#96 on my life list is to buy from local and independent artists and businesses. This is something I do quite a bit of already so I guess my intention is to find more local and independents to support and to expand the network of people I know are making cool shrit (Shrit, I recently learned, is what they say in Georgia to avoid saying the s-word!). Here's a short list of people and places who are making things I covet, the list I want to add to this year. This is sort of in honor of holiday gifts since it's December and all but I think it's just as fun and sometimes more meaningful to give when there's no occasion except that you felt like it so this is a year-round endorsement, suckas.
- Sock Dreams Portland, OR
I recommend Sock Dreams to someone approximately four times a week during the colder months, every time I get a comment on my arm warmers. I once led myself and Monica on a high speed chase through the one-way streets and many confusing bridges of Portland in order to visit the Sock Dreams store before it closed instead of just buying online. We barely made it, the girl behind the counter was cool, and now I'm just as happy to keep buying online since they make sure your bundle of socks, arm warmers, leg warmers are sent out and sitting on your porch within a couple of days.
- Queen Bee Creations - Rebecca Pearcy. Portland, OR
I've bought vinyl bags and wallets from Queen Bee over the last ten years (at least), most recently a wallet at the Portland Airport. It's black, red, and blue, my favorite colors. It snaps shut and is easy to use, it doesn't show any sign of wear after a year, and it's big enough to hold all my shrit. I have a lot of shrit.
- The Commission Project, Art by Paul Ferney San Francisco & Paris
I found Paul Ferney on Mighty Girl and think a small commissioned painting from a photograph is just about the best present possible.
- Cats in Clothes - Heather Mattoon
I'm not even a cat person but I can totally get behind Cats in Clothes. My friend has a cat who looks like Vincent ("Vincent plays football, or soccer for Americans, he is European. He takes acting classes and loves his hoodie.") Oh, we laughed. I tried to find out more about Heather Mattoon but the About the Artist section on the website appears to be in Latin so we are going to have to let the cats speak for themselves.
- Pyrrha - Wade Papin and Danielle Wilmore
Wax seal jewelry handmade in Vancouver from reclaimed and recycled 14k gold and sterling silver. I bought Matthew a wax seal necklace of a bee in the Los Angeles Pyrrha store this time last year. I let him wear it for awhile but have had it around my neck every day since June so I guess I'm taking the "reclaim" part of Pyrrha's mission statement a bit too literally.
- Blackett Body Basics Seattle, WA
My girl, the notorious powerhouse Laura Blackett. Handmade all-natural body products that she whips up in between the raising of three children and the other dozen projects that she has planned each day.
- Art & Invention Gallery Nashville, TN
I found Art & Invention over the summer and have been back three times when I've been in Nashville. I've found handmade wedding presents, birthday presents, and no reason at all presents here. My second time back the door was locked so I was peeking through the window. The owner was inside painting the walls but she opened the door, excused the mess, and welcomed me in to walk around and then counted out the change by hand for the artwork I bought since the register was off. That is some seriously friendly Bob Roncker-level of customer service.
- Our own RACECAR
Independent music label by Matthew Cooper, Evan Sharfe, and Cody Norenberg based in Oceanside, CA soon to be Nashville, Cincinnati, and Weimar, Germany.
- Buy Olympia
A small business in Portland, OR that started in 1999 in Olympia, WA to help their friends sell handmade goods online. Art, paper goods, books, journals, clothes, jewelry, household, bags, belts, etc. I think I found Buy Olympia when I was interning for Seal Press and writing a resource section for a book back in my Seattle days.
- Fab.com
Halle invited me to Fab.com a few months ago. Fab.com is based on good design and big discounts. A page of daily shops appear in your inbox each day, many by artisans and small businesses. They can be crazy expensive or crazy inexpensive but they are all good deals for what they are and they make it waaaay too easy. Sometimes I have to tell myself, "You will not look at Fab.com today, you are too emotionally vulnerable to be trusted around all those designers." Get thee invited to Fab.com. Psst, I can invite you so just ask.
Showing posts with label consumption. Show all posts
Showing posts with label consumption. Show all posts
8.26.2011
42 pages of shoes
It doesn't look like hurricane weather from my window in Providence, Rhode Island but I've seen the photos taken from the international space station. ONE THOUSAND MILES OF PURE STORM. It's practically sexy.
We have postponed a show and changed route for the hurricane. Depending on what happens tomorrow - if Irene slows down or speeds up - we may revise our plans of when, exactly, we leave Providence for Portland. All I know is I got galoshes yesterday in Bridgeport. And even though I played it cool last night, I was COMPELLED to spend the two hour overnight bus ride browsing shoes on 6pm.com. Now, they were deeply discounted - I looked at nothing less than 60% off - but I got through 42 pages of shoes. 42 pages of shoes. On some deep, dark, level, I was stressed and I needed to be soothed by 42 pages of shoes.
We have postponed a show and changed route for the hurricane. Depending on what happens tomorrow - if Irene slows down or speeds up - we may revise our plans of when, exactly, we leave Providence for Portland. All I know is I got galoshes yesterday in Bridgeport. And even though I played it cool last night, I was COMPELLED to spend the two hour overnight bus ride browsing shoes on 6pm.com. Now, they were deeply discounted - I looked at nothing less than 60% off - but I got through 42 pages of shoes. 42 pages of shoes. On some deep, dark, level, I was stressed and I needed to be soothed by 42 pages of shoes.
5.29.2011
In my skin
Sometimes I think I want to blog about what I'm wearing and where I found it on clearance and what great shoes are cute and comfortable. I talk about these things to friends in real life. Then I imagine all the photos that people post of themselves when they blog about their style and I know that 90% of my shots would come out like this.
Let me explain what is going on with my face; because I am cocking finger pistols, I am also saying, "Chk-chk." And I can't stop even though Matthew pointed out that it isn't entirely necessary to SAY chk-chk when pretending that my hands are guns. Doesn't matter. Incidentally, this expression is very similar to my "smile" at the dentist's receptionist the other day when half my face was numb.
I took these photos outside of a deli in LA where we ate before heading down to the Idol TV finale. I wanted to show Robin and Kelly that I was wearing the awesome t-shirt they bought for me at the Sicilian Festival in San Diego and had given me the night before.
You can't really see the shirt but there is a tree and the tree is a person and their arms are trunks. It reminded them of the Berlin tree I have tattooed on my arm. In this photo I believe I think I'm sneaking up on someone.
I have a hard time taking myself seriously in photos and am generally an inelegant subject. I can be going about my day perfectly gracefully but as soon as the camera is on me, I'm constipated. I don't know exactly what this means, besides the fact that I'm turning into my mother. Am I not as comfortable in my skin as I think I am? Hm. Something to think about.
Let me explain what is going on with my face; because I am cocking finger pistols, I am also saying, "Chk-chk." And I can't stop even though Matthew pointed out that it isn't entirely necessary to SAY chk-chk when pretending that my hands are guns. Doesn't matter. Incidentally, this expression is very similar to my "smile" at the dentist's receptionist the other day when half my face was numb.
I took these photos outside of a deli in LA where we ate before heading down to the Idol TV finale. I wanted to show Robin and Kelly that I was wearing the awesome t-shirt they bought for me at the Sicilian Festival in San Diego and had given me the night before.
