tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44707914794528959072024-03-05T18:02:06.088-05:00Audge-Podge and Blither-BlatherAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.comBlogger353125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-8746442973147720782014-07-07T21:32:00.002-04:002014-07-07T21:32:57.265-04:00the good in goodbye Well, I've told my friends, my family, my parents, and now my boss, so I guess the cat is out of the bag.<br />
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I'm moving!</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">To Sydney! :D</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1v-_-3A2-7c7I13Xk7yc23IlNub7k6d3HY0HvQAPorToCw2W88f2-HYZa_BeSBpGR8NzNN328mdDANTrAW5-YMuchzNC7xg_efrlo91hvA7AJXDiehP1LPYSeG97iKZNILCjhg0GmK5pq/s1600/IMG_4802-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1v-_-3A2-7c7I13Xk7yc23IlNub7k6d3HY0HvQAPorToCw2W88f2-HYZa_BeSBpGR8NzNN328mdDANTrAW5-YMuchzNC7xg_efrlo91hvA7AJXDiehP1LPYSeG97iKZNILCjhg0GmK5pq/s1600/IMG_4802-2.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.joelwestworth.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">(c) Joel Westworth</span></a></td></tr>
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I leave on September 1st, and I'll probably be there for... I'm not sure! That's all up to the Australian government, frankly. But hopefully, I'll be there for a few years.<br />
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Wow. Sept. 1st. 8 weeks. SO SOON!</div>
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I've been wanting to spill this on the blog for a long time now, but I was too afraid of work finding out and firing me. That old chestnut. But, after a lot of discussion and analyzing our options, Joel and I realized that me moving to Sydney is the best/easiest way for us to actually be together.<br />
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Yes, there have been a TON of feelings happening as a result of this decision. This is HUGE. GINORMOUS. I have never been more excited for anything in my life, for real real. And neither has Joel. Knowing that I'm mere weeks away from starting my life with the love of my life has set me spinning. We've been apart for all but 2 months since the day we met, but still, it's been the best year of my life. And thinking about continuing that, to live with someone who is excited to build a home with me, a life with me, someone's who is continuously on the same page as me--it makes my heart explode. For the first time, I can see my future. And it looks goddamn incredible.<br />
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So yeah. It's basically a whirlwind of excitement and feels over here. Except for, maybe my mom, who just lately can say "Australia" without crying. (I know she loves me. She'll get there. ) I am going to miss my friends and my family, more than I can possibly fathom, but things like WhatsApp, Skype, Facebook, and plane tickets will make missing people easier. </div>
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There's a lot to do before then, and a lot that's going to happen, like packing, taking a trip to Savannah, GA, the birth of Mary's baby and Leah's baby, a visit from Cara and my big ass going away/30th birthday party (<i>oh dear God, I'm turning 30)</i>, and lots of other things to cover before I say goodbye.</div>
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But, there's a really important good bye to have, and that's to Camp Audrey Kosher. I've discussed it before, but I feel like I've grown apart from this blog. I'm in such different place now than I was when I started, that I just don't feel like it's fair to keep blogging here. I know that sounds douchey as all told, but it's the truth. Yeah, I'm sad in that "Audrey clings nostalgically to inanimate objects" way, because it's always a bit of a bummer when I close out a journal. Or in this case, a blog. I can't think of deleting this corner, because it holds a lot of history, but the updates that have been trickling through with the force of a soggy earthworm will probably just... stop. And that's ok. This blog is a part of me, but there's so much more to tell now. It's just time to move on.<br />
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Farewell, sweet AudgePodge. It has been quite a ride. You'll always have a place in my heart. <br />
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I'll see everyone on the other side! Thank you, everyone for supporting me while I was here! Come follow me at my new home, <a href="http://audwrites.wordpress.com/">AudWrites</a>, and we can be friends forever.</div>
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xoxo,<br />
Audrey</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-21025367100630669472014-07-02T10:03:00.000-04:002014-07-02T10:03:07.530-04:00No Air Conditioning (and other life threatening problems)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been driving for the past month with little to no Air Conditioning in my car. It's not because I'm proving a point to live eco-friendly (I mean, I recycle, sometimes, but I don't go crazy), or driving a classic car (unless 2003 re-tooled Ford Focus are becoming relics). It's because June was a no-good-very-bad-awful month for my wallet.<br />
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It all started on May 28th, when I was having my windshield replaced ($374). I noticed that my license plates expired on June 1. And so did my safety inspection. <i>Well, shit. </i>I checked online, and sure enough, I was also due for an Emissions test, which needed to be passed before I could renew. <i>Double shit. </i>Renewing my registration on Emission Inspection years is historically an awful, expensive, and soul crushing experience for me, as my car has only passed on the first time <i>once </i>in the 8 years that I've owned it.<br />
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As I drove to the Emissions site the next day, my A/C started pushing hot air. It was 90* outside. <i>Triple shit. </i>After waiting in the line for 30 minutes in the blistering sun, it dawned on me that my car's check engine light was AGAIN. That means your car won't pass Emssions. <i>Quad shit. </i>So I cut my losses and just dropped it off with the techs. "Find out why the A/C isn't pushing cold air, and what I need to do pass Emissions.<br />
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2 days later, I get a call from the shop. After a laundry list of woes and ails, I get the final estimate: $1,100 to bring my car up to tip top shape. <i>All the shit. All the shit, ever. </i>I cleaned up the explosion from my surprised butt hole and negotiated (i.e. started crying because I can't afford $1,100) to $650 to get the A/C running and have the car passable for inspections. But I still have to drive it for a week before they can run the Emission test. Whatever.<br />
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The next day, I get pulled over for having expired tags. Luckily, the officer was understanding as I showed him my "Failed Emissions" report, and let me go.<br />
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6 days later, the check engine light comes on again. It's the oil sender that I didn't have fixed. $117. I have to drive for another week. I am 3 weeks overdue, and am frantically dodging cops.<br />
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5 days later, I pass emissions.<br />
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The next day, my A/C stops working again. "Oh, it must be a leak. See, we said on your invoice here that it might need to come back in 2 weeks if the system starts pumping hot air again. And it's been two weeks." I drop the car off, again.<br />
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8 hours later, get a call saying there is a leak in the A/C compressor, and it needs replacing. $360. At this point, I drop my basket. I can't afford $360. I really couldn't afford the almost $800 I'd spent so far. I'd just have to make do without A/C. In the summer. In swamp-land Virginia [shock!gasp!] My inner First World Problem air raid sirens were running at full blast, the same way the bellowed when I found out Odie's apartment in Sydney didn't have A/C. I mean, <i>How can you live? How can you live with out air conditioning?!</i><br />
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As I drove home with the windows down and music blaring, and a cool breeze flowing through the car, I thought, "Hey, this might whole not having A/C in my car might not be so bad. In fact, this, right here, is down right pleasant." And for the first couple drives, it was nice. The weather was mild and I enjoyed it.<br />
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But then, Virginia remembered that it's Virginia, and quickly came back with 90*+ temperatures with $100% humidity. Since Sunday, I've needed a shower after anything more than a 15 minute drive. I've sweat through clothes faster than I ever thought I could before. My left arm is two shades darker than my right, which is shocking because I'm so pale I'm basically transparent. It's at the point now (yes, after less than a week) where I think I might literally die in my car if I get caught in stop n go traffic.<br />
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So while there are some potentially fatal drawbacks to not having A/C in the summer in a state like Virginia, I have discovered some benefits:<br />
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<li>you really find out which clothes are purely ornamental, and which will help you survive. That polyester fit n flare dress with the pattern you just died over? yeah, it's a heat magnet and will sear itself to your skin. Dark wash denim skinny jeans? more like shrink to your legs while taking in ALL THE HEAT EVER jeans. Low top "summer" boots? Fuck that. Loose cotton tops, flip flops and sweat pants cut into shorts forever, ladies. I've culled 17 outfits in my mind already.</li>
<li>the idea of getting into your car between 10 AM and 8 PM is so gut twistingly undesirable that you lose the idea of getting food to go, or stopping into that random store, or even running the mildest of errands. Saving money you can't spend! </li>
<li>no one wants you to drive because your car smells like a foot, and will melt their skin. Woo, fewer things to do!</li>
<li>getting disgustingly sweaty with every drive means I've showered everyday for the first time in months. Woo, breaking dat Hobo Lyfe.</li>
<li>saving money on gas, since the A/C isn't drinking it faster than I drink Diet Ginger Ale. Oh, why is that soda so embarrassing? And yet, so good?</li>
<li>with highway speeds + rolled down windows, I can't hear my Netflix through the phone. Saving data!</li>
<li>since I can't hear my Netflix, and I haven't replaced my iPod, I've dug out my old CDs. Nostalgia!</li>
<li>the look on that dude's face when I rolled up next to him in my uber professional gear, sweaty like a heart attack victim, windows rolled down, and Staind's Mud Shovel blaring out. (did I mention old music nostalgia?</li>
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Oh, and then on Sunday morning, my car got towed because I was too tired to run down and put my parking pass in, and thought (damn, lazy optimism) that patrols wouldn't start until the afternoon. $185.</div>
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How did I get to be an adult again? </div>
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Tune in next time, when I learn to do things ahead of time so it doesn't end up costing me thousands of dollars. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-34839130218907709652014-06-16T10:45:00.000-04:002014-06-16T10:45:00.788-04:00Mary's Having a Baby!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In my quest to be the laziest blogger ever, I've taken extreme care to only mention once that my sister is pregnant with her first wee Hartbarger creature. And now that she's about 4 weeks from poppin' the ol' uterine sac (yeah!), I think it's time I mention this event in somewhat bigger detail.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The great with child Mary on Mother's Day</i></td></tr>
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When Mary and Lance announced at Thanksgiving that they were expecting, I was shocked. Mostly because I'm still in high school and my initial reaction when anyone tells me they're pregnant is OMG WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO? And then I reign myself back in and remind myself that the person talking to me is married, in their 30's and has a job. I didn't know they were trying to have kids, as they had just celebrated their first anniversary with a delayed honeymoon (hey, honeymoon baby!), and were still navigating early marriage. But, after a few seconds of "you're <i>what</i>?!", I realized <i>my sister is having a baby</i>, and I got so happy that I cried at the table.<br />
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I'm really over the moon excited to meet my new little nephew. Credit it to the great Biological Clock Thaw of 2013, or my frothing uterus (another great image!), but I can't get enough of the baby stuff. I feel bad now, thinking back to when my brother Shayne and his wife were having Grey and Neve, or when Cara and my other friends were having their babies, because I was extra baby-phobic and extra wrapped up in my own shit. I was more of the "let me know when they're born and if you need someone to come clean your house for you" type. I could gush over pictures on Facebook, and watch Grey and Neve for little bits of time, but other than that, I couldn't handle kids and babies and new mom hysteria.<br />
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But, things are different now. I Google baby clothes and accessories. I talk parenting strategies with my parent friends. I had jittery Christmas morning feelings on the day I woke up to help Mary set up her nursery. I get all sappy thinking of visiting and just hanging out with newborn Henry. I'm thinking about babies non-stop, and it's only a little frightening. But not as frightening as breast pumps. What the hell.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"This hands free milking bra gives me so much more time to Pintrest <br />all things I'll force my nanny staff to make for me." or "Hi, I'm a stock<br />model and this world doesn't exist."</i></td></tr>
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My feelings about pregnancy are different this time, because this time, it's Mary. This is my big sis, who's always been a mom to me: feeding me, giving me money, buying me perfect presents, giving me the shirt off her back, etc. And now that she's going to be an <i>actual mommy</i>, it reduces me to a pile of happy-nostalgic-spongey like feelings. I'm so excited for her, and for Lance, and for all whirlwind of change that's coming their way.<br />
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Also, you know. I'm really excited to hold a newborn again.<br />
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So stay tuned for more baby-centric-new nephew updates!<br />
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#babyfever #ohno #birthcontrol #hashtagAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-47988516427220689462014-05-25T12:28:00.003-04:002014-05-25T12:28:40.231-04:00Live Blog: Oprah's 20 Questions Every Woman Should Answer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I get Oprah. She knows her audience and she works her ass off to try to be a good person. I don't think that woman has slept since 1976. Journalist, writer, producer, philanthropist, actress, media mogul with a Midas touch (except for that whole <i>Million Little Pieces </i>thing). How does she have time to sleep and wear sweat pants like the rest of us mortals? So I'm not a fan or anything, I but I respect her efforts.<br />
