Hello. Long time no blog (Stace, this is for you!). Just a quick stop in for some rapid-fire notes about things that are happening in my life right now:
-We're building a house. Enter hours spent wasted on Pinterest looking for decorating inspiration. In very slightly related news, why do people always put stuff on their pianos? Drives me batty.
-Holiday season = cookie season = a quadrupled daily butter and sugar intake. I'm starting to think that faint smell of snickerdoodle that follows me around is actually wafting out of my pores.
-Bar chords had almost defeated me, but then...well, let's just say I think the tide has turned.
That's all for now. Hopefully blogging will resume on a somewhat regular basis (haha...yeah right) once the holidays are over and our hectic schedules have died down. Merry Christmas y'all!
(Yep, I said y'all. Not really sure why. Just seemed like the right thing to say.)
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Breaking the habit
I've always considered myself a saver. Not exactly a saver of money, though goodness knows I like to save it, but a saver of stuff. And not in the "I'm hoarding all these shoes" way (well, maybe), but more in a "this is special so I'm going to save it for an occasion/to make it last longer."
I do this with everything from clothes to food. But recently I've decided to try and consciously fight this instinct.
Those gorgeous strawberries I wanted to eat only a few at a time so I could savor them? Half of them end up shriveled and in the trash because I forgot about them. The cheese that cost $5.99 a pound, thereby requiring careful rationing of each delicious sliver? Inevitably it molds. Even the special sparkly shoes I don't pull out but once a year end up losing their shine, buried in a pile of the more frequently favored footwear.
This is bad. I should not do this. My instinct to "save it!" ends up wasting it instead.
Hence, my resolution. I think I have been marginally successful so far. The grapes are almost gone and that's a start, because usually a bunch of grapes ends up breeding angry raisins on the bottom shelf of my fridge.
Incidentally and as a complete departure from the topic at hand, a teacher once told me he saw a translated copy of "the Grapes of Wrath" in Japan being marketed as "The Angry Raisins." Pretty sure a lot of Japanese were rightfully confused.
I do this with everything from clothes to food. But recently I've decided to try and consciously fight this instinct.
Those gorgeous strawberries I wanted to eat only a few at a time so I could savor them? Half of them end up shriveled and in the trash because I forgot about them. The cheese that cost $5.99 a pound, thereby requiring careful rationing of each delicious sliver? Inevitably it molds. Even the special sparkly shoes I don't pull out but once a year end up losing their shine, buried in a pile of the more frequently favored footwear.
This is bad. I should not do this. My instinct to "save it!" ends up wasting it instead.
Hence, my resolution. I think I have been marginally successful so far. The grapes are almost gone and that's a start, because usually a bunch of grapes ends up breeding angry raisins on the bottom shelf of my fridge.
Incidentally and as a complete departure from the topic at hand, a teacher once told me he saw a translated copy of "the Grapes of Wrath" in Japan being marketed as "The Angry Raisins." Pretty sure a lot of Japanese were rightfully confused.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Return of the blog
Hola. It has been a long time. But recent events have initiated my return...specifically, I got a smartphone. And this will make it much easier to blog when something interesting happens to me. Like the praying mantis outside the apartment just now. Or the prehistoric millipede that meandered its way through my office building. Or the seriously thumb sized spider whose web I disturbed yesterday. With my head.
Yes, evidently the only interesting things that happen to me involve bugs. But at least I posted. Six months, what?!
Yes, evidently the only interesting things that happen to me involve bugs. But at least I posted. Six months, what?!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
My friend Sophia
Loves me so much she sent me this picture of a mutant strawberry!
Thank you Sofa! It's awesome!!!
Thank you Sofa! It's awesome!!!
Saturday, March 26, 2011
The Beauty of a Saturday
Waking up at eight, an unparalleled luxury. It is also one of those mornings where everything is at equilibrium, so you can sleep under the blankets with your arms over the top, and your body is not too warm and your arms are not too cold. The pillows are exactly right.