You can't really see the shirt but there is a tree and the tree is a person and their arms are trunks. It reminded them of the Berlin tree I have tattooed on my arm. In this photo I believe I think I'm sneaking up on someone.
I have a hard time taking myself seriously in photos and am generally an inelegant subject. I can be going about my day perfectly gracefully but as soon as the camera is on me, I'm constipated. I don't know exactly what this means, besides the fact that I'm turning into my mother. Am I not as comfortable in my skin as I think I am? Hm. Something to think about.
2.28.2011
2.15.2011
The study of stuff
Okay, after this I'm really going to try to stop talking about stuff I own. GOD. It's just that the turn I took down creepy art road a few days ago really got me looking around and wondering why I like what I like and keep what I have. Sometimes it's easy to pinpoint. My monkey statue is a good example of that.
In the summer of 2009 I went to Graceland for the first time. I hadn't thought about Elvis a whole lot before then but I walked out of his house entranced. This in and of itself is not unusual for me; I'm often waaaay behind the curve. I was working for Crystal Bowersox in December when she opened a show for the Doobie Brothers. I'd devoted less than five minutes of attention to the Doobies in my 35 years but after I saw them onstage being so pro and backstage being so gracious I was all, "Have you heard of these guys?!? They're called the Doobie Brothers! Wow!" Turns out I was familiar with about 20 of their songs simply from existing on the planet Earth, I just didn't know it.
Elvis got me with his monkey statue, among other things.
I got home and wanted my own monkey statue. I kept my eye out and eventually, believe it or not, a monkey statue popped up on Craigslist. I drove 30-odd miles to buy the statue from a lady who also talked me into buying its companion piece, the monkey lamp, not pictured here because it's unspeakably ugly. I keep it out of sheer stubbornness.
In our old home, the monkey statue was displayed atop a bookcase in the studio-office. At night, when I was awake and up late reading, the recessed lights from the sharp-angled ceiling would catch the monkey statue and project its elongated shadow on the wall. In all seriousness, a few times I was afraid of the monkey statue. In the new home, the monkey is nestled between the stove and the coffeemaker and it's not spooky at all. Once I even balanced the monkey on the lid of a saucepot in which I was cooking rice in order to keep the steam from escaping. After a minute I decided that wasn't a good idea, put the monkey back on the counter, and found a lid that fit better.
This guy I bought on the street in Mexico in 1995.
I love this etching: the birds on the right, his shifty eyes and pointed beaky nose. He's crisscrossed the country with me and hung in most of my rooms. Now he's installed above the bed and keeps a mysterious eye on me.
Finally, I offer these two ceramic plates. I'm not sure what they're supposed to be for. To put hot dishes on? I just look at them. I bought them at the Necromance store in Los Angeles.
The anatomical plates sit on the library card catalog, another secondhand purchase, that serves as our bar. Usually a slew of liquor bottles are also on the card catalog but before we moved to California, I gave away most of the booze. Anyone who came to our house during our last week in Kentucky was given offers. What do you want? A desk? A floor lamp? A bottle of vodka? Have you ever tried coffee-flavored Patrón? It's yours. I don't have a clear-cut reason why I have the plates with the eyeball and bones, I just do. I always liked biology. The study of life is fascinating.
In the summer of 2009 I went to Graceland for the first time. I hadn't thought about Elvis a whole lot before then but I walked out of his house entranced. This in and of itself is not unusual for me; I'm often waaaay behind the curve. I was working for Crystal Bowersox in December when she opened a show for the Doobie Brothers. I'd devoted less than five minutes of attention to the Doobies in my 35 years but after I saw them onstage being so pro and backstage being so gracious I was all, "Have you heard of these guys?!? They're called the Doobie Brothers! Wow!" Turns out I was familiar with about 20 of their songs simply from existing on the planet Earth, I just didn't know it.
Elvis got me with his monkey statue, among other things.
I got home and wanted my own monkey statue. I kept my eye out and eventually, believe it or not, a monkey statue popped up on Craigslist. I drove 30-odd miles to buy the statue from a lady who also talked me into buying its companion piece, the monkey lamp, not pictured here because it's unspeakably ugly. I keep it out of sheer stubbornness.
In our old home, the monkey statue was displayed atop a bookcase in the studio-office. At night, when I was awake and up late reading, the recessed lights from the sharp-angled ceiling would catch the monkey statue and project its elongated shadow on the wall. In all seriousness, a few times I was afraid of the monkey statue. In the new home, the monkey is nestled between the stove and the coffeemaker and it's not spooky at all. Once I even balanced the monkey on the lid of a saucepot in which I was cooking rice in order to keep the steam from escaping. After a minute I decided that wasn't a good idea, put the monkey back on the counter, and found a lid that fit better.
This guy I bought on the street in Mexico in 1995.
I love this etching: the birds on the right, his shifty eyes and pointed beaky nose. He's crisscrossed the country with me and hung in most of my rooms. Now he's installed above the bed and keeps a mysterious eye on me.
Finally, I offer these two ceramic plates. I'm not sure what they're supposed to be for. To put hot dishes on? I just look at them. I bought them at the Necromance store in Los Angeles.
The anatomical plates sit on the library card catalog, another secondhand purchase, that serves as our bar. Usually a slew of liquor bottles are also on the card catalog but before we moved to California, I gave away most of the booze. Anyone who came to our house during our last week in Kentucky was given offers. What do you want? A desk? A floor lamp? A bottle of vodka? Have you ever tried coffee-flavored Patrón? It's yours. I don't have a clear-cut reason why I have the plates with the eyeball and bones, I just do. I always liked biology. The study of life is fascinating.
1.12.2011
Too much stuff
So last weekend. I spent most of it cursing the stuff I now own while at the same time wrapping it all up in cocoons of bubble wrap to make sure none of it breaks on the road. One night I dreamed that the bubble wrap roles were spinning down the street like tumbleweed and I imagined how many hundred of feet it would span if it were unrolled along the main drag in Oceanside. I think it was 700 feet.
All I've ever moved before are duffel bags and suitcases filled with books, clothes, and mementos. Now, even though we gave away two couches, two desks, a chair and a ton of smaller things, we filled three 6' x 7' x 8' U-Pack containers entirely with casserole dishes. How did THAT happen? Oh yeah, the registry. Curses.
U-pack dropped off the containers on Friday, we packed and moved over the weekend with lots of help - thank you parents, Kevin, Evan, Mary Beth and Jeremy - and drove off on Monday after picking up Elise and wedging her into the backseat of the Honda Fit with the dog and the bonsai trees. We meet our stuff in California on Friday and I'm going to spend the next few days Googling casserole recipes so I can make something to eat as soon as we unpack.
All I've ever moved before are duffel bags and suitcases filled with books, clothes, and mementos. Now, even though we gave away two couches, two desks, a chair and a ton of smaller things, we filled three 6' x 7' x 8' U-Pack containers entirely with casserole dishes. How did THAT happen? Oh yeah, the registry. Curses.
U-pack dropped off the containers on Friday, we packed and moved over the weekend with lots of help - thank you parents, Kevin, Evan, Mary Beth and Jeremy - and drove off on Monday after picking up Elise and wedging her into the backseat of the Honda Fit with the dog and the bonsai trees. We meet our stuff in California on Friday and I'm going to spend the next few days Googling casserole recipes so I can make something to eat as soon as we unpack.
