You want to know what is my least favorite thing about the holidays besides the constant droning background noise of Christmas music, the incessant give-me-money charity emails, and the pressure to spend money?
I hate wrapping presents. Mostly because I am terrible wrapper.
Here is the gem that I gave Captain Apollo for his birthday. I didn’t have wrapping paper because I had just finished wrapping a present for my roommate Varenka, which turned out like this:
I gave you a few different angles so you could truly appreciate how beautiful this package is. I seriously do not know how this happened, but I only had the end of the wrapping paper left, so that’s what she got.
I don’t know, internet. It always starts out okay, but then the paper gets all poufy and bend and I panic and just tape everything down.
At least you can’t tell when they’re under the tree.
In the beginning of September, I signed myself up for a month-long Locavore challenge and pledged to eat only local food for all of September.
Yesterday, I almost succeeded in eating an entire meal made of local things.
Baby steps, people.
Varenka and I went apple picking yesterday, and it was amazing.
Look at this butternut squash:
Look at these apples:
Look at me artistically frolicking in the sunflowers:
Whilst at the farm, Varenka and I stumbled on some adorable little eggplants, and we decided to eat local for dinner.
Had we not found hummus and artichoke hearts in the fridge, we would have made it, too.
This is what we made:
The (Mostly) Locavorian
Goat cheese (optional)
1. Either grill the eggplant rounds or brown in a pan with a little olive oil until soft and semi-transluscent with a brown sear. Drizzle with olive oil.
2. Grill or toast the ciabatta.
3. Cut the tomatoes into rounds.
4. Spread hummus onto the ciabatta and put the other stuff on it and eat it. I don’t need to babysit you guys. You can build a damn sandwich.
5. Serve with mulled hot cider spiked with Jameson. Or whatever you’re into.
7. Live life and prosper.
Hey internet. Sorry if the last few posts have been a little… bizarre. Life’s been hectic recently.
Actually, on that note, a brief, real-life-real-time update. As of Thursday, I am no longer living in my parent’s house! Varenka and I have our own adorable (okay, adorable is a strong word) apartment centrally located in Where-I-Live, USA, about 6 blocks and a neighbourhood away from mes parents. Moving is apparently terrible. More on that soon.
Second update, the same week that I moved into the new digs, I got a new job! (promotion? Semi-promotion?) at the Visitor’s Centre! I’ll be doing some very cool social marketing, public relations and website-based copy writing stuff, which is as swanky-sounding as it is super exciting. However, I’m now essentially working full time there, which means that with my yoga job on top of that, I’ll probably be pushing 50-55 hours a week working my two favorite things.
Somebody pinch me.
Anywho, what with the move, the new job, and the fact that I don’t have internet yet in the new apartment (Gallifrey), the blog postings for the next week or so may continue to be… odd.
I guess we’ll see what happens.
So Mi Madre decided to remodel our yoga studio a little while ago, internet, and today was Paint Day.
Before Paint Day, I thought that I was pretty good at painting.
I thought wrong.
We had Mamma Mia, my Padre, my roommate Varenka, another studio employee, and Bob the Builder (the remodeling guy) in to help with stage one of the painting. Varenka and I were assigned a new set of shelving to prime for painting, while the rest of the crew were spackling, taping, and painting the rest of the space.
Varenka and I looked at each other.
Shelving? we thought. Easy peasy.
We were so wrong.
It turns out that Varenka and I are horribly inept at painting, which is funny, because I have a degree in Studio Art and I SPENT MOST OF THAT TIME PAINTING.
However, Art painting and painting painting are apparently not at all alike.
Art painting you can splash some contrasting colors on a ripped canvas smothered in a mixture of baby oil and chicken feathers and call it a day.
Painting painting you have to actually pay attention to.
Varenka and I spend a whole hour with our entire torsos shoved into these shelving units poking around with paintbrushes while everyone else in the room apparently magicked the paint flawlessly onto the walls.
After about two hours of this, at which point Varenka and I had essentially finished nothing and the rest of the room was essentially done, Bob the Builder took pity on us and casually mentioned that we could use a paint roller.
It still took us another hour to finish the damn thing.
But we finished.
It then took both of us another hour to clean off the paint which had bonded with our skin at a subatomic level. I still have paint clinging to me in places I do not care to mention.
I guess at the end of the day we both felt that us being in the studio that day was slightly more helpful then us not being in the studio, which is something.
Some quick housekeeping –
First, it’s come to my attention that I completely forgot about Manuscript Monday and Yoga Tuesday this week. My apologies. Slap on the wrist for me. They’ll be back next week. Thanks for reminding me, Varenka.
Second, I’m running a campaign to get 200 likes on my Facebook page by the 16th! Check it out! Fresh material everyday!
Varenka and I are moving into our new apartment in 21 days, and I have busily been making posters for our walls. Enjoy.
I think my cat has freaking lost it. Like, really, really lost it. Like, he’s entered his happy place and his mental capacities have fluttered away lost it.
I caught him staring at the wall the other day. Not out the door or anything, he was literally sitting and staring at the wall. I went to my room for twenty minutes or so and came back downstairs and he was still there. I’m kicking myself for not having my phone on me to take a picture, but I swear on Matthew McConaughey’s rippling sixpack that it really happened.
Varenka has confirmed this suspicion that my cat has gone loco bananas. She came over on Tuesday evening after our studio’s crazy yoga dance party (which I’ll tell y’all about in more detail on Tuesday, but guys it was so amazing) for our pity party and we spent a solid five minutes watching my cat, who was draped across an armchair in the most uncomfortable looking position ever, lick the air. Not his nose, which dogs do with astonishing regularity. No. The air. Like a snake does.