Then, waffles for breakfast with the last of the buttermilk (expired 5 days ago, but it's perfectly fine and also lends a certain edge to your victory over food waste) and half a box of wilty strawberries, resurrected with a little water and some sugar and turned into a perfectly good, sweet-yet-tart strawberry sauce to go over the fresh buttermilk waffles (raised with whipped egg whites for that extra fluffiness). There may or may not be chocolate chips at the insistence of your husband.
Then, after all that, some strong Vietnamese style coffee and a book while your husband goes back to bed to ward off a headache. Playing some guitar and putting the final touches on a song you wrote a couple weeks ago but forgot about and never finished. Deep conditioning your hair with a free sample you got from the salon and looking forward to leftover hot wings for lunch.
Ah, the beauty of a Saturday. Too bad you have to ruin it later with a memo that needs to be written by Monday. But for now, just listen to the dishwasher run, your husband playing classic rock acoustic style, watch the way the sunlight just barely misses entering your apartment through the sliding doors, and enjoy.
Then, waffles for breakfast with the last of the buttermilk (expired 5 days ago, but it's perfectly fine and also lends a certain edge to your victory over food waste) and half a box of wilty strawberries, resurrected with a little water and some sugar and turned into a perfectly good, sweet-yet-tart strawberry sauce to go over the fresh buttermilk waffles (raised with whipped egg whites for that extra fluffiness). There may or may not be chocolate chips at the insistence of your husband.
Then, after all that, some strong Vietnamese style coffee and a book while your husband goes back to bed to ward off a headache. Playing some guitar and putting the final touches on a song you wrote a couple weeks ago but forgot about and never finished. Deep conditioning your hair with a free sample you got from the salon and looking forward to leftover hot wings for lunch.
Ah, the beauty of a Saturday. Too bad you have to ruin it later with a memo that needs to be written by Monday. But for now, just listen to the dishwasher run, your husband playing classic rock acoustic style, watch the way the sunlight just barely misses entering your apartment through the sliding doors, and enjoy.
Sunday, March 06, 2011
Giant food
Another footnote in our "wow we're married and grown ups" file is our BJ's membership. For those not in the know, BJ's is a wholesale club like Sam's Club or Costco, where everything you buy is gigantic. Before anyone in the universe begins to judge us too harshly, BJ's also has gas for about four cents cheaper than the regular gas station. So that was a significant factor in our decision to get a membership. Plus, it's just really fun to wander around and look at all the big stuff, like forty eight ounce tubs of cottage cheese. Because there are people in this world who can eat that much cottage cheese before it expires.
Anyway. The point of this story is that no matter how hard I try, going to BJ's always results in some kind of astronomical total at the check out (which, by the way, usually takes at least a half hour because everyone in the store buys hundreds of items at a time). If I go to a normal grocery store and buy, say, flour, eggs, cheese, veggies, some kind of meat, and fruit, my total might come to about $18. If I go to BJ's, that total is like $96. Except we're buying ten pounds of flour, two dozen eggs, two pounds of cheese, fourteen red peppers, four pounds of steak and three pounds of bananas. So I mean, it evens out...but still.
Finally, what is potentially the biggest hurdle in shopping the world of jumbo foodstuffs: fitting it all into our little apartment. Our refrigerator is a perfectly average sized refrigerator, with a perfectly average sized freezer. It was not equipped to deal with eighteen yogurts, two-carton packs of soy milk, and enough deli meat for fifteen sandwiches all at the same time. So a trip to BJ's usually means an exercise in fridge organization, wherein all items are carefully fitted into exactly-sized compartments. This requires extraordinary discipline, not to mention spatial intelligence, because as soon as you move the mustard two millimeters to the left the peanut butter is falling off the shelf and then you're sunk.
All this to say that life in suburbia is not always boring. Sure, I could be living in a pocket sized loft in the middle of a hip urban neighborhood. But then where would I fit the two gallon jug of olive oil?!