3.12.2010
How I came to own a crock pot
The summer of 2003
I remember clearly the summer of 2003. It was the summer I said to one of my New York roommates, Joleen, "If I ever act like I'm gonna get married, please remind me of the summer of 2003." She laughed and promised to do so.
She didn't come through, however, mainly because she fled to New Zealand on a ship, leaving $11,000 in debt, no forwarding address, and a roomful of crap for me, Roopa, and Lee to get rid of. Not that we weren't thrilled to sift through her old sweaters, dildos, and handcuffs, DON'T GET ME WRONG.
It was in the summer of 2003 that everyone in my life got married. And by everyone I mean five friends, which was a lot in three months. It was a lot of travel - to Alaska, Washington State, Michigan, Cincinnati, and England - but that was no problem, I like travel. It was some responsibility - as the minister in two of the weddings - and while that was slightly nervewracking, I pulled it off and was happy to give that gift to Sara and Gail.
No, it wasn't really the logistics, it was the emotions that got to me.
I was in a "relationship" at the time - a sort of maybe kind of relationship with someone who would never be into me enough to lose the quotes around our so-called relationship and who wasn't supportive of me the way I was supportive of him. I imagine that some part of me knew this and was envious of my friends. Not for their marriages so much as the love and trust that their marriages represented and that they'd found, that which eluded me.
Okay, the details of weddings bugged me too. I could not relate - painfully so, at times - to the things that crop up around weddings. Buying houses, remodeling houses, wanting stuff for houses you are buying and remodeling. Starting a wedding registry to tell people what stuff you want to put in your houses. I rented a teeny tiny room that I filled with my teeny tiny possessions. I shopped at thrift stores and sales and sometimes put things on credit. I didn't get it and I didn't think I wanted to.
I remember when Sara was in town before her wedding. We walked around the city, drank mimosas at a bar in Grand Central Station, and then she dragged me into Williams-Sonoma. She ogled kitchen goods while apologizing for it, brushing it off as just a weird wedding phenomenon as inescapable as gravity. I was a good sport, mainly because she was cracking me up by being such a little bitch to the store worker who asked us like three times if we needed help. Each time she'd answer, "I'm sorry, whaaat?" until he shrugged and left.
In the end I enjoyed each wedding even if I didn't get it and seriously doubted that I would go through such a thing myself.
My very own wedding registry
I was resistant. The stark consumption made me uncomfortable. Apparently it's rude to announce your wedding registry on your wedding invitation but it's equally rude NOT to have a registry. I'm okay with being rude unless there's a good, practical reason not to be.
Conflicted, I called Sara.
"Look," she said, "It's a guide for people. People who know you well may give you something more personal but you're having a lot of people come to your party and many of them will want some direction. You help them out and you get some things you need. If you don't do a registry you'll end up with fifteen salad spinners and no easy way to return them." (Note: I may have paraphrased some of that.)
Something about that sunk in. I am morally opposed to salad spinners and don't want one, much less fifteen. And now that I like cooking, I've learned a lot of new words, like dutch oven, and it would be awesome to have one. And I've been tenderizing meat with a Patron tequila lime squeezer that I thought was an ice cream scoop for the longest time. This damn registry might actually come in handy.
That doesn't mean I didn't get in a really bad mood while walking through Crate & Barrel zapping things with my registry zapper. Quite a few people told me how much fun they'd had zapping things they wanted. I want that. Zap! That's shiny. Zap! How many do you want? Four? Zap Zap Zap Zap! It made me sullen and short-tempered. The zapper started to feel like a neon arrow pointed right at me, the materialistic one. It was far easier for me to handle on the internet so we finished the registry online where, I have to say, I ended up picking out some stuff that would be rad to own. I am not gonna lie.
Things have started to show up at our house, gifts that are sent to us, waiting on the porch outside our door. It is bizarre and, because I am so unfamiliar with the process, practically magical. I didn't know people sent gifts ahead of time, months before you are married or in my case, in between your Vegas wedding and your Kentucky wedding. I thought you carted your gift to the wedding and made someone cart it back home. This whole SENDING concept really streamlines the process.
So where am I now? Somewhere in between where I was and, most likely, where I'm going to be. How is that for obvious yet vague? I'm looking forward to using my new crock pot.
I remember clearly the summer of 2003. It was the summer I said to one of my New York roommates, Joleen, "If I ever act like I'm gonna get married, please remind me of the summer of 2003." She laughed and promised to do so.
She didn't come through, however, mainly because she fled to New Zealand on a ship, leaving $11,000 in debt, no forwarding address, and a roomful of crap for me, Roopa, and Lee to get rid of. Not that we weren't thrilled to sift through her old sweaters, dildos, and handcuffs, DON'T GET ME WRONG.
It was in the summer of 2003 that everyone in my life got married. And by everyone I mean five friends, which was a lot in three months. It was a lot of travel - to Alaska, Washington State, Michigan, Cincinnati, and England - but that was no problem, I like travel. It was some responsibility - as the minister in two of the weddings - and while that was slightly nervewracking, I pulled it off and was happy to give that gift to Sara and Gail.
No, it wasn't really the logistics, it was the emotions that got to me.
I was in a "relationship" at the time - a sort of maybe kind of relationship with someone who would never be into me enough to lose the quotes around our so-called relationship and who wasn't supportive of me the way I was supportive of him. I imagine that some part of me knew this and was envious of my friends. Not for their marriages so much as the love and trust that their marriages represented and that they'd found, that which eluded me.
Okay, the details of weddings bugged me too. I could not relate - painfully so, at times - to the things that crop up around weddings. Buying houses, remodeling houses, wanting stuff for houses you are buying and remodeling. Starting a wedding registry to tell people what stuff you want to put in your houses. I rented a teeny tiny room that I filled with my teeny tiny possessions. I shopped at thrift stores and sales and sometimes put things on credit. I didn't get it and I didn't think I wanted to.
I remember when Sara was in town before her wedding. We walked around the city, drank mimosas at a bar in Grand Central Station, and then she dragged me into Williams-Sonoma. She ogled kitchen goods while apologizing for it, brushing it off as just a weird wedding phenomenon as inescapable as gravity. I was a good sport, mainly because she was cracking me up by being such a little bitch to the store worker who asked us like three times if we needed help. Each time she'd answer, "I'm sorry, whaaat?" until he shrugged and left.
In the end I enjoyed each wedding even if I didn't get it and seriously doubted that I would go through such a thing myself.
My very own wedding registry
I was resistant. The stark consumption made me uncomfortable. Apparently it's rude to announce your wedding registry on your wedding invitation but it's equally rude NOT to have a registry. I'm okay with being rude unless there's a good, practical reason not to be.
Conflicted, I called Sara.
"Look," she said, "It's a guide for people. People who know you well may give you something more personal but you're having a lot of people come to your party and many of them will want some direction. You help them out and you get some things you need. If you don't do a registry you'll end up with fifteen salad spinners and no easy way to return them." (Note: I may have paraphrased some of that.)
Something about that sunk in. I am morally opposed to salad spinners and don't want one, much less fifteen. And now that I like cooking, I've learned a lot of new words, like dutch oven, and it would be awesome to have one. And I've been tenderizing meat with a Patron tequila lime squeezer that I thought was an ice cream scoop for the longest time. This damn registry might actually come in handy.