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My mom subscribes to <i>O: The Oprah Magazine</i>, and occasionally I'll skim through them when I'm in the bathroom when I forget my phone and there aren't any gossip rags around (yes, I'm talking about pooping). A lot of the time there's catchy headline articles about "seemingly easy and deceptively expensive ways to organize your life", "how these random women escaped death from rapists", "interviews with powerful women who aren't relevant to your demographic", "books you'll never read but can say you did to impress people", "decorating on Oprah's budget", "modern conveniences that are giving you cancer", and "Yet again another Charity that I founded." With that said, she's funny, and once you get past the <i>Oprah</i>ness of it all, it's a good "women's" magazine. Not as sad old woman as <i>Redbook</i>, and not as too rich and unattainable woman than <i>Martha Stewart Living.</i></div>
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So, when I was cleaning up a few weeks ago and found this issue of <i>O, </i>I was intrigued. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>To be honest, I was first intrigued because I really like that outfit. <br />Even the chevron shoes. WHAT HAVE I BECOME.<br /></i></td></tr>
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I snatched it up and almost started reading. I mean, maybe these 20 questions will help me un-lock my inner Oprah. Maybe these 20 questions will help me raise my Ambition urges to that of my Procrastination urges. Maybe these 20 questions will answer everything that I haven't already figured out about my life. Maybe these 20 questions will explain why I let my laundry build up for months at a time. After all, Oprah approved these questions. I bet she's answered them. And she's changing lives. I can change lives. I can unlock my inner Oprah. <i>I am Oprah.</i></div>
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I say almost started reading, because I thought wait--it'd be more fun to blog my answers to these questions. So, now I'm sitting down with the mag. And I'll be interviewed by Oprah. In one sitting. With no taking a few days to think about it. Honesty with Oprah. So here goes! It's Saturday night. I have a plate of Oreos, trash TV, and I'm "live blogging" the Oprah questions. LET'S GET IT STARTED IN HERE.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>AW YISS</i></td></tr>
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10:48 PM: oreo #1</div>
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10:49 PM: Question 1</div>
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<i>1. Do I examine my life enough?</i></div>
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Yes. I'm in therapy once a week. I want to know why I make decisions the way I do, so I can avoid making them over and over again, like I have in my past. I want to be a better person. So yeah. Examining my life is a full time job. </div>
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10:50 PM Question 2</div>
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<i>2. Do I care too much about what people think?</i></div>
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Yes. That's why I don't wear shorts, bikinis, body con dresses, or high heels. That's why I censor myself. It's why I constantly second guess myself.</div>
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10:51 PM Question 3</div>
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<i>3. Am I with the right person?</i></div>
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Yes. Without a doubt. I'm with someone who makes me want to be a better person. Someone who makes me feel loved, unjudged, appreciated, and capable of achieving anything. Someone who thinks a day of watching sketchy reality TV and eating pizza and drinking wine while looking up funny pictures on the internet is a good day :)</div>
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10:52 PM</div>
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<i>4. What's your deal breaker? (in matters of love)</i></div>
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Animal cruelty. Pedophilia. </div>
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10:53 PM</div>
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<i>5. What do I really want to do all day?</i></div>
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Exactly what I'm doing right now: at home, blogging, in my sweat pants. Writing essays, reviews, editorials has always been my dream. I just want to entertain and enrich. To have people read my work and say "yes, I know what that's like." And getting paid to do that would be choice.</div>
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10:56 PM</div>
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<i>6. How do I want to be remembered?</i></div>
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[hmm...]</div>
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[10: 57 oreo 2]</div>
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[10:57 I could really use some milk with these oreos]</div>
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[10:59 getting milk]</div>
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[11:00 damn. why are milk and oreos so good?]</div>
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11:01 PM</div>
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<i>6. How do you want to be remembered?</i></div>
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As a writer. As a good person who owned her fuck ups. As someone who did good things for people.</div>
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11:04 PM</div>
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7. <i>Do I say Yes enough?</i></div>
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Yes. I've said yes to 6 questions already. But yes, I say yes too much. I constantly take on too much in order to appease everyone, and it's gotten me in trouble more times than I can say. Learning to say "no" has been difficult, but I'm getting better and defining what I can and can't do. </div>
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Conversely, I also say Yes to myself in way too many ways: Yes, you can order $150 worth of clothes off Modcloth.com and return them later. Yes, you can keep those $150 worth of clothes from Modcloth.com. Yes, you can call out of work. Yes, you can go to bed without washing your face for the 3rd time this week. Saying yes to all my impulses and laziness also gets me into trouble. Saying no to the instant gratification I get from doing things that are bad for me is literally the hardest task for me.</div>
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So yes, Oprah, I do say Yes too much. Learning to say No is on the top of my Ways to get Better list.</div>
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I will however, say yes to another oreo dipped in milk. Goodness yes.<br />
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11:09 PM</div>
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oh wow, I didn't know Anna Paquin was in <i>She's All That</i></div>
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why did I think <i>oh wow</i></div>
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11:10 PM</div>
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<i>8. Do I know how to say No?</i></div>
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HA I ALREADY ANSWERED THAT ONE. </div>
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11:11 PM</div>
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<i>9. Am I helpless?</i></div>
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Yes and No. When it comes to math? yes, without a doubt. Cooking? no. Cleaning? no. Basic auto maintenance? Yes. Can I talk myself off a ledge? Yes. </div>
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I'm good at figuring out how to get things done. Most of the time this involves Googling or taking stabs in the dark. But, I like to think that my ingenuity has gotten better and sharper as I've gotten older.</div>
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11:13 PM</div>
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I want to watch <i>True Blood </i>again. And I'm going to eat another oreo. </div>
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11:14 PM</div>
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<i>10. Am I helpful?</i></div>
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Yes. I volunteer to clean up, to help prepare things, lift things, reach for things, pick things up if I'm on the way somewhere. I listen to problems and occasionally I have good advice. I hold doors open. I volunteer for assignments at work. I mean, I definitely have my moments where I've been absolutely un-helpful on purpose, because I'm spoiled, but I like to think my helpful moments out-weigh my un-helpful moments. </div>
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11:20 PM</div>
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my head hurts. These questions aren't as juicy as I thought they'd be. I wonder if Sister Wives is on Hulu</div>
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11:21 PM</div>
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Nope. I am shockingly disappointed.</div>
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11:22 PM</div>
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<i>11. What am I afraid of?</i></div>
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Out of control credit card debt. Prison. Cancer. Family members and best friends dying. AIDS. Failure. What other people think. Cephroyds. Heights. Dolls. Winged insects. Attics and basements. Spiders. Losing my objectivity. That I'm letting life slip by. That I'm going to waste another decade. </div>
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11:27 PM</div>
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<i>12. Am I paying enough attention to the incredible things around me?</i></div>
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nope. I'm so anxious about the future, that 90% of the time, I let the every day slip by. I always worry that I'm not living life to the fullest, that I'm just wishing time to hurry up so I can get to a certain time or place. I wish I could be one of those people who lives in the moment, but I'm usually anticipating the future or over-examining what's already happened. BUT. In those rare moments when I do catch a sunset, or a spider eating a grasshopper, or my friends and I sitting together and laughing, or my 5 year old niece putting together wild but awesome outfits together out of stuff in my closet, or how really good a double cheese burger can be, I sit back and think "wow, little things are damn amazing." And it's a really good feeling.</div>
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11:32 PM</div>
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<i>13. Have I accepted my body?</i></div>
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Oh boy. Yes and no. More oreos.</div>
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11:33 PM</div>
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I need to change the channel. <br />
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11:34 PM<br />
Wow, nothing is on. <i>Princess Diaries, </i>it is. </div>
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11:35 PM</div>
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I didn't really date until I was 18, and the guys I dated were always complimentary/big fans of my shape. Except for that one time in 7th grade when Craig told Cassie he'd like me more if my boobs were bigger, I haven't been too scarred for life by what guys think of how I look. So I know that I dumbly fall into that category of women who get beaten down by super models and clothing models with tiny thighs, no hips, and round boobies, letting strangers and advertising dictate how I think about myself. That's fine, I accept that. And as such, I've been going back and forth on how I feel about my body since I was 12. While I've never been overweight, I do have a dis-proportionate body shape. My chest has always been flat to small, my hips have always been as wide as my shoulders, and I've always had a roundness to belly, right around my belly button--even when I weighed less than 100 lbs. And, the older I get, the more weight I put on, the more disproportionate I feel, because I'm always more bottom heavy. </div>
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Yeah, being too concerned with what everyone else thinks is 100% to blame for my "body issues." It's hard sometimes, because there aren't any body role models out there for people shaped like me. Take those Dove "True Beauty Ads." The women are either skinny with big breasts or kinda not-skinny with big breasts, or big belly and big thighs with big breasts. There's never one with small boobs and a big ass. All the "how to dress your shape"articles and books don't tell you how to address the taller than average pear shaped, small chested woman. It makes me feel like less of a woman, and to be honest, left out. </div>
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But, I'm almost 30, but I'm finally digging' the way I look. I'm feeling more comfortable in tighter ftting skirts and pants, and I revel in the fact that I can buy shirts in the kid's sections and save money. I like the way I look, I do. I do know how lucky I am. I wish I were more toned, and I wish my cheeks weren't so fat, but that requires working out. And I'm so, so lazy. So all the keys to making myself 100% satisfied with my body come from me putting effort into how I work. That's another thing I have to work on.<br />
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that and just STOP giving a fuck what other people think. haha</div>
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11:59 PM</div>
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waaah waaah waaaaah body issues. I need to get over it. My ass is bangin'. and there are much more important things to worry about. Like cancer. Or accidentally contracting AIDS.</div>
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12:01 AM</div>
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<i>14. Am I strong enough?</i></div>
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Not in the ways that I want to be. I can't walk up a flight of stairs when I'm winded. I can't get the lug nuts off my tire. I can only do 10 squats before I die. I don't withdraw from the world when I'm in a dark place, but I can't compartmentalize that dark place quick enough, so I end up ruminating way longer than I'd like. I make goals and plans and lists, but I don't stick to them after I get discouraged. I have convictions, but often I feel like I back down because it's easier to be agreeable. I am strong. But it'd be nice to be stronger. In all aspects of my life. </div>
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12:06 AM</div>
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<i>15. Have I forgiven my parents?</i></div>
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My parents are fantastic. Did they mess up? Of course. All parents do. But, they did the best they could to raise me despite how they were raised. I don't really have a reason to <i>need </i>to forgive them. I'm just happy that with the older I get, the more I understand why they did what they did. </div>
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12:10 AM</div>
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<i>16. Do I want children?</i></div>
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Do I want to have children? Yes. That's a very new development. But I do want to have 1 or 2. It feels good to want to have kids. Now I just need to see if I can conceive. </div>
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12:12 AM</div>
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<i>17. Does what I wear reflect who I am?</i></div>
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Yes. Half-assed, clueless, boho-hipster who owns stock in black LC by Lauren Conrad leggings and who prefers 30 extra minutes of sleep over washing her hair and putting on make up. I hit the mark with my appearance about 4 times out of 10. I wish I could pull my outfits together more strategically, or even in a more polished manner, but I just don't. /lazy I don't know. I love fashion, but most of the time I have no idea what I'm doing.</div>
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12:17 AM</div>
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<i>18. What am I missing out on?</i></div>
