have never in my life seen a sliced up potato between the carrot and celery sticks in a vegetable platter. Which is because nobody eats raw potatoes. Except my boyfriend.

His grandmother was quick to defend him, but let me give you a little snapshot of his grandmother. An 82 year old woman whose head is a lofty 4’10” off the ground and whose body shape resembles a toad walking on his two back legs, she would criticize the pope for being 6 minutes late were he to schedule a dinner with this family. “You’d think since he’s the pope and all he would be on time! I’ve got to take my pill, how do I know when to take my pill if we’re not going to eat when we think we’re going to? When someone says something you’d think they would stick with… what they said.” All this would be said loudly, awkwardly, and through a forced laugh so dry and fake it makes you gag a little. We all get reminded about her pill and the importance of her meal schedule on a semi-daily basis.

She’s lived with the Boy’s family for longer than the Boy has, and never paid a cent for it, except when asked to borrow a small stipend now and then. Which she keeps track of in a ledger. If, for example, she happens to see that a liter of Dr Pepper is on sale at the Kroger for 89 cents, and decides to pick one up as a “favor,” it goes in the ledger. And then she complains about lending money, as if her phone is ringing all day with people asking for handouts.

The woman is one of those long term transplants I mentioned before, born and raised in Ohio in earliest third of the 1900’s, so when she scoffed at me for having never eaten raw potato, what she said was, “Ya’ve never had a raw buh-tay-tah?” She went on to babble endlessly about how she always ate raw buhtaytahs, and all her kids ate ’em too, and they’re good, and I should try one sometime. I told her I’d sooner die.

I would, too.

Today’s Reading: I Am A Six-Month Grief Survivor :: Bertram’s Blog


10:365 – The Oracle of Apollo

On some high crag, O king, set forth the maid,

In all the pomp of funeral robes arrayed.

Hope for no bridegroom born of mortal seed,

But fierce and wild and of the dragon breed.

He swoops all-conquering, born on airy wing,

With fire and sword he makes his harvesting;

Trembles before him Jove, whom the gods do dread,

And quakes the darksome river of the dead.

Today’s Reading: Searching for Heroines (II): Psyche :: The Hannibal Blog


9:365 – Ugly Sunday

Some days it’s just not worth getting out of bed.

This was one of those days.

And this counts as a post.

Today’s reading: Boys Reading :: Pew Pew Crash Crash


8:365 – Rangers Win the AL West and I Just Don’t Care

Nope, I don’t care at all. In fact, I kind of want to groan in disappointment because it just means I’ve got to put up with watching them play for up to another 6 weeks. Oh my God. Just kill me.

I kind of hate how my life has to be planned around sports and the watching of them. I’m still not in peak health condition, so today I’m laying in bed for going on the 3rd hour, feeling like I’ve been hit by an atomic bomb, and I have to drag my ass out of my death bed to go set the DVR to record the Rangers game for the Boy who works on Saturdays. Can I just tell you that the last thing I wanted to do at that moment was drag my ass out of my death bed for any reason at all, let alone to facilitate my sports junkie boyfriend’s sports habit? I can only compare it to having to get out of your death bed to cut lines for your coke-head significant other.

Then, because the Boy’s family is every bit as psycho as he is about baseball, I got to watch the whole thing live and then again when he finally got home from work. And after that we watched some college football. And tomorrow we’ll watch NFL ball. Monday we’ll be watching the Rangers again, and then Tuesday, and so on until I FREAKING DIE.

Not to mention the games the Nephews play that we have to go to. Baseball games all day every weekend day, football throughout the week. Thank God I don’t have to go to all of them, but my Boy likes to go whenever he has an opportunity, and his parents sure as hell try to see them all (and they succeed!).

It’s a sickness. It’s a dirty sickness.

Is it because I’m from a state that has to share it’s sports teams with 5 other neighboring states that I just don’t understand this? Is this sort of sick obsession isolated just to this particular family, or is it all of Texas? Or is it all of the United States?? That thought just scares me…

Today’s Reading: An iPad With a Cupholder :: Thought Tech – On the Horizon


7:365 – The Inspiration

Hooray for one full week of stick-to-it-ive-ness! I’m totally counting yesterday’s one-word post and if you had any idea how much effort that one word took to hunt-and-peck out, you would too.

I feel like I need to give some credit to someone for being the inspiration for this project. In addition to being a wannabe writer, I am also a wannabe photog (gosh, I’m so multifaceted!). I’ve got a Flickr page, as we all do, and sometimes I like to look around at other people’s pictures. Not too often though. 99% of everyone on Flickr has better pictures than mine. Gives me a complex.

So I don’t remember what I was doing on this one fateful day but I came across This Here Profile. Even if you’re more into the verbal than the visual, it’s totally worth a look. This woman, whose name is Julie aka Sungazing, has struggled with debilitatingly poor body image her whole life and she takes on this challenge to take a self-portrait every single day for a year, despite how internally difficult it might be for her swallow. And the photos produced in this challenge?

They. Are. Mindblowing.

She’s not only a fantastic photographer, she’s a fantastic model! She’s phenomenal at fully capturing that day, that moment, that emotion in every single photo. She brings you up with her and down with her and around with her through a years worth of emotions and it’s a little bit exhausting but that’s how you know it’s good. I looked at every… single…. photo. And I loved them all. When I had looked at the 365th photo, I was so overcome that I sent Julie a long babbling message via Flickr telling her how much of an inspiration this photo set was to me, and I know that if I looked at them again I would react the same way. Some of the photos are happy and silly and bursting with color and texture and all the principles the really make a photo worth looking at, and some are just… a tired lady who’s had a hard day and doesn’t want to take a stupid picture of her own stupid face. Which is beautiful in it’s own right. Each one is creative, each one makes you want to stop and look for a moment, and each one makes you want to click on to the next one right away.

I’m not going to do any such thing with photography because, having seen Julie’s work, I would fall so far short of my own expectations that it’s not even worth the effort. But here I am with my blog and I’m doing it and I’m feeling good about it.

Congrats again, Julie, on a successful year, and congrats to me for a successful week.

Today’s reading: Eggs & Toast :: The Blue Hour (more pretty pictures)


6:365 – So sick. Can’t blog.

Ugh.