That doesn't mean I didn't get in a really bad mood while walking through Crate & Barrel zapping things with my registry zapper. Quite a few people told me how much fun they'd had zapping things they wanted. I want that. Zap! That's shiny. Zap! How many do you want? Four? Zap Zap Zap Zap! It made me sullen and short-tempered. The zapper started to feel like a neon arrow pointed right at me, the materialistic one. It was far easier for me to handle on the internet so we finished the registry online where, I have to say, I ended up picking out some stuff that would be rad to own. I am not gonna lie.
Things have started to show up at our house, gifts that are sent to us, waiting on the porch outside our door. It is bizarre and, because I am so unfamiliar with the process, practically magical. I didn't know people sent gifts ahead of time, months before you are married or in my case, in between your Vegas wedding and your Kentucky wedding. I thought you carted your gift to the wedding and made someone cart it back home. This whole SENDING concept really streamlines the process.
So where am I now? Somewhere in between where I was and, most likely, where I'm going to be. How is that for obvious yet vague? I'm looking forward to using my new crock pot.
11.25.2009
So your family isn't lactose intolerant
Jane and I opened her parents' fridge and counted 33 sticks of butter and 13 tubs of Graeter's ice cream.
11.22.2009
Hog wild for bacon
Have I ever mentioned that I once interned for an airline magazine? It's just one of my many high/low points in Seattle. Because of my internship, the title of Delta's September Sky Mag story on bacon, "Hog Wild for Bacon", reminds me how much I hate puns and alliteration.
Those months that I wrote blurbs, spotlights, and my crowning glory - a full-length article on women's pantsuits - for Frontier and Midway airlines, I had a hard time not turning all my thoughts into clever puns and annoying titles. I would give you an example but I paid a doctor a lot of money to remove that part of my brain with a melon scoop.
Bacon is the salty bad boy of pork. Meat eaters have been living high off the hog for thousands of years -- but today folks are doing sizzlin' stuff with bacon.
That sentence means that someone sat in a cubicle going, "Pig...pork...hog...wait...hog wild...high off the hog...yes! Yes!" Shiver.
I should tell you, though, that there's some useful information in Delta's bacon piece, lest I make the mistake of not giving credit to good research:
The Bacon Show blog, one bacon recipe per day, every day, forever
Bacon Salt, kosher, safe for vegetarians. I suspect that this is not a good idea. I could be wrong.
Bakon Vodka? Am I screaming out of fright or having an orgasm? I honestly don't know.
Those months that I wrote blurbs, spotlights, and my crowning glory - a full-length article on women's pantsuits - for Frontier and Midway airlines, I had a hard time not turning all my thoughts into clever puns and annoying titles. I would give you an example but I paid a doctor a lot of money to remove that part of my brain with a melon scoop.
Bacon is the salty bad boy of pork. Meat eaters have been living high off the hog for thousands of years -- but today folks are doing sizzlin' stuff with bacon.
That sentence means that someone sat in a cubicle going, "Pig...pork...hog...wait...hog wild...high off the hog...yes! Yes!" Shiver.
I should tell you, though, that there's some useful information in Delta's bacon piece, lest I make the mistake of not giving credit to good research:
The Bacon Show blog, one bacon recipe per day, every day, forever
Bacon Salt, kosher, safe for vegetarians. I suspect that this is not a good idea. I could be wrong.
Bakon Vodka? Am I screaming out of fright or having an orgasm? I honestly don't know.
11.18.2009
Hoaglin bacon
The second road trip I took in September was also to Indiana because I JUST CAN'T GET ENOUGH. I'd made a date to eat bacon with Ali Schumacher on September 5 when the tour rolled through Indianapolis. She was to pick me up at the hotel at nine am and take me to a place called Hoaglin To Go Cafe & Marketplace, a place that in the interest of time and syllables I'll just call Hoaglin, to eat bacon.
Ali gets happy when talking about Hoaglin bacon, eyes rolling around in her head happy. She practically composed a bacon sonnet for me. And since she and I used to record cassette tapes of ourselves singing together (badly) in high school, I could absolutely see her doing a bacon lounge song. She would wear a feathered boa and dramatically gesture with a crisp piece of bacon around her face and in front of the mic.
I called her that morning at eight am on September 5, filled with remorse, and croaked her name into the phone, "Ali?"
"Are you sick?" She asked me.
"No," I said, "but I only slept three hours on the bus ride from Madison and I might die if I don't go back to sleep." I meant it, too. It was going to be a long day, not the kind of day one sleepwalks through and then crawls into the bunk when the show goes down. I had a lot of work and I had guests, my future parents-in-law, and I had to be on, to whatever degree of "on" I could possibly attain.
"I promise to come back and eat bacon with you soon," I said.
Which I did, less than a month later.
I took the Megabus back to Indianapolis and hung out downtown, reading in Borders, until Ali got off work. She had warned me that she had a yoga class to go to and I happily imagined myself sitting in the back, sniggering and trying to catch her eye in the mirror. Six or seven years ago I went to her yoga class in Tucson and was reminded that a) I want to like yoga, but BORING and b) Ali and I should not be allowed to go to any class together, ever.
I learned this first in ninth grade English and later in gym, chemistry, and physics. We get in trouble because we get the giggles, the church giggles, the kind you put your hand over your mouth to block and they escape through your ears. Then you get in trouble via a disapproving look from your mom or your teacher asks you if you have something you'd like to share with the class. Which you do not because the whole reason you were giggling in the first place is so dumb and not funny to anyone else, you can't even explain.
It was a prenatal yoga class.
"How many weeks pregnant should we say you are?"
We went back and forth and decided that I am eight weeks pregnant.
ps I AM NOT.
We got to the class and I changed into my pajamas which happen to be yoga pants. Ali had warned me that the instructor might read from a book of verse at some point and might use the words YOUR PRECIOUS BABY and please for the love of all that is holy I should not look at Ali if and when that happened.
I made it through most of the class without pause - I now know that I prefer prenatal yoga because it is so easy except for the two times that I almost passed out because I stood up too quickly - until the instructor asked me in front of everyone "how far along" I am.
"Eight weeks," I said calmly, trying to glow just a touch.
"Then you won't need a pillow for this next one," she said.
During the next move, the one with our legs up against the wall, some with pillows and some without, she read us passages about trusting that just as our bodies knew how to make a baby (oh do they!) so will they know how to have a baby and yes, our precious, precious baby etc. What is it with the word precious? I agree that babies are precious so why does that word make me want to punch myself in the eye?
After class she congratulated me on my fictitious pregnancy and I said thank you.
"I haven't told many people because it's so early," I said. "Thank you," and put my hand over my stomach.
"I just found out in the car!" Ali piped up and smiled sheepishly.
We studiously avoided eye contact, left the building, and with the fake pregnancy and prenatal yoga out of the way, resumed preparation for phase two and the whole supposed point of my second Indiana road trip: bacon.
The next day we went to Hoaglin for lunch after stopping at Goose The Market.
Goose The Market has, in addition to recipes on their website like Coconut Bacon Bars with Poplar Whipped Marscapone, not that I know what those last three words mean, a Bacon-of-the-month club. Would you like to receive one pound of artisanal Indiana bacon every month? Because you can. Would you like a Bacon Club t-shirt? It's yours.