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Seemingly everything? haha. Laziness robs me of a lot of time to enjoy the good things in life. Good books. Good TV and movies. My nieces and nephews growing up. Good blog topics. Free lance gigs. Free events going on around town. Travel. Chasing my dreams. Weeknight dinners with friends. </div>
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12:21 AM</div>
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ugh, so tired. Have I really run out of oreos? what? noooooo</div>
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12:22 AM</div>
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<i>19. Do I let myself fail enough?</i></div>
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Yes and no. I don't let myself fail enough, because I don't let myself try because I'm afraid I'll fail. I'm failing myself by not letting myself try. I don't let myself fail appropriately. I need to stop that.</div>
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<br />
12:29 AM<br />
soooo tired.<br />
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12:23 AM</div>
<div>
<i>20. Why are we here?</i></div>
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Because we won the genetic lottery of perfect body temperature, hormones and welcoming uteri. It's all by chance. And we just have to make the best of it. Work hard to get what you want, or revel in what you have. </div>
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12:26 AM</div>
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hmm... wow. <br />
<br />
12:40 AM<br />
Just woke up. There are oreo crumbs on my shirt. Ow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>The next day.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Overall, that wasn't a bad experience. What I learned from my time with Oprah is that I need to stop standing in my own way. If I could ratchet up my ambitions so they're at the same priority as my ambitions, I'd be unstoppable. I need to reign in my neurosis and insecurities so I can reach my full potential. I need to try. That's basically it. I need to try. And maybe that "trying" thing will help me put together better outfits and wash my hair every day and do my laundry once a week. Maybe I can try hard enough that I CHANGE LIVES. <br />
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But, I already knew all of that.<br />
<br />
Have I gained "a little more wisdom and a lot more joy"as the tagline guaranteed? Yeah, sure. Mostly, I was really surprised at how easy it was to answer these questions. Not gonna lie. I thought the questions would be a little more ground breaking. And while I'm not bouncing off the walls with joy, I am sitting with a little smugness this morning.<br />
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So, ok, Oprah didn't change my life. But I did get a blog out of it. And maybe I even became a fan of Oprah. But then I read on and she says something like "I want to be in the space that stems from the Source of all things."And I think,<i> never mind, that's why I'm not an Oprah fan.</i><br />
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Until next time, guys!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-68279140474010533002014-05-22T17:09:00.002-04:002014-05-22T17:10:47.953-04:00Something to CelebrateYesterday, Joel and I celebrated the day I lay sprawled out on Kristin's living room floor, drank an entire glass of rum and proceeded to spill my heart, drop all my cards, and admit that I liked him and only him and asked him to be my internet boyfriend. He laughed and said no, but he'd be my real life boyfriend. We were Skyping, but it felt, the way it feels each and every time I see him through that 12" inch screen, like he was in the room with me.<br />
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A lot of people didn't and don't understand why I'm in a <i>longest-possible-distance-ever </i>relationship. But then again, who cares? Every day I'm thankful to be with someone I revere, who I love like a best friend, and who I adore as a partner. Everyday I feel lucky. Every day I feel like everything I've been through has been worth it. </div>
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Happy anniversary, love butt. Here's to many more years of late nights, inside jokes and weird, wonderful adventures. Now let's go eat pizza and judge people. :D<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-29617926221036866452014-05-18T15:48:00.000-04:002014-05-18T15:49:52.338-04:00Fiction Thursday (the late edition): That's good. That's ok. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
12, 13, 14, 15. 16. I have 16 left. That's one more than half. I have one more, and then I've only taken half since Wednesday. That's good. That's ok. I'll have this last one and then I'll save the rest. I don't need to take them all the time. They don't work as well when I take them so much. Remember when I stopped for 2 months and then took one? That day we cleared out the tree stumps from the backyard and I really needed one because I strained my back. Jen drove out to Mike's and picked up subs for everyone. We ate outside in the evening while the neighborhood kids played soccer. It felt spectacular. So happy. Like another world. Jen was so beautiful. She still is. I hope she's not mad at me anymore. I can't believe I fell asleep through her speech. I took too many that day. Just wanted to be lively to all those people. Just wanted to have a good time. To not worry so much about how my pants didn't fit right. They didn't fit because I bought the cheap ones. I don't like tailors. I don't like people touching me. Touching me and judging me because pants don't fit me right off the rack. Everything fits Jen right off the rack. She's spectacular. I don't know why she ever wanted me. I hope she's not mad at me anymore. I need to call her. Fuck, I keep forgetting to call her. Work is hard and these make me sleepy and I go to bed too early. It's always something. Something in the way. I'll call her tonight when I get home. Only two more stops, then home. Yes. I'll call her and then I'll fix my tea like always and I'll take this last one. I won't even snort it. I'll just swallow it. Or I could take it now and call her in a few hours when it's started to wear off. No that won't work. She always knows. I'll call her, and I'll take it after so it's like a reward. Why do I have to be rewarded to call my wife. That's sick. You're a sick asshole who needs his pants tailored. But I'm trying. I'm trying to be better. I'm saving half of these. I won't take this half unless I absolutely need them. Only when my neck is bothering me. That's good. That's ok. That fucking accident. I shouldn't have been driving. I knew that. I know that. I crashed and wrenched my neck and now this. Of course I'm not drinking as much now. I don't need to. I have these. Fuck. That's the whole problem. These. Just like everyone says. From one crutch to another. I don't even want them. But I have them. They're here. I like that I have them. I like that have half left. I can do this. I can prove it to Jen that I'm not an addict. I'm not an addict. That's good. That's ok. Addicts take more than I do. Addicts don't go to work everyday like I do. Ok, I've called out a few times. But my job isn't in danger. And Jen left. But wives leave their husbands everyday. I was a drunk. I deserved her leaving me for how much I drank. She didn't leave me over these. She left me because I drank. These are ok. I need these. I have a medical need for these. The doctor says I need these. I have one plus half of these left over. How many did I take on Tuesday? 3. Wednesday, 3. Monday? 5. Monday was a bad day. Everyone has bad days. It's ok. That's why I'm stopping. I already have half left. I'm good. I'm ok. Jen will see. I'll call her tonight and tell her. Tell her that I'm stopping. I miss her. She'll come back when she sees how good I am. I'll only take this one tonight. And then I'll have half left over. And that's good. That's ok.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-65897041699790295972014-05-13T19:42:00.002-04:002014-05-13T19:42:56.697-04:009 Years Later, or Life Finds a WayI went on a re-set password quest this morning that led me down the black hole of the email account I used while I was in college. I haven't logged in to check email there for about 5 years, so I've mostly forgotten about any content it held.<br />
<br />
Ugh, that was awkward.<br />
<br />
And then, it went from awkward to, I don't know... more awkward? I had 3 drafts in the Draft folder, and one of them was this, written on 8/20/2004, eight days before I started my sophomore year of college/first year at George Mason University:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: purple;">"anyway, i can't write much because i've gotta formally withdraw from my school in NY, take a shower, call out from work, return my sister's shoes, and get drunk. it's going to be a good day."</span><br />
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Ever have one of those moments where you were like "<i>ohhhhhh</i>, so there's where it all went wrong." That's what went through my head. Except mine was like, "<i>ohhhhhh, </i>so there's <i>EXACTLY </i>where it all went wrong."<br />
<br />
I don't know what was going through my head that summer. But I can pin-point exactly where I was that day: sitting in my parent's den in that haunted 1800's farm house they rented, my mind going 500 miles an hour, but going exactly <i>nowhere.</i> After I sent that message, I emailed the registrar at Adelphi University and withdrew. I rejected my scholarship and my entrance to the Honor's College and my spot on the Newspaper and my close proximity to NYC and the opportunities that could have come with it so that I could date a guy from high school. I withdrew, called out of work, returned the shoes, got day drunk, saw <i>Without a Paddle</i> and ended up making out with Chris at Denny's as a waitress brought me my Super-T sandwich.<br />
<br />
That day marks the beginning of 9 years where I just didn't know what the fuck I was doing. 9 years of making questionable decisions, of spending too much money, of going to work hungover, of skipping class and missing deadlines and wasting good opportunities. 9 years of livejournaling and myspacing and facebooking. 9 years of bitching and moaning instead of pursuing my dreams. 9 years of just hating myself into a corner until I didn't want to do anything but watch movies and shut down. 9 years of just letting things happen to me.<br />
<br />
When I read that email, I thought, <i>Oh my god. That's it. That's where it all went wrong.</i> And I thought, as I always do, about what would have happened on the afternoon that I got my acceptance letter from GMU. If I'd taken Chris' luke warm reaction of "oh, cool." as the red flag that it was and just said <i>No, I'm going back to New York. </i>Where would I be now? What would I be doing? Who would I be? <i> </i><br />
<br />
I always thought that my 20's would be the end all be all of my existence, and that I ruined everything by not staying near the city of my dreams. I spent a lot of time beating myself up about things I couldn't change. That doesn't happen anymore. I look back now and I see all those lost, wasted years were absolutely worth it--not a burden. It was 9 years of life-bonding with the people who'd become my nearest and dearest. 9 years of unexpected travel opportunities. 9 years of meeting some of the greatest people to walk this planet. 9 years of getting to shake hands or share hugs with some of my idols. 9 years of really getting to know my family and where all this comes from.<br />
<br />
Bless you, hindsight. And Bless you, luck. Because right now, because of all those decisions, after that day in my parent's den, I'm damn-near exactly where I want to be. And I look forward, knowing that the best is yet to come.<br />
<br />
So, thank you, woman-child of my 20's. You were such a Hot Mess, but you followed your nervous, sad brain instincts through the bad parts of town, and you got me to an exceptionally rad place.<br />
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgpVbDC6HL_hwLCV5naGsSDDIYsCisFEs-AanKH3LcjvqUPn1nTNg8G6vEoJD74HYZe9d8Vsw1mVyPqB4zIn1ZLnj5-xAI6AdKT0_N_lJp79HNigUNusLMoTuOESjbm27FsZSLwe4ivcF/s1600/IMG_0705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgpVbDC6HL_hwLCV5naGsSDDIYsCisFEs-AanKH3LcjvqUPn1nTNg8G6vEoJD74HYZe9d8Vsw1mVyPqB4zIn1ZLnj5-xAI6AdKT0_N_lJp79HNigUNusLMoTuOESjbm27FsZSLwe4ivcF/s1600/IMG_0705.JPG" height="400" width="332" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>go 'head 20 year old.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Also, Younger Self, stop calling yourself fat. 10 years and 12 inches later you'll wonder how you ever could have considered 31 inch hips to be "fat." Youth and metabolism are wasted on the young.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-78979509268796416522014-05-01T23:33:00.000-04:002014-05-01T23:33:24.768-04:00Fiction Thursday: Pedals<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHM4zISj85_P74xmhzmNOsEdkUfdZ5ZSJYUZnJ8Kde0oq1oRwzL2gRcYedmHFYMsGM-dX7j_7qIMLG-hvSAktDMqv0PqZRlJYr66BFS8JJ3pgWEuD581lORbyBI_EDJNeHPGr-1lMx5WX/s1600/R001-005-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHM4zISj85_P74xmhzmNOsEdkUfdZ5ZSJYUZnJ8Kde0oq1oRwzL2gRcYedmHFYMsGM-dX7j_7qIMLG-hvSAktDMqv0PqZRlJYr66BFS8JJ3pgWEuD581lORbyBI_EDJNeHPGr-1lMx5WX/s1600/R001-005-1.jpg" height="432" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.joelwestworth.com/">credit: Joel Westworth</a></span></td></tr>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The heat waves roll before me as I make my way down the
crowded sidewalk. I’m not usually out and about at this time of day. I reach
around the back of my head and pull my long hair to one side, twisting it so it
won’t blanket my neck and shoulders, acting like a rainforest on a day when I
need ice floes. I smooth the slightly wet hair at the base of my neck. Sweat. I
can feel it pooling above my lip, inside my bra, around my navel, between my
chaffed thighs. I keep walking. I ignore the doubts in my head, and I keep
walking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can feel the sun, directly overhead, beating down on me,
burning me through the sunscreen I put on earlier. The air is so damp and
thick, it’s like I’m swimming through it. The crowds of people waiting for buses
look miserable. All I can smell is hot asphalt and car exhaust, and the
occasional cloud of second hand smoke. The advancing crowd parts as I pass through.
I feel like Moses. I feel too visible on this wide sidewalk, sandwiched between
a large historical building that’s been converted to a shopping center and a
long row of sheltered bus stops. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Quentin is waiting for me at the other end of this building.
I’ve known him for months, I’ve been meeting him at this building for months, but
I still feel nervous. Closed in. Fidgety. I switch my purse to my other
shoulder and shake my hair out of the twist I put it in. I straighten my
dress. I try to keep my head in one piece. I keep walking. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Looking through my dark sunglasses, I catch a guy in a white
button shirt and linen shorts staring at me. It’s as if he knows that I’m not
supposed to be here. I told Nick I was in a meeting all day. In reality, I
called out of work. I put my phone on airplane mode so I wouldn’t receive
calls. I know what I’m doing. I feel ok. I square my shoulders. I keep walking.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve spent nearly ten years, half of them with Nick, striking
a balance between what I wanted and what I could get. Within a month of meeting
Quentin, I knew I could have more. I knew I could have it all. And it threw
everything I knew into a spiral. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The platform at the end of the building is more crowded than
the sidewalks. People gather at the corners, waiting to cross at the busy
intersections. I scan the crowd. No one knows me on this side of town, but I
see myself as a giant target. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This happens, I tell myself. My feelings aren’t my fault. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a group of dancers in the middle of the platform.