Anyway. The point of this story is that no matter how hard I try, going to BJ's always results in some kind of astronomical total at the check out (which, by the way, usually takes at least a half hour because everyone in the store buys hundreds of items at a time). If I go to a normal grocery store and buy, say, flour, eggs, cheese, veggies, some kind of meat, and fruit, my total might come to about $18. If I go to BJ's, that total is like $96. Except we're buying ten pounds of flour, two dozen eggs, two pounds of cheese, fourteen red peppers, four pounds of steak and three pounds of bananas. So I mean, it evens out...but still.
Finally, what is potentially the biggest hurdle in shopping the world of jumbo foodstuffs: fitting it all into our little apartment. Our refrigerator is a perfectly average sized refrigerator, with a perfectly average sized freezer. It was not equipped to deal with eighteen yogurts, two-carton packs of soy milk, and enough deli meat for fifteen sandwiches all at the same time. So a trip to BJ's usually means an exercise in fridge organization, wherein all items are carefully fitted into exactly-sized compartments. This requires extraordinary discipline, not to mention spatial intelligence, because as soon as you move the mustard two millimeters to the left the peanut butter is falling off the shelf and then you're sunk.
All this to say that life in suburbia is not always boring. Sure, I could be living in a pocket sized loft in the middle of a hip urban neighborhood. But then where would I fit the two gallon jug of olive oil?!
Monday, December 06, 2010
Someday I'll be a rock star
So one of my favorite things about my (now spousal) relationship is that both of us brought our own tricks and talents into the match. I know how to cook, T. can juggle, etc. One of my favorite of his talents is that he can play guitar, and really well, too. Being musically inclined, I have tried in the past to learn guitar, mostly because it seemed like it would be easier to write songs on guitar than it was on piano. Also, I don't know about you, but I don't have the upper body strength to carry a piano around and keyboards annoy me.
But with the time that I have on my hands and my love of the country twang, I have enlisted T.'s help in charting a new course of guitar study. And its's awesome! He taught me the three chords that make up Louie, Louie, and any number of other classic rock and roll songs. I've also started practicing and learning on my own a bit, and even though 90% of my strumming sounds like a garbled mess, the 10% that rings true sounds so awesome that I can already picture myself on a stage wearing cowboy boots, crooning into a microphone while a soft spotlight highlights my gleaming hair.
Ahem. I digress.
But here's the problem with learning to play guitar: it effin' HURTS.
Oh sure, I knew that guitar playing in the beginning would be slightly painful, before I developed calluses. In theory. But it is worse in reality, and it hurts to type, to scratch my head with my left hand, even to push my glasses up (and may I say, I never realized I used my left index finger to do that, but boy have I realized it now).
This is all part and parcel of becoming a rock star. I know this. I would just like to skip over the next few weeks, however, and go straight to the part where I find the perfect pair of boots to complement my artfully ripped jeans. Sigh. Keep dreaming, right?
But with the time that I have on my hands and my love of the country twang, I have enlisted T.'s help in charting a new course of guitar study. And its's awesome! He taught me the three chords that make up Louie, Louie, and any number of other classic rock and roll songs. I've also started practicing and learning on my own a bit, and even though 90% of my strumming sounds like a garbled mess, the 10% that rings true sounds so awesome that I can already picture myself on a stage wearing cowboy boots, crooning into a microphone while a soft spotlight highlights my gleaming hair.
Ahem. I digress.
But here's the problem with learning to play guitar: it effin' HURTS.
Oh sure, I knew that guitar playing in the beginning would be slightly painful, before I developed calluses. In theory. But it is worse in reality, and it hurts to type, to scratch my head with my left hand, even to push my glasses up (and may I say, I never realized I used my left index finger to do that, but boy have I realized it now).
This is all part and parcel of becoming a rock star. I know this. I would just like to skip over the next few weeks, however, and go straight to the part where I find the perfect pair of boots to complement my artfully ripped jeans. Sigh. Keep dreaming, right?
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