Part of me wants to join but I'm battling the other part that can't believe what an unbelievable pain in the ass it is to make bacon, even with my Bacon Wave. It's a mess. Regardless, bacon is hot, bacon is in, bacon is a fucking phenomenon right now and whether I join the club or make it at home, bacon is the IT food. I blame Atkins.
At Hoaglin, I was on the verge of getting a bacon salad with a side of bacon out of sheer perversity but at the last minute, I caved and got my bacon side with egg salad and curried chicken instead. And it was good. REALLY GOOD. I approve, my vegetarian waitress approves, and I get why Ali planned out the whole field trip.
I'm still trying to figure out why, when I recently flew Delta, bacon was one of the Sky Magazine cover stories. Why exactly bacon is SO popular, as not only food but a topic of discussion and hard, cutting-edge 35,000 feet journalism? Until I crack the code and learn which pork lobbyist nailed whom, I'm eating.
Ali gets happy when talking about Hoaglin bacon, eyes rolling around in her head happy. She practically composed a bacon sonnet for me. And since she and I used to record cassette tapes of ourselves singing together (badly) in high school, I could absolutely see her doing a bacon lounge song. She would wear a feathered boa and dramatically gesture with a crisp piece of bacon around her face and in front of the mic.
I called her that morning at eight am on September 5, filled with remorse, and croaked her name into the phone, "Ali?"
"Are you sick?" She asked me.
"No," I said, "but I only slept three hours on the bus ride from Madison and I might die if I don't go back to sleep." I meant it, too. It was going to be a long day, not the kind of day one sleepwalks through and then crawls into the bunk when the show goes down. I had a lot of work and I had guests, my future parents-in-law, and I had to be on, to whatever degree of "on" I could possibly attain.
"I promise to come back and eat bacon with you soon," I said.
Which I did, less than a month later.
I took the Megabus back to Indianapolis and hung out downtown, reading in Borders, until Ali got off work. She had warned me that she had a yoga class to go to and I happily imagined myself sitting in the back, sniggering and trying to catch her eye in the mirror. Six or seven years ago I went to her yoga class in Tucson and was reminded that a) I want to like yoga, but BORING and b) Ali and I should not be allowed to go to any class together, ever.
I learned this first in ninth grade English and later in gym, chemistry, and physics. We get in trouble because we get the giggles, the church giggles, the kind you put your hand over your mouth to block and they escape through your ears. Then you get in trouble via a disapproving look from your mom or your teacher asks you if you have something you'd like to share with the class. Which you do not because the whole reason you were giggling in the first place is so dumb and not funny to anyone else, you can't even explain.
It was a prenatal yoga class.
"How many weeks pregnant should we say you are?"
We went back and forth and decided that I am eight weeks pregnant.
ps I AM NOT.
We got to the class and I changed into my pajamas which happen to be yoga pants. Ali had warned me that the instructor might read from a book of verse at some point and might use the words YOUR PRECIOUS BABY and please for the love of all that is holy I should not look at Ali if and when that happened.
I made it through most of the class without pause - I now know that I prefer prenatal yoga because it is so easy except for the two times that I almost passed out because I stood up too quickly - until the instructor asked me in front of everyone "how far along" I am.
"Eight weeks," I said calmly, trying to glow just a touch.
"Then you won't need a pillow for this next one," she said.
During the next move, the one with our legs up against the wall, some with pillows and some without, she read us passages about trusting that just as our bodies knew how to make a baby (oh do they!) so will they know how to have a baby and yes, our precious, precious baby etc. What is it with the word precious? I agree that babies are precious so why does that word make me want to punch myself in the eye?
After class she congratulated me on my fictitious pregnancy and I said thank you.
"I haven't told many people because it's so early," I said. "Thank you," and put my hand over my stomach.
"I just found out in the car!" Ali piped up and smiled sheepishly.
We studiously avoided eye contact, left the building, and with the fake pregnancy and prenatal yoga out of the way, resumed preparation for phase two and the whole supposed point of my second Indiana road trip: bacon.
The next day we went to Hoaglin for lunch after stopping at Goose The Market.
Goose The Market has, in addition to recipes on their website like Coconut Bacon Bars with Poplar Whipped Marscapone, not that I know what those last three words mean, a Bacon-of-the-month club. Would you like to receive one pound of artisanal Indiana bacon every month? Because you can. Would you like a Bacon Club t-shirt? It's yours.
Part of me wants to join but I'm battling the other part that can't believe what an unbelievable pain in the ass it is to make bacon, even with my Bacon Wave. It's a mess. Regardless, bacon is hot, bacon is in, bacon is a fucking phenomenon right now and whether I join the club or make it at home, bacon is the IT food. I blame Atkins.
At Hoaglin, I was on the verge of getting a bacon salad with a side of bacon out of sheer perversity but at the last minute, I caved and got my bacon side with egg salad and curried chicken instead. And it was good. REALLY GOOD. I approve, my vegetarian waitress approves, and I get why Ali planned out the whole field trip.
I'm still trying to figure out why, when I recently flew Delta, bacon was one of the Sky Magazine cover stories. Why exactly bacon is SO popular, as not only food but a topic of discussion and hard, cutting-edge 35,000 feet journalism? Until I crack the code and learn which pork lobbyist nailed whom, I'm eating.
11.02.2009
Don't insult me, Cooking Light
I have in my notebook lists of potential writing subjects, lists I started weeks ago, but instead of mining my lists for stimulus, I am staring at the brick wall wondering if I should cook fish tomorrow night with pecan- or walnut-crusted breadcrumbs.
I was about to write AND I DON'T EVEN LIKE COOKING except that is not true; since I recently stole the Cooking Light magazine from the dentist office, I've been steadily working my way through its pages making every single recipe that doesn't a) Look totally gross b) Contain goat cheese or c) Seem just plain silly.
Silly recipes are those based on sandwiches. I mean, JEEZ. Even I, who can enjoy the whole cooking process until right at the end when everything is supposed to be hot and ready to eat at once and then I have a mini meltdown that requires an extra glass of wine, understand how to make a sandwich. Don't insult me, Cooking Light.
I was about to write AND I DON'T EVEN LIKE COOKING except that is not true; since I recently stole the Cooking Light magazine from the dentist office, I've been steadily working my way through its pages making every single recipe that doesn't a) Look totally gross b) Contain goat cheese or c) Seem just plain silly.
Silly recipes are those based on sandwiches. I mean, JEEZ. Even I, who can enjoy the whole cooking process until right at the end when everything is supposed to be hot and ready to eat at once and then I have a mini meltdown that requires an extra glass of wine, understand how to make a sandwich. Don't insult me, Cooking Light.
10.12.2009
Wherein I own a car and am feeling bridal. What happened?
Since I've been home from tour I've been reading books about Elvis and road tripping to Indiana, in fact, I've been to Indiana three times in the last three weekends WTF. I also walked from my apartment up the hill to Devou Park and found a lake with a wooded perimeter. I can walk to this lake from my couch and I didn't know it existed all last year.
I have also been buying things: a monkey statue, a monkey lamp, a tempurpedic bed and a car. All you need to know for now besides that I like monkeys and that I want to be on the cover of the tempurpedic bed catalog next year is that I'm shitting my pants that I'm suddenly a car person. I've never bought a car before and for 34 years rooted myself firmly on the side of bicycles, public transport, borrowing, begging, and stealing. Goodbye identity! You own a Honda Fit and you think it's cute as hell. Moreover, it's suddenly so easy to get from point A to point B.