Three men in neon colored t-shirts doing rhythmic break dancing. I wedge myself
amongst the people circled around the young men. They’re incredible. I pull out
my phone to take a picture. As I hold it in front of me, I see Quentin. He’s on
the opposite side of the circle as me, arms crossed, dark sunglasses taking up
most of his face. I recognize his patterned shirt and the faint silver streak
running through his mid length hair. My heart starts to race. He wore that
shirt on the first day that I met him, almost a year ago. I try to fight it,
but I feel the smile grow involuntarily on my face. I feel the bolts run
through me. For the first time all day, I forget about Nick. I forget about the
bright sun, the insane heat, that this is my fault. I take his picture. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He smiles and heads around the crowd, toward me. I stay
right where I am, the smile on my face growing wider with every step he takes
toward me. Finally, he’s in front of me. As he pulls his sunglasses up, I can
smell his sweet sweat. I can smell the sun baking his shirt. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey Que,” I manage to eek out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ve been waiting for you all day,”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>he says at the same time he hugs me hello. Nothing matters, now.
That I spent the afternoon walking around and sweating. That people are bumping
into us trying to get a better look at the dancers. That he asked me to leave
Nick. That I still hadn’t answered. Right now, everything is ok. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Weeks earlier, we were on the bed, facing one another. “How
much longer?” His eyes bored into me, letting me know there isn’t one part of
him that’s joking. I rolled onto my back. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck…” I crushed the sheets between my fists, drawing the
sheet up my chest. “I wish you hadn’t brought it up. I don’t want to use what
time I do have with you talking about him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“What
am I supposed to do?” I feel him, adjusting the sheets. Trying to get
closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This isn’t my bed. This isn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our </i>bed. I wish you’d make up your mind.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I
stared at the ceiling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“We’ve
been through this. I love you, but it’s not as easy as—“<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Oh,
come on. It is that easy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“It’s
that easy? We live together.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“That’s
just a lease. ”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“No,
it’s more. It’s about time. Our families are entwined. Our friends. I have—I
just… I feel like I can’t just up and leave him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“But
you’re not happy here. You’ve told me. I’ve seen it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I
know I’m happier with you. But Nick hasn’t done anything wrong. Leaving isn’t
something I can just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do.” </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“It
was that easy to start sleeping with me. You could just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do </i>that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Don’t.
That’s not fair.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Is
it?” We were drawing swords with our eyes, but I felt myself backing down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I…
I don’t know. I love you. But I don’t know what to do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“You
do know what to do. You know have to make a choice between him and me. And you
just don’t want to. So what’s the point of me being here?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I
broke the stare and rolled away from him. Feeling like my rib cage was
collapsing. Feeling like I was torn in a million different directions. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
His
hand reached over and touched mine. I wanted to turn to him. I wanted to face
him. To take his face in my hands. Tell him that I wanted to choose him, but I
couldn’t. As his hand wrapped around mine, I knew I couldn’t risk what I
already had. What I had already invested in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I
turned to look at him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Beth…
why do you allow yourself to be so unhappy?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“Why
do you stay if you know I won’t leave him?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
The
questions we didn’t have the answers for. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“You
should leave.” My breath came faster.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
His
hand gripped mine harder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
“I’m
not leaving.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He pulled me into him. Pulled us back into the mire. I
buried myself in it. Not ready to admit that I didn’t know if I could bank on
our future together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I linger in his hug. I don’t want to notice the heat. The
noises from the crowd. I want to block out everything, the way I could before,
when it would just be the two of us. I feel his head on my shoulder, feel my
hands in his hair. I try to focus on him. On us. But I can’t. We are just two
people hugging in a crowd. I step back, out of the hug.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This isn’t happening, is it?” he asks, full of unease.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m so sorry, Que,” I don’t finish the sentence before I
feel the tears. He lowers his head and crosses his arms. I try to say something
more. I want to say something more. I move my lips, try to make more words
happen. But all I can do was look at him. Look at him as he looks everywhere
but at me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry… that I couldn’t make this, or us, better, but I
can’t —“ I reach out for him, and he steps away. I walk toward him, but every
step forward matches his every step back. “Que, don’t,” I find myself pleading.
I manage to grab him by the wrist, to pull him close to me. “Please, please
don’t leave,” I can barely hold my voice together.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He takes my hand off his wrist, and finally meets my eye. His
eyes are so clear, and so soft. But so broken. I feel my heart stop as he
starts to speak. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good bye, Beth.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He takes two steps back, looking at me. Before I know it, he
turns into the crowd. I feel all of the heat on me, all at once. I feel
it in waves, rolling down me. I can’t move as I watch him walk away, dissolving into the crowds and heat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can feel the sun beating down on me. I can feel the people
brushing by me. I can feel the sweat and the tears running down my face. I can
feel my breath, coming in short bursts. But what I can feel most is the
emptiness. The emptiness of a mistake I can’t take back. The emptiness of
watching my happiness turn around, and walk away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-27695250830919416692014-04-30T10:43:00.001-04:002014-04-30T19:23:53.216-04:00I'm alive! Sorta.Hello, blog!<br />
<br />
Remember when I used to update with a vague sense of regularity? Me too. It was nice. We were all pals. Dinner failures, MS Paint shit, writing progress, everyday anecdotes? Good times.<br />
<br />
Now, bear with me, because this is going to get really, well, douchey, but it's actually something that's bothering me and I'm not quite sure how else to deal with it. Basically, this blog and I are growing apart, and we've been taking some time to figure out our differences and become better and stronger for one another. We've gotten past the anger, gotten past the texting each other late at night when we're drunk and lonely phase, and we're now at the "let's tell our friends we really aren't seeing each other anymore" phase.<br />
<br />
It's only been three years since I started this blog, but I've undergone a lot of change in those three years. And there's even bigger changes on the horizon. And I just don't know if who I am now fits who I was when I launched. I can't purge this and move on, because it'd be like throwing out my baby book or a beloved scrap book, but I've been ruminating on how I'm going to proceed.<br />
<br />
Just know, we're working on something good. And we'll always be pals.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, here's a picture of a baby pig falling asleep while eating an ice cream cone.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNrN17ZMQanzzsXR53r7RmOhDj3QG1pycT5rjOKfwiTABfuCniiUxOf8qoYtRbi7c1x60d8ob453FQ8c0H3AXPU5PTjKieGlsEp-Fbv8yo0bF-20_7Ah8D-iaieKm2S1CqtkYzNs58Ew1/s1600/b697c5ea-b735-450f-a9a4-b3e9609d2cf2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNrN17ZMQanzzsXR53r7RmOhDj3QG1pycT5rjOKfwiTABfuCniiUxOf8qoYtRbi7c1x60d8ob453FQ8c0H3AXPU5PTjKieGlsEp-Fbv8yo0bF-20_7Ah8D-iaieKm2S1CqtkYzNs58Ew1/s1600/b697c5ea-b735-450f-a9a4-b3e9609d2cf2.jpg" height="582" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
xoxo</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<u><b>Edit</b></u>: </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
To my lovely and concerned readers:</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
a) sweet baby piggy is not falling into a diabetic coma.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
b) I'm not quitting the blog-o-sphere!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-7093461585262161942014-04-06T09:59:00.000-04:002014-04-06T09:59:50.092-04:00Counting Down the DaysI haven't updated in so long, guys. But I want to! I have a lot of things I want to talk about. But, real life is being a real ball-buster time thief nowadays, and I've been spending most of my time chained to my desk or vainly attempting 6 hours of sleep and in between wishing it were May already. I know you're not supposed to wish your life away, but work has dished out 10+ hour days on the reg this week. And to make things more awesome, I have one more week of grueling work days ahead of me, and I feel like I'm brewing up a good sinus infection, and all I want to do is lay in bed and eat doughnuts.<br />
<br />
So I'm trying to keep on the bright side of things. Emphasis on <i>trying.</i><br />
<br />
Dates I'm looking forward to:<br />
<br />
Today: GAME OF THRONES!<br />
<br />
April 11: current assignment is over, and Mad Scientist Weekend<br />
<br />
May 7: last payment on my loan and FREEDOM from all non-student loan debt<br />
<br />
July 15-17: every baby ever will be born (seemingly)<br />
<br />
July 15: second assignment is over<br />
<br />
August! (the whole month will be good)<br />
<br />
Sept 3: I see Joel again!<br />
<br />
There's also a shit ton of birthdays and anniversaries and things thrown in there, too. The sweet things are coming. Until then, I just have to put my head down and do the work. And maybe order a million pizzas in the mean time (I mean, <i>someone</i> has to make sure my gym stays in business).<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
What are you looking forward to?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-91399189584213557942014-03-25T11:56:00.001-04:002014-03-25T11:56:41.438-04:00The day of annoying thingsMost days, I'm Jeff Spicoli.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.brainguidance.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/jeff-spicoli-decadent-lifestyle-446214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.brainguidance.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/jeff-spicoli-decadent-lifestyle-446214.jpg" height="212" width="400" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Most days, I can deal with the things that bug me with a modicum of eye-rolling and some distraction. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But then, there are other days. Stupid Life Days, where from the moment I wake up, every decision and action is just excruciating. Like, the fact that I had to <i>get out of bed </i>and <i>go downstairs </i>to <i>make coffee </i>was approached with the same agony and fury that I imagine I'd feel if someone was forcing me to drown a baby goat. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yesterday was one of those days. By 9 AM, I realized I was having an above average amount of annoyances. So much, that I decided to list them out. To take away their power? Possibly. But more to just commiserate and spread my First World Disease as far as possible. So, this is by no means a <i>complete</i> list, as my brain is an irrational tangent factory, but here's the most of what I could gather:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<u>Shit That Annoyed Me Yesterday</u></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Facebook </li>