I realize I casually skipped over the fact that Varenka and I planned and attended something called a pity party, which is our new term for making mojitos in our pajamas and watching Doctor Who and not discussing all of the distressing happenings in our lives. This is partially because I wanted to get the bit out about the cat first, and partially because I’ve been avoiding mentioning that I didnt get in to grad school this year.
And that’s all we shall say on that subject.
Anyways, so my cat has gone nutters and I’m pretty sure he dragged my precious baby boy down the rabbit hole with him because as I previously mentioned, Pepper PEED on me twice last week. He flipped over on his back for tummy rubs and peed right on my leg with the kind of accuracy that human males never achieve (if the average fraternity bathroom is anything to go by). I can only assume that the cat offered him his body weight in Beggin’ Strips for the dirty deed, because my smoodlywoodle wouldn’t do that to me unprovoked.
Patty Mayonnaise seems to be above picking sides at the moment, as always providing proof that girls of any species are smarter than boys.
This is a followup to yesterday’s post, which was written in quite the haphazardly, slapdash fashion. If you haven’t read it yet, I suggest you do that first, to avoid confusion.
…catering headquarters. I was, for obvious reasons, in a bit of a state at that point, and there wasn’t anyone left except for one poor kitchen boy, who took one look at me and got the hell out of my way. I realized I was going to be late for this meeting I had to go to, so I threw things back where they belonged, reparked the stupid, honking big van, and sprinted to my car.
I definitely sped down to the studio. I think if I passed any cops they could probably sense the crazy that was happening in my car, so they got out of my way.
Got to the studio, 5 minutes late. Varenka unlocked the door for me and let me in and I run into the room and sit against the wall.
Do you ever have those moments where you’ve been running around all day and you just stop and sit down and all the sudden all you want to do is go to sleep? That’s kind of what was happening to me, but I’d had three cups of coffee at work (it’s free! Yay!) and so I had exhaustion jitters. I was semi-falling asleep against the wall, but I couldn’t get my hands and feet to stop jerking. It wasn’t so much like I couldn’t sit still as that my extremities were twitching. During this semi-serious conversation about changing your life. We’ve all been there, right?
I’m pretty sure at this point I may actually be dying, but I pick up the packet of paper I’m given and flip through it in an attempt to look like I’m paying any sort of attention. I seriously couldn’t tell you what we talked about if my life depended on it. I think cucumbers were involved? I don’t know.
The meeting ends. Sprint home. Get changed. I actually had time to play through one song before I headed down to the gig. I also realized I hadn’t eaten in about 8 (9? 10?) hours, so I slammed a Lean Cuisine (Santa Fe rice and beans, nummers). Then I realized it was Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday and she told me to look cute and wear heels, so I rechanged into a dramatically less comfortable outfit, ran to my car, and sprinted (sped) downtown.
So I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I sort-of play in a band aka a duet aka my friend who is in an actual, real band lets me sing with him sometimes. I play the ukulele, because I am a giant cliché. My friend (let’s call him Captain Apollo) basically has to coddle and cosset me into doing this, because I apparently have no problem talking to giant groups of people, but I would rather pull out my toenails than sing in front of people in public places.
Captain Apollo talks me through soundcheck, and we get everything set-up and then I go drink what is rapidly becoming my regular pre-show order of a Labatt Blue and a shot of Jameo.
At this point my friends show up with Scarlett O’Hara, and I realize that I’ve neglected to properly prepare them for the atmosphere that is this bar (let’s call it the Battlestar). So they walk into the Battlestar and they’re all prettied up and Varenka is wearing actual, real live pants which is an extremely rare event for her, and we’ve all got heels on and whatnot, and this is one of those divey-er types of dive bars where the average clientele have knuckle tattoos and you’re almost encouraged to draw obscene things on the wall. It’s bit of a surreal moment, and they’re all looking a bit deer-in-headlightsy, even Rory, who rocks a poker face like no one else I’ve ever met.
However, I have no time to comfort them because just like that Captain Apollo is summoning me to the stage. I play my 7 song set-list, which went pretty okay, and get off the stage, and the girls are raring to get out of the Battlestar, like, yesterday. So we rush out of there.
We wander around for a bit and end up in my least favorite bar in town, which is apparently pretty heated on a Thursday because It Is Bumping.
And that’s when I just lose my head.
I think I’ve done a pretty decent job at explaining how Thursday was just a bit of a shit-show for me thus far. So imagine, if you will, coming fresh from the day I’ve had with barely any time to sit down, let alone take my foot off the gas pedal, and getting immediately thrown into a club packed full of sweaty strangers who are trying to rub up on you and chat you up and buy you drinks. It was not pretty. Varenka and Scarlett ended up getting tequila shots which I did not partake in as I was driving, and they seemed to be immediately okay with the situation. I backed myself up against the wall and clung to my Red Bull vodka for dear life.
I think I lasted about twenty minutes before I had to get out of there, internet. I was about to have a breakdown that would rival any toddler you know. Imagine a five-year old just had to pick up all her toys and eat brussel sprouts for dinner and then her brother gets a bigger slice of cake than she does. That was me. I was tired, uncomfortable, overwhelmed, emotional and I. Just. Couldn’t.
I lit outta there like a race horse on speed, people.
Moral of the story?
There is none.