And you know what else I've never done before? Gotten married. Shortly after Matthew and I got engaged last year, I forbade everyone around me to talk about it. I put a timeout on wedding chatter because I was far too busy planning the American Idol tour to plan a wedding, too. Once we found the place to have it, at Oneonta in Melbourne, KY, a place that made me laugh what with its brothel, tree house, and general store, I asked everyone to cut it out, knock it off, and only speak about it quietly behind my back. They complied.
Now I'm home, American Idol is a sweet memory, and I'm feeling bridal. Well. I mean, I will still kill myself if I start acting like seat covers matter and I have said out loud, "COLORS? Please. Motherfuckers can wear neon green up there for all I care," but I did find a chick in Seattle, a custom dressmaker, who I'm in the process of befriending and drooling all over her website.
Coming soon: I answer important and relevant questions like why have I been to Indiana so much lately, why is our culture obsessed with bacon, and how did James Dean get so hot?
I have also been buying things: a monkey statue, a monkey lamp, a tempurpedic bed and a car. All you need to know for now besides that I like monkeys and that I want to be on the cover of the tempurpedic bed catalog next year is that I'm shitting my pants that I'm suddenly a car person. I've never bought a car before and for 34 years rooted myself firmly on the side of bicycles, public transport, borrowing, begging, and stealing. Goodbye identity! You own a Honda Fit and you think it's cute as hell. Moreover, it's suddenly so easy to get from point A to point B.
And you know what else I've never done before? Gotten married. Shortly after Matthew and I got engaged last year, I forbade everyone around me to talk about it. I put a timeout on wedding chatter because I was far too busy planning the American Idol tour to plan a wedding, too. Once we found the place to have it, at Oneonta in Melbourne, KY, a place that made me laugh what with its brothel, tree house, and general store, I asked everyone to cut it out, knock it off, and only speak about it quietly behind my back. They complied.
Now I'm home, American Idol is a sweet memory, and I'm feeling bridal. Well. I mean, I will still kill myself if I start acting like seat covers matter and I have said out loud, "COLORS? Please. Motherfuckers can wear neon green up there for all I care," but I did find a chick in Seattle, a custom dressmaker, who I'm in the process of befriending and drooling all over her website.
Coming soon: I answer important and relevant questions like why have I been to Indiana so much lately, why is our culture obsessed with bacon, and how did James Dean get so hot?
4.30.2009
April remix
Dang it, is it the end of April already?
April 1: Why do conversations about the wedding make me say, "The more we talk about this, the more I want to elope!" and my mom say, "Fine, elope!" and me say, "You made me promise not to!"
April 2: Watching Cirque Dreams Jungle Fantasy is a lot like watching porn. Stick to the acrobatics, people, that's what we came here for. The "plot" is annoying.
Side note: The Mongolian School of Contortion has some very fine graduates, all of whom are named Byambatsetseg Oyunbaatar. And by very fine, I mean they could walk around naked in a circle on stage and I would give them a standing ovation.
April 4: Visit Oneonta, the possible wedding site in Melbourne, KY with mom, and become transfixed by the 19th century house (former brothel), the tree house (bridal suite), and the general store (replica of owner's grandparents' general store in North Carolina). Announce, "I've GOT to have this place!" and then look over my shoulder to see if anyone heard me sounding like a bridezilla.
April 5: Consider starting a competition in which people submit ideas for what we should sell at our wedding general store.
April 7 - 10: Go to LA and work on American Idol budget. Not a great blog topic.
April 14: Will Sunny go into labor today?
April 15: Will Sunny go into labor today?
April 16: Will Sunny go into labor today?
April 17: Realize that every time I make a change in the budget, answer an email, or take a phone call, I think at least THAT'S done before Sunny goes into labor! My preoccupation is not helped by the fact that every time Lindsay calls or emails from the office, she asks about Sunny.
April 5 - 26: Eat Ethiopian food with my old ReSTOC roommates, have coffee and dinner with Andrea, eat Indian food with Matthew, Andrew and Jocardo, exchange approximately 900 text messages with Renee and feel generally warm and fuzzy about old friends from the 80s and 90s who I hadn't seen much of until I moved back to Cincinnati.
Side note a: Intensifying sad feelings about leaving again. Side note b: I am eating a lot. And this is not counting the run-ins I've had with the blueberry muffins I eat when stressed and/or tired (emotional eating).
April 24: Walk to Devou Park with Matthew to play with the glow in the dark frisbee I bought at Target. Sadly, it's daytime so we cannot fully appreciate the frisbee's glow in the dark properties except when I peek into my tote bag to check and see if it's still glowing which it always is. Also, sadly, we play frisbee like elderly people. I want to blame the fact that it was windy and we were on a hill but secretly I know it's just us.
Winded, we sit down and a photo session of couple-y self-portraits ensues. Intensifying sad feelings about leaving my fiance for four months. Side note: I am getting more comfortable with the word fiance.
April 25: Pris 80's party at Molly Malone's. HAHA.
April 26: Go to Playhouse to see Last Train to Nibroc starring the guy who was dancing really funny last night at the 80's party. Eat with Jocardo and Matthew after the show and find a photo of a little girl on the sidewalk. Wonder what her story is.
April 27: Eat mac 'n cheese with Rachel. Also, it's Sunny's due date, therefore will she go into labor today? Miss call from Sunny while I'm at lunch and feel like a bad doula. Call her back to find that she just wanted to say hi and is out shopping for vegetables. Tell her that she scared me. People who are nine months pregnant should not be allowed to make phone calls unless they are in labor.
April 28 - 30: Three weeks until I leave. Arrange to pay bills online since I'll be traveling. Work on the budget. Start a book my dad gave me, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, which seems really good. Feel effective when I'm reading but afterwards procrastinate by cruising Zappos (ineffective). Read fiction because it's a good escape. Worry about how much of our Netflix queue we can get through before I take off. Worry about how I'm not blogging. Decide to blog real quick before I go back to working on the budget.
April 1: Why do conversations about the wedding make me say, "The more we talk about this, the more I want to elope!" and my mom say, "Fine, elope!" and me say, "You made me promise not to!"
April 2: Watching Cirque Dreams Jungle Fantasy is a lot like watching porn. Stick to the acrobatics, people, that's what we came here for. The "plot" is annoying.
Side note: The Mongolian School of Contortion has some very fine graduates, all of whom are named Byambatsetseg Oyunbaatar. And by very fine, I mean they could walk around naked in a circle on stage and I would give them a standing ovation.
April 4: Visit Oneonta, the possible wedding site in Melbourne, KY with mom, and become transfixed by the 19th century house (former brothel), the tree house (bridal suite), and the general store (replica of owner's grandparents' general store in North Carolina). Announce, "I've GOT to have this place!" and then look over my shoulder to see if anyone heard me sounding like a bridezilla.
April 5: Consider starting a competition in which people submit ideas for what we should sell at our wedding general store.
April 7 - 10: Go to LA and work on American Idol budget. Not a great blog topic.
April 14: Will Sunny go into labor today?
April 15: Will Sunny go into labor today?
April 16: Will Sunny go into labor today?
April 17: Realize that every time I make a change in the budget, answer an email, or take a phone call, I think at least THAT'S done before Sunny goes into labor! My preoccupation is not helped by the fact that every time Lindsay calls or emails from the office, she asks about Sunny.