<li>that it takes <i>7 whole seconds </i>for the Keurig to warm up</li>
<li>that I don't have a shower machine that automatically cleans/dries/styles me</li>
<li>when the rim of my to-go coffee cup doesn't match up exactly with the cup</li>
<li>that the eye liner on one eye ALWAYS looks better than the other</li>
<li>that car in front of me with the GIRL POWER! bumper sticker</li>
<li>my weirdly placed guilt of being angry about a GIRL POWER! bumper sticker</li>
<li>my even more weirdly placed guilt about being angry about new feminism and girl's toys and the GIRL POWER! messgage</li>
<li>morning traffic on my 15 minute drive</li>
<li>that I have dual monitors but I can't have a different Excel sheet open on each screen</li>
<li>excel sheets printing out stupidly even though I chose the best settings</li>
<li>that Joel is on the other side of the world, not waiting at home with a box of doughnuts</li>
<li>co-workers who smoke from a pipe</li>
<li>co-workers who smoke from a pipe and then sit in my office to talk to me </li>
<li>people noticing my hair cut</li>
<li>people not noticing my hair cut</li>
<li>being bcc'd on an email about a proposal <i>I'm managing</i></li>
<li>that Reese Eggs aren't the size of my face</li>
<li>I walk into the bathroom at the same time as someone else, all 4 stalls are empty. I choose the first stall, they choose the stall <i>right next to me</i>, and let out an explosive poo. WHAT HAPPENED TO BUFFER STALLS?</li>
<li> 3 hours later, going into the same bathroom, and it still smells like poo.</li>
<li>co-workers who mean well, but just constantly fuck up</li>
<li>getting Shakira's <i>Hips Don't Lie </i>stuck in my head. </li>
<li>spending 2 and a half days preparing for a meeting that everyone insisted was SO IMPORTANT, only to have no one show up.</li>
<li>a million different kinds of professional demoralization</li>
<li>Instagram not loading</li>
<li>finding old lipstick on a coffee mug half way through finishing a cup of coffee out of said mug</li>
<li>file paths that require 8 years of clicking through files</li>
<li>the gross images and sounds that are conjured after hearing the term "tongue punching the fart box"</li>
<li>that crunchy thing I ate in a meal that's not supposed to have crunchy things in it</li>
<li>getting into a fight with the Tech Support guy over an issue that wasn't really an issue because my boss purposely deleted the file and forgot to tell me</li>
<li>inserting/editing text in a PDF using Nitro</li>
<li>people who see I'm on my way out the door but stop to drag me into a 15 minute conversation</li>
<li>chairs that are slightly too high and tables that aren slightly too short and I have to sit at a weird side angle or squeeze my legs against the bottom of the table</li>
<li>the fact that my warmest, coziest, most un-failingly perfect and amazing slipper boots have disappeared since I moved home</li>
<li>unquenchable <i>need </i>to wear slipper boots</li>
<li>that Target only sells comfy slipper boots in the winter</li>
<li>that only after I get home do I remember that DSW is right beside Target and DSW sells comfy slipper boots</li>
<li>awesome sweat pants that are <i>just </i>too short</li>
<li>the god-damn cable box STILL NOT WORKING</li>
<li>when curling up in a cozy bed and watching trash TV while wearing my wolfy/bear hat just doesn't have the same magic anymore because my room is trash hole of donation boxes and Go To Storage boxes because some days you just don't have time to do everything and sometimes those days turn into weeks and damnit, I just want to clean my room.</li>
<li>realizing that I'm PMSing and that's why I'm Captain Grumpy Pants, but I've had my painful period all month thanks to endometriosis and Western Medicine so this is basically my life now.</li>
</ul>
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Today's been kinda better. It's snowing, at least. Just not enough to let us go home early. </div>
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Oh, whatever. I'll just add it to the list.</div>
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Here's to a better rest of the week!</div>
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*Ps. I think getting <i>Hips Don't Lie </i>stuck in my head was the very worst thing about yesterday. It's still there. It's never leaving. </div>
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Shakira, Shakira Shakira.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-49803649527906382012014-03-13T14:56:00.000-04:002014-03-14T08:31:55.461-04:00Swapping Fun Savers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQaCWmQO8hXVb9wrqQb29dPWQGnReRsGZTa0-dNVA9E5oHXjtFw-udAWXZxW0RG3Z7Owrf-l41Nk2OJufo2Vc3ZCrlsvQ52ARkj23lf2Hv2g-evcKNb7PuJBXLYrzONl1nN7vscJcG3m3r/s1600/IMG_8064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQaCWmQO8hXVb9wrqQb29dPWQGnReRsGZTa0-dNVA9E5oHXjtFw-udAWXZxW0RG3Z7Owrf-l41Nk2OJufo2Vc3ZCrlsvQ52ARkj23lf2Hv2g-evcKNb7PuJBXLYrzONl1nN7vscJcG3m3r/s1600/IMG_8064.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Joel is a photographer, and a really good one, at that. One of the camera hobbies he has is to take a Fun Saver camera around with him, and then develop it at home once it's used up. Even though he's tooling around with a $7 disposable camera, he catches amazing shots.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjMZLGIRsZ_6N_HKPIwtmFiuFIO1w_dyfv4UC71Dz6J9nFvCILeo-sOQL0tDPBx9B06Xu_qokSySsfvKQyeon5IUU2wixzGURm5yhilsZYYsOkcwzl2A5c2WbxUfIGaj5lKCkijFn0qEHE/s1600/733935_10151565004306934_491448880_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjMZLGIRsZ_6N_HKPIwtmFiuFIO1w_dyfv4UC71Dz6J9nFvCILeo-sOQL0tDPBx9B06Xu_qokSySsfvKQyeon5IUU2wixzGURm5yhilsZYYsOkcwzl2A5c2WbxUfIGaj5lKCkijFn0qEHE/s1600/733935_10151565004306934_491448880_n.jpg" height="640" width="448" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://joelwestworth.wordpress.com/2012/12/01/funsaver/">(c) Joel Westworth</a></i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP0_69C6tHG_7v6PLg_0bxrhqb-k_1CWkzyhbMSXQQcbZCcRzB8WWOFJZZVOH9bY-CEQGyGMnNJb1TnBJWEg1FvcMqRa__Z1hPABQmFivPV4bGH3IQakUZHuyb_JCoXPKMgZYXnGFk1J6T/s1600/8234837900_ae81be62b9_c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP0_69C6tHG_7v6PLg_0bxrhqb-k_1CWkzyhbMSXQQcbZCcRzB8WWOFJZZVOH9bY-CEQGyGMnNJb1TnBJWEg1FvcMqRa__Z1hPABQmFivPV4bGH3IQakUZHuyb_JCoXPKMgZYXnGFk1J6T/s1600/8234837900_ae81be62b9_c.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://joelwestworth.wordpress.com/2012/12/01/funsaver/">(c) Joel Westworth</a></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The nostalgia of the Fun Saver really struck me. I'm from that generation that used Fun Savers exclusively because film cameras were too expensive, and digital cameras were only something scientists and movie stars had. But, my uncle got me my first digital camera as a high school graduation present (it weighed 2 lbs and took 8 double A batteries, and had a 1x2 inch screen--<i>and</i> I didn't have a computer with a USB port, so I had no way to download the pictures. Ahh, 2003.) and I all but stopped using Fun Savers.<br />
<br />
But, last year, when Joel and I were still getting to know each other, he thought up the idea of filling up Fun Savers and sending them to each other to develop--a cool little way to share each other's lives that wasn't Skype or an email. My first effort was... well, let's just say it'd been about 10 years since I used a camera. Lots of fingers in the frame, bleached out, blurry subjects, "forgot to turn the flash on"moments. You know, professional photography.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWA2bUq8YlxRHNUcqee1-FMicbrtMZSSqokjgJEjUrIEA7zLWfDc8Ggcc-FED0x3Pq23a4erDVXhUsMMTxJFyaDkkxZbbCB4Z9T0Z71XARYxA4yADmgJrMtnYih2kTjGN_alAclE2BmQM/s1600/R001-004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsWA2bUq8YlxRHNUcqee1-FMicbrtMZSSqokjgJEjUrIEA7zLWfDc8Ggcc-FED0x3Pq23a4erDVXhUsMMTxJFyaDkkxZbbCB4Z9T0Z71XARYxA4yADmgJrMtnYih2kTjGN_alAclE2BmQM/s1600/R001-004.JPG" height="432" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hey Bill!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5BEB1CuHbvD-zpCfomZXLz0tNS9AQsaz0KD1735hvB22wtIAM5-xEnN9hvhaKGZQecjbTnQ_Xyx-EdfoBks2O3lg7zkaDvlC0c4SI33CJ4Tv2JC3L6BsPY02Z1b3owveOLLUWLasUMGs5/s1600/R001-003-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5BEB1CuHbvD-zpCfomZXLz0tNS9AQsaz0KD1735hvB22wtIAM5-xEnN9hvhaKGZQecjbTnQ_Xyx-EdfoBks2O3lg7zkaDvlC0c4SI33CJ4Tv2JC3L6BsPY02Z1b3owveOLLUWLasUMGs5/s1600/R001-003-1.JPG" height="432" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hey, No Flash!</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqld6HZkbkK9LwcNqHqk0miliDkBaoIs_GqmtZItkjo-BS7WsUX3DuALE137hWOqdtUBmb2G1haCm1JUJIe1F0HQ0DhPLZiiFvMPRkSRSqX9vf3BeVwjf9Rot9ny68WPiTCBGe4diYNjeV/s1600/R001-009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqld6HZkbkK9LwcNqHqk0miliDkBaoIs_GqmtZItkjo-BS7WsUX3DuALE137hWOqdtUBmb2G1haCm1JUJIe1F0HQ0DhPLZiiFvMPRkSRSqX9vf3BeVwjf9Rot9ny68WPiTCBGe4diYNjeV/s1600/R001-009.JPG" height="432" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hey, finger!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was a lot of fun to get Joel's camera developed and see the views from his world, which were so different than my view of cats, sweat pants, and improper lighting.<br />
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The next camera took me a long time to fill up, putting a kink in our plans of doing this monthly (I am forever a procrastinator), but Joel took it back with him after his visit to 'Murica*, developed it and sent me the results last week. I'll say, this roll came out much better than the first one. haha<br />
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And while Joel and I were in New York, we carried a Fun Saver with us to document our adventures.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The creeper finger is quickly becoming my signature camera move.</i></td></tr>
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One of my fondest memories of his visit is sitting in Washington Square Park in the cold, after we picked up the photos, and looking through them and laughing.<br />
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There's something so satisfying about printed photos. Yes, the instant gratification of a digital camera is awesome, but it doesn't really compare to the anticipation of waiting for your film to develop, of the excitement of opening that big yellow envelope, at the surprise at what came out, of the actual artifacts to look at and hold onto for as long as you can. That visceral experience that comes from holding a photo in your hand will never be lost on me. And it's nothing that looking at or scrolling through photos on a screen can replicate.<br />
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It feels like printed photos are relics of the 90's, along with Blockbuster Video and landline telephones; or maybe they're just a snotty Hipster trend. But, some 1-Hour places still exist. And disposable cameras are still around. And even though I can tell the pictures I take because of all the errant fingers and blurred subjects and lack of flash, I like that he and I have this physical documentary of our time together. The memories aren't just in my phone or in my computer. They're in a scrap book that I can take out and look at whenever I miss him. And it's forever better than looking through a Facebook album. It feels real. It feels permanent.<br />
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And I can't wait to have a shelf stacked with books of our Fun Saver adventures.<br />
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You know, if I ever get around to putting the shelf up. /procrastinationAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-37759336517516300752014-03-02T20:55:00.001-05:002014-03-02T20:55:33.866-05:00Oscar Night!Usually I watch all the Oscar nominated films and put way too much effort into Oscar pools before the big night, but this year, I barely know who's nominated.<br />
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I mean, from what I've heard, it's all <i>American Hustle, </i>and not even sneaking a Nalgene container filled with Mimosa into the theater made that movie enjoyable for me. I thought it was the cinematic equivalent of a half-chub. <i>Blah. </i>And I know <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Matthew McConaughey is nominated twice for Best Actor, but I think he deserves to win the special Oscar I've just come up with:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Best Actor Portraying Mostly Despicable Roles This Year and Yeah, I'd Still Hit That</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Seriously. How does McConaughey play a 16 lb kinda scumbag AIDS patient with a pedophile mustache, a sleazy stock broker who'd most likely rape you in the bathroom of a nightclub and still come off as totally fuckable? </span><br />