April 5 - 26: Eat Ethiopian food with my old ReSTOC roommates, have coffee and dinner with Andrea, eat Indian food with Matthew, Andrew and Jocardo, exchange approximately 900 text messages with Renee and feel generally warm and fuzzy about old friends from the 80s and 90s who I hadn't seen much of until I moved back to Cincinnati.
April 24: Walk to Devou Park with Matthew to play with the glow in the dark frisbee I bought at Target. Sadly, it's daytime so we cannot fully appreciate the frisbee's glow in the dark properties except when I peek into my tote bag to check and see if it's still glowing which it always is. Also, sadly, we play frisbee like elderly people. I want to blame the fact that it was windy and we were on a hill but secretly I know it's just us.
Winded, we sit down and a photo session of couple-y self-portraits ensues. Intensifying sad feelings about leaving my fiance for four months. Side note: I am getting more comfortable with the word fiance.
April 25: Pris 80's party at Molly Malone's. HAHA.
April 26: Go to Playhouse to see Last Train to Nibroc starring the guy who was dancing really funny last night at the 80's party. Eat with Jocardo and Matthew after the show and find a photo of a little girl on the sidewalk. Wonder what her story is.
April 27: Eat mac 'n cheese with Rachel. Also, it's Sunny's due date, therefore will she go into labor today? Miss call from Sunny while I'm at lunch and feel like a bad doula. Call her back to find that she just wanted to say hi and is out shopping for vegetables. Tell her that she scared me. People who are nine months pregnant should not be allowed to make phone calls unless they are in labor.
April 28 - 30: Three weeks until I leave. Arrange to pay bills online since I'll be traveling. Work on the budget. Start a book my dad gave me, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, which seems really good. Feel effective when I'm reading but afterwards procrastinate by cruising Zappos (ineffective). Read fiction because it's a good escape. Worry about how much of our Netflix queue we can get through before I take off. Worry about how I'm not blogging. Decide to blog real quick before I go back to working on the budget.
3.06.2009
I just joined the bacon movement
I know it's a cliche to talk about bacon. It's become almost trendy. I don't know when it started but I've seen this bacon reverence on other blogs and I always thought it was kind of silly, as if bacon is somehow a MOVEMENT. Not just a pork product but something to actually believe in.
I'd never bought bacon, though. Eaten it, yes; cooked it, no. I recently purchased a pack of applewood-smoked bacon, however, and thought I'd cook it up with some pancakes. Matthew reminded me that it's really messy and that deterred me for a minute until I decided to just microwave it between some paper towels.
And that shit was TASTY.
I'm not exaggerating when I say that I've thought about bacon every day since then. Last night I caved and made a salad and put bacon on top of it. Eating it, I felt such elation that I thought "Between bacon and Barack, the world is going to be okay."
I'd never bought bacon, though. Eaten it, yes; cooked it, no. I recently purchased a pack of applewood-smoked bacon, however, and thought I'd cook it up with some pancakes. Matthew reminded me that it's really messy and that deterred me for a minute until I decided to just microwave it between some paper towels.
And that shit was TASTY.
I'm not exaggerating when I say that I've thought about bacon every day since then. Last night I caved and made a salad and put bacon on top of it. Eating it, I felt such elation that I thought "Between bacon and Barack, the world is going to be okay."
3.03.2009
Making coffee like it's the Civil War
In the Trader Joe's checkout line a week ago, Margarita commented that I shop quickly.
"Yeaaah, that's because you were following me and watching," I admitted. I don't usually spend $200 in twenty minutes.
"You were supposed to pretend I'm not here!" she said. I smiled guiltily and hoped I didn't skew her grocery shopping habits results.
I've been buying pre-ground coffee beans because the electric grinder has developed an attitude. Sometimes it works but more and more often it only responds to an increasingly exact formula of pounds per square inch in just the right place at just the right angle. If the barometric pressure, humidity, or temperature in the room shifts, forget it. If Mercury goes in retrograde, no coffee.
With Margarita on my heels, I'd rushed past the Trader Joe's coffee shelf and plucked off a canister of whole beans. And this morning I got up to grind those beans. Nothing. I worked my way around the grinder, pressing on the edge and the center. I plugged it into different outlets. I STOOD ON THE COFFEE GRINDER. It did not break but neither did it grind.
I recalled hearing that in the Civil War soldiers carried small burlap bags of beans and crushed them with the butts of their rifles to make coffee. I don't own a rifle so this didn't help but it DID remind me of something. I bought a mortar and pestle when I moved into this apartment!
In what was clearly a hypnotic trance at the Linens 'n Things liquidation sale, I imagined that I'd turn overnight from being someone who doesn't cook much to someone who grinds her own spices. The heavy mortar and pestle has since sat stonily in the back of the cabinet. Until now.
"Yeaaah, that's because you were following me and watching," I admitted. I don't usually spend $200 in twenty minutes.
"You were supposed to pretend I'm not here!" she said. I smiled guiltily and hoped I didn't skew her grocery shopping habits results.
I've been buying pre-ground coffee beans because the electric grinder has developed an attitude. Sometimes it works but more and more often it only responds to an increasingly exact formula of pounds per square inch in just the right place at just the right angle. If the barometric pressure, humidity, or temperature in the room shifts, forget it. If Mercury goes in retrograde, no coffee.
With Margarita on my heels, I'd rushed past the Trader Joe's coffee shelf and plucked off a canister of whole beans. And this morning I got up to grind those beans. Nothing. I worked my way around the grinder, pressing on the edge and the center. I plugged it into different outlets. I STOOD ON THE COFFEE GRINDER. It did not break but neither did it grind.
I recalled hearing that in the Civil War soldiers carried small burlap bags of beans and crushed them with the butts of their rifles to make coffee. I don't own a rifle so this didn't help but it DID remind me of something. I bought a mortar and pestle when I moved into this apartment!
In what was clearly a hypnotic trance at the Linens 'n Things liquidation sale, I imagined that I'd turn overnight from being someone who doesn't cook much to someone who grinds her own spices. The heavy mortar and pestle has since sat stonily in the back of the cabinet. Until now.
2.19.2009
Secret shopper!
My cousin, who is a marketing fanatic, I mean genius, sent me an online survey about my grocery buying habits. The survey is distributed by her firm in partnership with blah blah and is the sort of thing I'd delete if it came my way anonymously. In this case, however, I took five minutes to fill it out in case the research somehow impacts a project she's working on. Whatever, end of story.
That's what I thought!
Today I got a phone call from Margarita, a woman with a thick accent that I took to be German, who asked if she could follow me around while I go shopping. And this totally tapped into some long-standing and unacknowledged desire that I've to be a secret shopper or on one of those old game shows where you have a certain amount of time to stuff as much as possible into your cart before the time is up. People screaming, family members cheering etc.
Which gives me an idea: Should I shop really, really fast when Margarita follows me around just to make it more exciting? I'll think about it. It might make it hard for her to take notes on all of the incredibly thought-provoking choices I make in aisle three.
But that's not all. I also get some sort of gift certificate AND get to go out for coffee afterward with Margarita to talk about grocery shopping. Why am I so excited?