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<a href="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2014/2/7/1391796853205/Matthew-McConaughey-in-Da-009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2014/2/7/1391796853205/Matthew-McConaughey-in-Da-009.jpg" height="240" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I'm pretty sure it's because, unlike traditional humans, he is a charisma, not carbon, based life form. And he breathes in oxygen and gives off carbon-di-all-ladies-take-your-panties-off. Enormous acting talent, aside, no one can deny that the man is pure sex. Maybe he'll win a Special Achievement in Creepy Asshole Characters.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">But, speaking of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">McConaughey goodness, I'm blowing off the Oscars so I can finish watching <i>True Detective. </i>Holy shit. That show is incredible. And if you haven't started watching it, DO IT NOW OK. </span><br />
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Alright, I'm off to judge the dresses, which is the best part since the awards are mostly predictable and disappointing. And then I'll be watching <i>True Detective. </i>Which you should all be watching.<br />
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Happy Oscars, everyone!<br />
(go watch <i>True Detective)</i><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-76840590470443998632014-02-27T10:40:00.001-05:002014-02-27T10:40:46.794-05:00Audrey Turner, budding Paleontologist I have been lugging around with me a little file rack filled with keepsake papers to everywhere I've lived, and I haven't looked through it, maybe since high school. Last night, though, I was in a <i>THROW EVERYTHING AWAY </i>fit, and I sat down with the box, preparing to ravage it with my PMS-fueled feng-shui. <div>
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From my 1st grade home school "Feelings Book" where I answered <i>What do you like most about yourself </i>with "I am P." to a 3rd grade notebook filled with stories and drawing of aliens who were trying to abduct me at night, to a 6th grade note pad full of "poems" about the boy who broke my heart, I ended up not throwing anything away--everything was amazing. </div>
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However, nothing was as amazing as this, this 9 year old's guide to dinosaurs, the most definitive dinosaur book you'll ever need: </div>
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<u>Dinosaur Pictre Book</u></div>
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by Audrey Turner</div>
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(original title [as seen in a fury of erasings] <i>The Life of Dinosaurs, with actevetys [activities?]) </i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Just in case you thought that water was grass or something. </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>um, brb, I'm dying.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>this guy got his own centerfold</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not sure why, but this steggy has some serious Feels going on.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Whoa! Capter 2! Once again, a helpful note, in case you thought that fish was a sock or something.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>These came from the Flying Animals with Severe Scoliosis archives</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Um, who could forget the most famous flying animal ever, the Starfish. </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I think this chased me in a nightmare once. </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The end! The erased title was "How to Draw a Dinosaur." Clearly I didn't think<br />anyone else could hack it. </i></td></tr>
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Some of you might be wondering, <i>where is the velociraptor? </i>And the answer is, I was only 9. At the time, my favorite dinosaur was the Brontosaurus--so much my favorite that when someone corrected me and said it's a brachiosaurus, not a brontosaurus, I refused to comply. Also, at 9, the dinosaur books I had didn't touch too much on velociraptors. </div>
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At this point in my life, it would be 6 more months until that fateful day, when my parents and their friends took us to see <i>Jurassic Park, </i>and the velociraptor stole my heart. With it's Giant Hooked Claw. </div>
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Also, also, I'm not sure when my Good Spelling gene FINALLY kicked in, but thank God it did. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-49962001242645190722014-02-25T09:00:00.002-05:002014-02-25T09:00:48.122-05:00Crossing Streams<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I was a few days old, my mom bundled me up, got me milk-drunk, and took me with her to see <i>Ghostbusters. </i>It was the first movie I ever saw. Well, as much as a newborn can "watch a movie."<br />
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I have always held fast to the belief that that experience shaped me into the person I am today. That it tripped some sort of absurd humor/extreme sarcasm switch in my baby brain that otherwise would have been left alone. And I absorbed all that movie greatness like sponge. I believe it allowed me, as a little kid, to watch and <i>actually like</i> movies such as <i>Caddyshack, Stripes, Spaceballs, Dragnet</i> and<i> Raising Arizona</i>--movies that my parents liked to watch and didn't see any harm in letting us sit down and watch with them<i>. </i>And lucky for me, Harold Ramis was responsible for most of those movies I loved that were well beyond my scope of reference. His name was one of the first "movie names" I recognized. And for a long time, I thought he was my dad's long lost brother.<br />
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My heart literally sank yesterday when I read the sad, sad news that Ramis died of a painful blood disorder. To quote my friend Scott, "There is no twinkie big enough to represent my grief."<br />
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So, thank you, Harold Ramis. Thank you, subversive 80's humor. Thank you, mom and dad, for fostering in me a love of good humor. We lost a good man, a comedy legend, and the inspiration behind many modern comedies yesterday.<br />
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*Often, I wonder what would have happened, who I'd be, or where I'd be now, if my mom had decided to see a shitty 80's rom-com instead of <i>Ghostbusters</i>. <i>The horror.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-23602983843732851422014-02-21T08:59:00.003-05:002014-02-21T08:59:34.598-05:00One Cookie to Rule Them All<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I started at a new gym this week, but that's all shot to shit because my mom developed the world's most perfect oatmeal cookie. And I've eaten my weight in their deliciousness.<br />
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Most people will brush off an oatmeal cookie. And why not? Typically, they're just oatmeal. No splash. No thrill. Having to eat oatmeal cookies is like being forced to hang out with your bland cousin--not the <i>so creepy he's cool </i>one who collects used ziplock bags, but the one who eats Vienna Sausages dipped in ketchup--when you really want to hang out with your awesome cousin who has a fake ID and a convertible (the cool cousin being chocolate chip cookies or snicker doodles or goat cheese sugar crisps or pan cookies or peanut butter florals or what have you.) <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(Whatever, I like the analogy)</span><br />
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Not me, though. I love an oatmeal cookie. The oatmeal cookie and all it's fiber-laden simplicity calls to the Midwestern genetics in me that my mom has worked so tirelessly to destroy (but somethings can't be helped; this love of sweat pants and trashy TV didn't evolve on its own, Mom). They're filling, but not too sweet, so you can eat about a million of them before you feel sick. And, you can convince yourself that since it's oatmeal, butter, and brown sugar, you're basically eating a bowl of oatmeal. That makes them a breakfast food. Aw yeah. But more than that, oatmeal cookies remind me of dad's mom, Gramma.<br />
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I didn't have close relationships with my grandmothers. Growing up in a military family, we moved a lot and it was never in the same area, or even state as them. So apart from family visits when I was younger and birthday cards and Christmas presents, I didn't really know them. I was an incredibly shy kid and couldn't pick up the phone, and I was a bad pen pal. By the time I was old enough to realize how cool it would be to know my grand mothers, Mom's mom, Grammy, had passed away, and Dad's mom, Gramma, developed severe dementia, and years later, passed away.<br />
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But, Gramma did leave an indelible mark on me in the form of oatmeal cookies. She had this recipe that was like nothing I've ever tried before. They were basic oatmeal cookies, but they were white. And they had this taste to them that I've never been able to replicate, or find in store bought cookies. It was like a raw cookie dough taste, rich, savory, but fully baked. It's plain, but it's <i>haunting</i>.<br />
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I couldn't get enough of them. And whenever we'd visit, she'd always make a batch just for me, and keep them in a big, round, blue tin. We have her recipe, but they don't taste the same. Whatever secret ingredient or method she had, I didn't pick up.<br />
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Enter, my mom's new oatmeal cookies.<br />
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These cookies are incredible and delicious in the own right. But after I ate my 6th one last night, I realized just why I loved them so much--they taste just like Gramma's cookies. I ate two more and slipped into a diabetic coma, smiling the fattest smile of a sweet, loving, food reunion. </div>
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While she somehow stumbled upon Gramma's secret, she also added a lot of sexy ingredients that I usually sneer at, like coconut and white chocolate chips. And somehow, all of it works. The texture is soft with slightly crunchy edges, with almond-inspired sweetness that really sets it off. Even the color is luscious. This oatmeal cookie would put down the ketchup covered sausages, and totally let you drive its convertible. And then buy beer for you and your friends. </div>
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So go on, put on some stretchy pants, make sure there's a gallon of milk in the fridge, and make these cookies. </div>
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And after you're done eating the entire batch and hating yourself, call your gramma. </div>
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The Superior Turner Cookie by Kim Turner</div>
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Ingredients:</div>
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<ul>
<li>1 cup butter</li>
<li>1 cup brown sugar</li>
<li>1/2 cup white sugar</li>
<li>1 teaspoon baking soda</li>
<li>1/2 teaspoon salt</li>
<li>1 cup all purpose flower</li>
<li>1/2 cup almond meal</li>
<li>2 eggs</li>
<li>1 teaspoon vanilla</li>
<li>1 teaspoon almond extract</li>
<li>3 cups oatmeal</li>
<li>1/2 cup shaved coconut</li>
<li>1 cup chopped pecans</li>
<li>1 cup white chocolate chips</li>
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<li>combine flour, almond meal, salt and baking soda, and set aside.</li>
<li>cream together butter and white and brown sugars.</li>
<li>add eggs one at a time.</li>
<li>add vanilla and almond extract.</li>
<li>slowly mix in dry ingredients</li>
<li>slowly mix in oatmeal and other mix-ins (coconut, pecans, white chocolate chips)</li>
<li>use an ice cream scoop to make balls of oatmeal dough deliciousness, and distribute them on baking sheets </li>
<li>bake for 8-10 minutes at 325*</li>
<li>remove immediately from baking sheet and let cool on a wire rack. </li>
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Mom's pro-tips*:</div>
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<li>you aren't baking successfully unless you've dirtied up every measuring device you own. </li>
<li>pull the cookies out when they're <i>almost </i>done. They'll continue baking when you bring them out of the oven, and it maintains the soft texture/crispy edge harmony.</li>
<li>For every baking sheet you bake, you get one spoon full of raw dough to eat. </li>
<li>Therefore, use every baking sheet you own.</li>
<li>You can use parchment paper on the baking sheets to save on clean up. Or, if you want your daughter to work harder at washing dishes, don't. </li>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">*these, in no way, have been editorialized.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-42686012990808214652014-02-18T14:14:00.001-05:002014-02-18T14:14:49.438-05:005 day weekend! (aka photo dump)Thanks, Winter Storm Pax!<br />
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It started snowing on Wednesday night, and continued into Thursday morning. With almost 2 feet of accumulation, it was just enough to shut down the DC metro area on Thursday and mostly Friday. And since Monday was President's Day, I got a sweet, unexpected, 5 day weekend.<br />
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Hell. Yeah.<br />
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I stayed up all Wednesday night watching it snow and going through all of HBO OnDemand. Most of the night was in white out conditions, which always gets me glued to the window. And in the morning, there was lots of scampering with the snow cows, who basically swam through the snow piles.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNYBLusNzCR5_9lLDwyP2a3TWO9QQLrcQZhV1BwrSQ9krRbv2UjeXoae4-gT3ivP-5TZFqMqZ59Z0pBaV2xFNtUhXOa-HJ9Ajnt7rZrUKSOKRNBuJmvKWynac53botx1Y9B2nioKqkdxY4/s1600/IMG_0356.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNYBLusNzCR5_9lLDwyP2a3TWO9QQLrcQZhV1BwrSQ9krRbv2UjeXoae4-gT3ivP-5TZFqMqZ59Z0pBaV2xFNtUhXOa-HJ9Ajnt7rZrUKSOKRNBuJmvKWynac53botx1Y9B2nioKqkdxY4/s1600/IMG_0356.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYeKAbzU2weEVJOc8FnqXFVlkTQGmXAbYtkWJpQyCl6l4xrLnwZgel5jgALxiK-UDZ05Mtq6W_e40Onbjk1swQUPrKrZKRXB6RjVdrA62Ocy-kdFv8fvc8JEzCa8E-D7QkRn8VeW8Xnh_/s1600/IMG_0357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYeKAbzU2weEVJOc8FnqXFVlkTQGmXAbYtkWJpQyCl6l4xrLnwZgel5jgALxiK-UDZ05Mtq6W_e40Onbjk1swQUPrKrZKRXB6RjVdrA62Ocy-kdFv8fvc8JEzCa8E-D7QkRn8VeW8Xnh_/s1600/IMG_0357.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbg3So2wQgW7v-iinpC-G3EoQ_l6160rQwDk72lgun8VJlzOd-71rnwxEygYqEYhcD1S7Kh1Y19Pum_Fp7OkxzcKMDO_PbkxkhwG1_at4kK2uNXmUddWVkQxc6mJmukkeN69thtXA8R84/s1600/IMG_0358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrbg3So2wQgW7v-iinpC-G3EoQ_l6160rQwDk72lgun8VJlzOd-71rnwxEygYqEYhcD1S7Kh1Y19Pum_Fp7OkxzcKMDO_PbkxkhwG1_at4kK2uNXmUddWVkQxc6mJmukkeN69thtXA8R84/s1600/IMG_0358.JPG" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Behold the face of 2 hours sleep</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxExpRaim3kXpmDNrNxX0QJC68dsiEjk1IoKaMEcCK6l_XuIEK_CtyjzAs3cVu9cI6LSFYrNeQvNW_JGa2Sidda-shWEIrNVhMxKfJuNlB7MbKVlDelnNCtnoYeIgKeuAgs2YneGA5LZcj/s1600/IMG_0365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxExpRaim3kXpmDNrNxX0QJC68dsiEjk1IoKaMEcCK6l_XuIEK_CtyjzAs3cVu9cI6LSFYrNeQvNW_JGa2Sidda-shWEIrNVhMxKfJuNlB7MbKVlDelnNCtnoYeIgKeuAgs2YneGA5LZcj/s1600/IMG_0365.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dad and the Ladies Basset go check out the stuck snow plows</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Then I wrenched my back when I shoveled out my car. So that was fun. I know now why my mom got married and had kids: so she'd always have someone to shovel out her car.<br />
<br />
Joel and I had a great Valentines Skype Date. We joked and plotted and laughed and stayed up late and I drew him awesome pictures, like this:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNYqkTXP5HIMgU6erx_kDLNpQRel490UGUFaw0T4MqVA_nCLHEZSN7c75X9CSO4S6JsaKxgUcqpOfLp-XeAXgonx478TFNZ52PuS6VCtBgy426Lqj47yc5jfcgGsHahQs7BoHDVSFoufm/s1600/Untitled.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNYqkTXP5HIMgU6erx_kDLNpQRel490UGUFaw0T4MqVA_nCLHEZSN7c75X9CSO4S6JsaKxgUcqpOfLp-XeAXgonx478TFNZ52PuS6VCtBgy426Lqj47yc5jfcgGsHahQs7BoHDVSFoufm/s1600/Untitled.png" height="253" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>did I mention I was on pain killers for my back? because I was.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
On Friday, I came home from lunch and had flowers waiting for me. Joel is melting my cold, dead, anti-Valentines Day heart. Also, my room smells like roses and cinnamon, which is unbelievably delicious and makes me want to bake rose-cinnamon cake. The only problem is, I don't think that's a thing. But I could probably make it a thing. But I think roses are poisonous? <i>We'll find out!</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1M7wki92AfivaXCAkhpCCk1NDDGTyEJfSX9xhQMrgIkEK41lU5BrDQHYzI0FrGAHX4W_THuvY1zhtiq8-ELm4A2q2yh2piDjWBC380rNa35v6Q47f68yKWgCJsGESrCLl6-P67Js4WARX/s1600/IMG_0367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1M7wki92AfivaXCAkhpCCk1NDDGTyEJfSX9xhQMrgIkEK41lU5BrDQHYzI0FrGAHX4W_THuvY1zhtiq8-ELm4A2q2yh2piDjWBC380rNa35v6Q47f68yKWgCJsGESrCLl6-P67Js4WARX/s1600/IMG_0367.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
Then, Grey and Neve came over for their night at Mimi's. Grey held a photo shoot for his lego creatures, and Neve spent the better part of the evening dressing up in my closet and letting me teach her about make up (I'm sure her parents will be thrilled to have her dress like Aunt Audrey).<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKKjgBVcrOsOswgyA4n89QsLiuYMHznlGz7-hn7wD1WR9pzKes52drRIhhotT8_Av73cMwD5nrJZ49tEQV0emlrCBF9pJC1iHKAk1VQiDUrKkaz2wCG0I2g_hY0uZTUWlkYuKQLaeHHV1z/s1600/IMG_0368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKKjgBVcrOsOswgyA4n89QsLiuYMHznlGz7-hn7wD1WR9pzKes52drRIhhotT8_Av73cMwD5nrJZ49tEQV0emlrCBF9pJC1iHKAk1VQiDUrKkaz2wCG0I2g_hY0uZTUWlkYuKQLaeHHV1z/s1600/IMG_0368.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"I need a flashlight, a foot stool, and a camera."</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUnJGkDTOWbnFltgTAWq-W7cx29CUZfluqsa0eE9qQ3598u1q5X_6MUaJWiqRDDtrr6WRwGgc5UkuERpWHdKoQRJQu6-hkXjDgg32q959rxJKireeCzcwyzHpib4v36z5m87blsreiAmt/s1600/IMG_0370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUnJGkDTOWbnFltgTAWq-W7cx29CUZfluqsa0eE9qQ3598u1q5X_6MUaJWiqRDDtrr6WRwGgc5UkuERpWHdKoQRJQu6-hkXjDgg32q959rxJKireeCzcwyzHpib4v36z5m87blsreiAmt/s1600/IMG_0370.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>ehhhh... yeah, that was a $25 eye shadow kit. I don't care. It was hella cute.</i></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzeKsKLZL9DU8RjibFQK2RLwe4anqQ8W3ejnzHLOPRJxOLD1CRrMQJ6qi7mvHAQ_iFEz2a0lZAPlIb8_LBvpbg-HaEnNRP5XGsx2HEvA0JHfJPObqDY4cBVsN0iXQ6WcNkafx7c7FqTka/s1600/IMG_0372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilzeKsKLZL9DU8RjibFQK2RLwe4anqQ8W3ejnzHLOPRJxOLD1CRrMQJ6qi7mvHAQ_iFEz2a0lZAPlIb8_LBvpbg-HaEnNRP5XGsx2HEvA0JHfJPObqDY4cBVsN0iXQ6WcNkafx7c7FqTka/s1600/IMG_0372.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUY93XuVxnNvCq_yCtz4x0SA5nNriAzYQ1ngze5tiyZC3Jov9tJ63ac0vwhayH73Y1-Rt98BbIMmgoaTDkd5Q1lwlEYtqdFQdxEQCWLT-j3X1a8SE9LiobfC4PayD7_9QbF5cDTGfUczAK/s1600/IMG_0374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUY93XuVxnNvCq_yCtz4x0SA5nNriAzYQ1ngze5tiyZC3Jov9tJ63ac0vwhayH73Y1-Rt98BbIMmgoaTDkd5Q1lwlEYtqdFQdxEQCWLT-j3X1a8SE9LiobfC4PayD7_9QbF5cDTGfUczAK/s1600/IMG_0374.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />
I did keep my tradition of drinking wine and watching horror movies on Valentine's Day. Except I watched <i>The Purge </i>and it bored the hell out of me. womp womp.<br />
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<br />
I don't have pictures of Saturday, because I literally slept all day. And then I ate Egyptian food at my neighbor's house (damn, I <i>love </i>Egyptian food.), before coming home and falling asleep again. It was lovely.<br />
<br />
<br />
On Sunday, I woke up butt-early and was determined to accomplish all the productivity I wanted to have had for the last three days. So I went to Starbucks to write at 7 AM. And it was gang-busters. Well, relatively gang busters. I only wrote three and a half pages, but considering I only got through 2 paragraphs the last time I sat down to write, I'm putting this in the victory column.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRYfkv_3b-j2kOvawqhuk_yRxBZpwIZv2UY62uZtAmCufAQYExR3Xfe4vXt0JKx2d1NMh-f0Sg8DU5Qf2IzjppgMhQDAB8tO5xvTrCe-7f4cHBpd5bVZ8njp0YToBX5TKHdF_bXOfYGs_/s1600/IMG_0377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsRYfkv_3b-j2kOvawqhuk_yRxBZpwIZv2UY62uZtAmCufAQYExR3Xfe4vXt0JKx2d1NMh-f0Sg8DU5Qf2IzjppgMhQDAB8tO5xvTrCe-7f4cHBpd5bVZ8njp0YToBX5TKHdF_bXOfYGs_/s1600/IMG_0377.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yep. I have become yuppie.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL3V3Are5EhLcryJe99gTKvlDddO_PEKKjmIjPubaGmreszurhKashjsrH-4vzCb2tTnV6QqQhuoY3NQl4BnBF8GLqtjL0PUQv8kiF0yUXtGYZpDR8kLBGqZN5SPC36lBq98l5SaPdOdcb/s1600/IMG_0381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL3V3Are5EhLcryJe99gTKvlDddO_PEKKjmIjPubaGmreszurhKashjsrH-4vzCb2tTnV6QqQhuoY3NQl4BnBF8GLqtjL0PUQv8kiF0yUXtGYZpDR8kLBGqZN5SPC36lBq98l5SaPdOdcb/s1600/IMG_0381.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>When I got home, Grey and Neve were having a Pop Tart party. </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Grey and Neve take Pop Tarts up to their beds, stack all the pillows around them, and whisper things to each other. It's heart melting. My favorite eavesdrop moment:<br />
Grey: Neve, we should do Pop Tart parties all the time.<br />
Neve: Yeah, we should do them every day.<br />
Grey: Except for the days when we have Pop Tart Super parties!<br />
Neve: Nooooo, we can't do that til we're adults!<br />
<br />
Um, what's a Pop Tart Super party? And why haven't I gone to one yet?<br />
<br />
<br />
Later, I saw <i>Catching Fire. </i>I was really disappointed with <i>Hunger Games, </i>so I wasn't in any hurry to see the sequel. But, it was my favorite book in the series, and it was at Arlington Cinema Draft House, so I decided to hit it up. And even though they left out some good stuff (still no mention of the Avox?) it was a million times better than I thought it would be. (Proof that Hollywood reads my blog) And I got to eat loaded nachos and a brownie sundae while watching it (which might have made it better than it really was.) But it did hurt my heart to see Phillip Seymour Hoffman.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://media.cmgdigital.com/shared/lt/lt_cache/thumbnail/960/img/photos/2013/11/11/df/9c/PSH-Swan-House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://media.cmgdigital.com/shared/lt/lt_cache/thumbnail/960/img/photos/2013/11/11/df/9c/PSH-Swan-House.jpg" height="272" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fly home, sweet angel baby Hoffman</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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More on that, later.<br />
<br />
And of course, Monday was spent in bed, catching up on work I was supposed to have done on Friday, and seeing <i>Monuments Men</i>, which was a tame, but fun, romp through World War 2. And there was a Bill Murray crying scene, which made me cry, because Bill Murray is my spirit celebrity, and I was already having an emotional morning.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyWZ5Dbzk38wJvyIwKXRIOis-sFCfUT0wDWh7UTK18VLeidvkFLeQBNGfle2fQGYV6RzrHBYRja7mkFb5yhrILxVUHxg79_TWW4EPiIL_LWltZViNLGj94tEH43zUodZ-nOjG7V8MB65jk/s1600/the-monuments-men-bob-balaban-bill-murray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyWZ5Dbzk38wJvyIwKXRIOis-sFCfUT0wDWh7UTK18VLeidvkFLeQBNGfle2fQGYV6RzrHBYRja7mkFb5yhrILxVUHxg79_TWW4EPiIL_LWltZViNLGj94tEH43zUodZ-nOjG7V8MB65jk/s1600/the-monuments-men-bob-balaban-bill-murray.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
So that about sums up my lovely extended time at home. So much cable TV. So much sleep. So much eating. So much sweat pants. So much movies.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, getting up to go to work <i>on time </i>this morning, was a struggle.<br />
<br />
Hope you all had a great weekend, too!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*Also, what? Why are we naming snow storms? </span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-28475380466931572942014-02-13T01:50:00.002-05:002014-02-13T08:04:03.101-05:00Hoodie Therapy<span id="goog_975273279"></span><span id="goog_975273280"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGOZ5WKFqpoRbXUWMiANa2QxYWOtWeCjx8Dub0bK5STTmkTA5D_G1hduIA0Oj0oIAJgR7LayqK7luKkJloePSeHxSG1SLqFmFph9F6lOzy19uTWA2Uvxq6iAE_oA4HXisHYo8Kvd60fzuV/s1600/IMG_0353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGOZ5WKFqpoRbXUWMiANa2QxYWOtWeCjx8Dub0bK5STTmkTA5D_G1hduIA0Oj0oIAJgR7LayqK7luKkJloePSeHxSG1SLqFmFph9F6lOzy19uTWA2Uvxq6iAE_oA4HXisHYo8Kvd60fzuV/s1600/IMG_0353.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My ex-boyfriend bought me this hoodie.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No, I take it back. My friend Jimmy bought me this hoodie. He wanted to date me, and I wanted to date him, but I wouldn't let it happen. 1% of me always resisted, and I always accepted it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He bought it for me when we first met. I was in high school and going through a break up from Adam. He took me to a Tenacious D/Weezer concert and he didn't know it, but he bought me a $42 dollar hoodie that made me think of Adam. I wore the sweatshirt every moment I could, so I could think of Adam.<br />