Margarita described herself to me so we'd recognize each other at the appointed time and it sounds like we look the same which isn't surprising since people think I'm German about nine times a day. So great, I'll meet my doppelganger outside Trader Joe's on Monday and then try not to feel at least somewhat awkward while being closely monitored as I try to pick out a wine.
That's what I thought!
Today I got a phone call from Margarita, a woman with a thick accent that I took to be German, who asked if she could follow me around while I go shopping. And this totally tapped into some long-standing and unacknowledged desire that I've to be a secret shopper or on one of those old game shows where you have a certain amount of time to stuff as much as possible into your cart before the time is up. People screaming, family members cheering etc.
Which gives me an idea: Should I shop really, really fast when Margarita follows me around just to make it more exciting? I'll think about it. It might make it hard for her to take notes on all of the incredibly thought-provoking choices I make in aisle three.
But that's not all. I also get some sort of gift certificate AND get to go out for coffee afterward with Margarita to talk about grocery shopping. Why am I so excited?
Margarita described herself to me so we'd recognize each other at the appointed time and it sounds like we look the same which isn't surprising since people think I'm German about nine times a day. So great, I'll meet my doppelganger outside Trader Joe's on Monday and then try not to feel at least somewhat awkward while being closely monitored as I try to pick out a wine.
1.12.2009
Total savings: $518.05
When I look at this receipt, I see not the money I spent, I see only the money I saved. $518.05! Are you kidding me? I feel so crafty and pleased with this amount "saved" that it completely negates the fact that I don't need any more boots for approximately six years.
The fact that I would never pay $529 for a pair of boots is a non-issue. So what if I consider buying boots that expensive a criminal act akin to telling the Amazonian Indians that I can drill oil from their rainforest because they only own the SURFACE and somehow forgot to mention that in the treaty we signed.
I recall walking down Wiener Strasse in Berlin with Charlie this time last year. He told me about the haute couture boutique he worked at in Melbourne and the thousands of dollars customers paid for one piece of a designer's clothing.
"What the hell is it spun with?! Gold?" I asked, shocked.
"Genius, darling!" Charlie said. "It's spun with genius."
I don't know if it's genius that I now know that the Zappos outlet is within driving distance from my house but I'm going to gloat every time I wear my bargain hunter handcrafted Italian boots to Steak 'n Shake.
12.22.2008
IKEA art guerrilla warfare
If there are paintings of ugly pink flowers in the IKEA clearance section, I buy them and paint over them with my new black, grey, and red acrylic paints. This modern masterpiece is hanging in my bathroom but when I run out of wall space, I will give them as gifts and raffle them off.
ps I like actual pink flowers.
11.18.2008
People who live in glass houses
My mom sent me an article in August from The Wall Street Journal. Attached to the article was a note she wrote on the back of a raffle ticket, "I thought you'd like this article about the poor people with glass walls + great views + their problems with too much sun! xxoo"
I love it when my mom is sarcastic. And I smiled because if there is one thing my mom likes to do, it's cut out an article and send it to me. She always cuts out the name and date of the newspaper and staples that little rectangle of information to the top of the page. I tried to read this article with an open mind. I wanted to read without scorn or derision but a few minutes in, I didn't care anymore and arched my eyebrows.
People Who Live in Glass Houses: It's Not All Sunshine; Faded Furniture, Nosy Neighbors and Baking Heat Among Gripes proclaimed the headline. A photo of a young woman sitting on a sectional sofa. A wall of windows through which the Hudson River twinkles. She stares, unsmiling, at her laptop screen. It's a sob story!
The sun faded Sara Antani's sofas and made it tough to read her laptop until she installed shades in her Manhattan high-rise.
Poor Sara Antani paid 1.5 million dollars for a glass-walled condo and $20,000 for a sofa and then suffered the indignity of having to wear sunglasses INSIDE. Psst, Sara Antani? That is, like, the epitome of cool.
So she's pissed at having to wear sunglasses in her home, the same home that she might have noticed was lined with glass when she first looked at it. That much glass calls for blinds or roman shades or curtains. Unless you're not into that in which case I'd think you'd understand both the properties of glass and the consequences of such properties. (Flashing your neighbors, fading your furniture, shading your eyes)
Listen, newspaper editor who I'm mad at right now, I know The Wall Street Journal isn't exactly Streetvibes but a millionaire realizing she needs curtains isn't exactly oppressive or newsworthy either. By paragraph three, Sara Antani, who is a 23-year-old grad student, gives in and buys $12,000 motorized shades. Aren't grad students supposed to be donating plasma or taking out crippling loans to get by? Damn!
The article left Sara Antani operating her shades over on the west side and made some more general points about heat transfer and energy costs and how people don't consider these things when going for glass. I hoped, when I read the words "energy costs" that the article would go green and become somehow environmentally aware and not just a really lame human interest story for rich people. I wondered if I would understand such things one day when I eventually bought a piece of new furniture.
Now I do own some new furniture AND I've been too lazy to put up blinds in my living room. And every day the morning and early afternoon sun blasts my red ottoman through two windows. I sit on the couch and type and read and I watch the triangles of light shift across the ottoman and I think about Sara Antani. I still don't feel sorry for her.
I love it when my mom is sarcastic. And I smiled because if there is one thing my mom likes to do, it's cut out an article and send it to me. She always cuts out the name and date of the newspaper and staples that little rectangle of information to the top of the page. I tried to read this article with an open mind. I wanted to read without scorn or derision but a few minutes in, I didn't care anymore and arched my eyebrows.
People Who Live in Glass Houses: It's Not All Sunshine; Faded Furniture, Nosy Neighbors and Baking Heat Among Gripes proclaimed the headline. A photo of a young woman sitting on a sectional sofa. A wall of windows through which the Hudson River twinkles. She stares, unsmiling, at her laptop screen. It's a sob story!
The sun faded Sara Antani's sofas and made it tough to read her laptop until she installed shades in her Manhattan high-rise.
Poor Sara Antani paid 1.5 million dollars for a glass-walled condo and $20,000 for a sofa and then suffered the indignity of having to wear sunglasses INSIDE. Psst, Sara Antani? That is, like, the epitome of cool.
So she's pissed at having to wear sunglasses in her home, the same home that she might have noticed was lined with glass when she first looked at it. That much glass calls for blinds or roman shades or curtains. Unless you're not into that in which case I'd think you'd understand both the properties of glass and the consequences of such properties. (Flashing your neighbors, fading your furniture, shading your eyes)
Listen, newspaper editor who I'm mad at right now, I know The Wall Street Journal isn't exactly Streetvibes but a millionaire realizing she needs curtains isn't exactly oppressive or newsworthy either. By paragraph three, Sara Antani, who is a 23-year-old grad student, gives in and buys $12,000 motorized shades. Aren't grad students supposed to be donating plasma or taking out crippling loans to get by? Damn!
The article left Sara Antani operating her shades over on the west side and made some more general points about heat transfer and energy costs and how people don't consider these things when going for glass. I hoped, when I read the words "energy costs" that the article would go green and become somehow environmentally aware and not just a really lame human interest story for rich people. I wondered if I would understand such things one day when I eventually bought a piece of new furniture.
Now I do own some new furniture AND I've been too lazy to put up blinds in my living room. And every day the morning and early afternoon sun blasts my red ottoman through two windows. I sit on the couch and type and read and I watch the triangles of light shift across the ottoman and I think about Sara Antani. I still don't feel sorry for her.
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