<br />
I was in college before I wore it and thought of Jimmy. I wore it on almost every lazy day and thought of him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Years later, I'd see Addie wearing the same sweatshirt. I'd try to start conversation with him over it, and he'd shoot me down. More years later, I'd emerge from the bathroom in the basement apartment we shared, only find us both wearing our matching hoodies, playfully arguing about who should change first.<br />
<br />
I used it to pack dishes when I moved out of that apartment, knowing I wouldn't see it again for a long time. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I unpacked my dishes last year, and discovered it wrapped amongst coffee cups I hadn't seen in a long time, I felt <i>nothing.</i> Not a fleeting glimpse of 2001, Adam. 2005, Jimmy. 2007, Addie. Not even a shrug of <i>oh there it is </i>relief. An unremarkable reunion. I tossed it into the laundry hamper, where it stayed until it made its way into the washer, and then to the hoodie basket, where it found its way to the bottom. <br />
<br /></div>
<div>
And then, Saturday. I reached into the hoodie basket, and without looking, pulled out the big red wonder.<br />
<br />
I hadn't worn it for years, but when I tried it on, it instantly fit, the way it always instantly fit from the moment I tried it on at First Mariner Arena in Baltimore. Not too big and not too small. A couple of paint stains on the left sleeve. Cuts along the hood line where the draw strings meet. Break marks within the silk screened "Cleveland Steamers" logo. Lived in and loved. It was hard to believe I'd forgotten about it. This hoodie that I invested so much time in, so much life in, was nothing more than a piece of excess clothing. Nothing more than packing materials. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Lounging around in it all morning on Saturday, and all day Sunday, I felt nothing but comfort, nothing but familiarity. And it felt nice. <br />
<br />
I haven't known this disconnect before. I've always been the one who's crippled by nostalgia. By picking at seams. By stalling on what-ifs and if-onlys. Fixated on the men I've fallen in love with. Turning things like hoodies into instruments of guilt, keeping them around as some sort of penance. Hoping one day to magically be ok with the choices I've made. All of this working toward my detriment.<br />
<br />
But, I'm ok, now. Looking at this hoodie as something that I love because it's a part of me and a part of my past, and not because it's <i>from him</i> or <i>reminds me of him</i> or <i>connects to him</i>, is a welcome change. I'm finally at a place in my life where I can accept the past and move forward, which is something I've been working toward for a long time now. Loving this hoodie for what it is looks like a small step, but it's so <i>huge. </i><br />
<br />
I love this hoodie because it <i>belongs to me</i>.<br />
<br />
I love this hoodie because it's comfortable as shit.<br />
<br />
Most people don't get hit with a sweater full of introspection when they go through their hoodie basket. And most people don't have a basket dedicated to hoodies. But that's ok. I'll take my therapy where I can get it.<br />
<br />
Even in the form of a Tenacious D hoodie. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-30898314359141401632014-02-11T09:54:00.001-05:002014-02-11T09:54:37.324-05:00Beef Bor-gloriousBoeuf Bourguignon?<br />
<br />
Bowf Bore-ig-non?<br />
<br />
Boff Borr-yan?<br />
<br />
Beef Burgundy?<br />
<br />
Whatever. It's Beef Bor-glorious.<br />
<br />
<br />
I've had Beef Bourguignon on my Cooking Bucket List ever since I read <i>Julie & Julia, </i>and then heard from experienced cooks about how hard and time consuming it is. Because if there's one thing I do well in life, it's try to run when I should just be discovering my feet.<br />
<br />
So, about once a month for the past 5 years, I'd set aside a night to try making the french beefy masterpiece described to me as a "bowl of steak and redwine gravy." And about once or twice a month, I'd make it half way through the ingredients before I gave up on the idea all together. I like steak and red wine and gravy, but I wasn't about to spend what seemed like a month's salary and a whole day on one meal.<br />
<br />
Cut to last weekend. I've been brining up meal planning with my mom since I moved back in, and on she finally nailed it. As she was writing out a menu, I heard her say something about Beef Bourg. I was quick to jump on the train, making wild statements such as, I'LL HELP YOU MAKE IT! AWESOME! SO EXCITE! SOMETHING TO BLOG ABOUT! So she marked it on the calendar for Sunday while mentioning her Nigella Lawson recipe. I have a conflicted relationship with Nigella Lawson because she's the queen of British Food Porn and my dad is in love with her, but my excitement remained undiminished.<br />
<br />
And, in typical Audrey style, I forgot about my commitment 10 minutes later.<br />
<br />
Cut to Sunday afternoon. Mom wakes me up from my Nap Day tradition and says it's time to make dinner. She had chopped all the vegetables, cubed the meat, laid out the spices, and the made the gravy, so literally all I had to do was follow the recipe. So technically this wasn't a full-on Audrey Dinner Adventure. I'll try it from grocery to store to plate next time.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0P1zxC8XrqO2zttD_a9R8YgVbaCkVxMufgbx_8q_emYk6ZVS_ghVlVfTu6wSJ_miEWsgB-hlG-N1RJfnTuU-5iZ3OWbouiJ6repGpw3Zgkofko6CNs9URo-4Klu3kisrt9oWSyyzf_UEg/s1600/IMG_03392.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0P1zxC8XrqO2zttD_a9R8YgVbaCkVxMufgbx_8q_emYk6ZVS_ghVlVfTu6wSJ_miEWsgB-hlG-N1RJfnTuU-5iZ3OWbouiJ6repGpw3Zgkofko6CNs9URo-4Klu3kisrt9oWSyyzf_UEg/s1600/IMG_03392.jpg" height="488" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I still managed to forget a step or two. And I gave myself carpal tunnel by browning cubes of steak for what seemed like 4 hours.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpmZ-ByTtCu68XowQSRdNoZgRa_Q_tPhN9HGE_ZDWL1Oh4y6pIVEE4BS1AwB2RqN0wO53nBFvuomvzkEDOvpq3cYcGRauCvlnO6OJsn-fyy1ZRMgbl51o0AnWuarsTZ7Rn3ZAfrPp_zWh/s1600/IMG_0340.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIpmZ-ByTtCu68XowQSRdNoZgRa_Q_tPhN9HGE_ZDWL1Oh4y6pIVEE4BS1AwB2RqN0wO53nBFvuomvzkEDOvpq3cYcGRauCvlnO6OJsn-fyy1ZRMgbl51o0AnWuarsTZ7Rn3ZAfrPp_zWh/s1600/IMG_0340.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cube by cube, good citizens.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And we skipped the whole "pour 1/2 a cup of cognac on it and <em>stand </em><i>back</i> as you <b>ignite it with a match</b>" part because my dad was painting in the next room and there were way too many fire hazards in the kitchen. Next time.<br />
<br />
But what came out was an incredibly delicious, aromatic, sweet, savory, beautiful beef blessing.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjYf6k5jqkJPLnt4FIYXN4e9u480WL5_0yc370BFNPQnm2SgtVCExF1n7zCXTS9ufaBhpUFRhPy0LQrY4aTjR2mzdiYCx_wWEZ9k4v5iZUxS4Sxud3mxUulAFbGG62zD_lTmMNW3G-ilnj/s1600/IMG_0346.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjYf6k5jqkJPLnt4FIYXN4e9u480WL5_0yc370BFNPQnm2SgtVCExF1n7zCXTS9ufaBhpUFRhPy0LQrY4aTjR2mzdiYCx_wWEZ9k4v5iZUxS4Sxud3mxUulAFbGG62zD_lTmMNW3G-ilnj/s1600/IMG_0346.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
We served it over mashed potatoes, but next time I'm serving it over homemade sour dough bread. And next time, I'm using my Omaha steaks. And next time, I'm remembering to boil it first so the carrots aren't crunchy. And next time, I'm lighting that shit on fire. However, it's good to know that even without all those steps, it's still the new Comfort Food Champion.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE6vQu_Ee1LlxY30KVgekmaA2F-aQeiimQa7laEQAudIODsjv8yxkwWIsZ4quhBOg98pRIP75aRR4UgimcxCJlGgG59Iy78jLgHwWlqzK4wTbhwCRo1UUO4o8XoPv082JfQ0etTpIJ0oe8/s1600/IMG_0345.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE6vQu_Ee1LlxY30KVgekmaA2F-aQeiimQa7laEQAudIODsjv8yxkwWIsZ4quhBOg98pRIP75aRR4UgimcxCJlGgG59Iy78jLgHwWlqzK4wTbhwCRo1UUO4o8XoPv082JfQ0etTpIJ0oe8/s1600/IMG_0345.JPG" height="380" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And it's heaps better the next time you eat it. <br />
<br />
<br />
Also, fun note. As I was plating the stew, I felt, in a weird away, a powerful and badass surge, and maybe even a pique in my Nigella Lawson-esque sexuality. However, my mom knocked that right out of me when she told me it was, in fact, an Ina Garten* recipe, not Nigella Lawson.<br />
<br />
Oh well.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3zpHTzueaJ4Nk2-3Gd2UMSjFQ13tghZjcm04h1bZf7HT2U_pDaSlp4daxPlUzbtimFIrll2jYTHxk8V4XHI9OVImTlVulwsRW90qH9QQ9h8ChliCJuYIhR0udSAhndoV79Z77WfUonPp/s1600/NL.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt3zpHTzueaJ4Nk2-3Gd2UMSjFQ13tghZjcm04h1bZf7HT2U_pDaSlp4daxPlUzbtimFIrll2jYTHxk8V4XHI9OVImTlVulwsRW90qH9QQ9h8ChliCJuYIhR0udSAhndoV79Z77WfUonPp/s1600/NL.png" height="293" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Next time.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/beef-bourguignon-recipe.html">Barefoot Contessa in Paris Boeuf Bourguignon</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*It seems I do have ridiculous issues with every chef on Food Network who isn't Alton Brown.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-12543681136220334192014-02-03T09:18:00.002-05:002014-02-03T10:55:16.167-05:00Jenelle Evans, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Past Life Decisions, pt. 3As we all know (because we've been a good, patient audience and have been keeping up with our celebrity trash rags), Jenelle Evans is in the midst of her second sustained pregnancy (there was one confirmed abortion in between), with her boyfriend Nathan. <br />
<br />
Anywho, this is a recent-ish post from her Instagram (because we're also following her*):<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidlqvU0VI49QOcQaN5u3346uuYZd0tbX0wJnw1aC81Y4HC7l75ELKd2exe9ju9sgxDcylzVwBMEw3UKmWR7x2ScqDtjXf5VTBGjQG9vpdcfXz8rH8jY0yaTFx764Gr_F4b-w-iU3BOXv9S/s1600/1660453_10101413480745207_512203646_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidlqvU0VI49QOcQaN5u3346uuYZd0tbX0wJnw1aC81Y4HC7l75ELKd2exe9ju9sgxDcylzVwBMEw3UKmWR7x2ScqDtjXf5VTBGjQG9vpdcfXz8rH8jY0yaTFx764Gr_F4b-w-iU3BOXv9S/s1600/1660453_10101413480745207_512203646_n.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Jenelle Evans is definitely on the forefront of pregnancy fashion. <br />
<br />
<br />
Also, fun fact: the tattoo on her abdomen is the Latin phrase for "This too shall pass." <br />
Just let that sink in.<br />
<br />
Teen Mom 2, season 5, on MTV, Tuesdays at 10 PM. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://images.thehollywoodgossip.com/iu/t_full/v1367334929/jenelle-evans-gif.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://images.thehollywoodgossip.com/iu/t_full/v1367334929/jenelle-evans-gif.gif" height="144" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*seriously. If you think I'm a weird Teen Mom fan, you should read the comments these girls get on their posts. It's madness. But then again, who's worse: the commenter or the person who sits in bed with a cup of coffee and reads all the comments? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">**I need to re-think my life.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-46260929983642258822014-02-02T22:22:00.000-05:002014-02-02T22:22:20.562-05:00modern marriageWhen I was, maybe 15 or 16, I found these pillars that my grampa had carved. They were painted teal green, and they were so old that the paint was chipping and breaking off.<br />
<br />
My mom told me that there was this really stuffy Army wife she knew, who was married to someone in my dad's company. She said, "She would look at something like that and say <i>oh how...</i> oh, what's that word, it's not 'rustic', and it's not 'antique', oh it starts with a P."<br />
<br />
For YEARS, my mom has not been able to remember the P adjective that this little Officer's Wife used to make fun of antique furniture. And every time we see a piece of furniture that has seriously chipped paint, she tells the story. And every time, she hasn't been able to remember the word. NOTHING has been able to jog her memory. No matter how many thesaurus' we consult, no matter how many times she re-thinks the story.<br />
<br />
Until this morning.<br />
<br />
Mom and I were sitting in the living room, and I mentioned how her china closet would look better if it were painted white. Once again, she starts the flashback.<br />
<br />
Mom: There was this really snotty Officer's wife who--<br />
<br />
Me: Yeah, she made fun of antique furniture and she called it something that you can't remember?<br />
<br />
Mom: Yes!<br />
<br />
Me: haha, you tell that story every time I mention something rustic.<br />
<br />
Mom: And I still can't remember that damn word!<br />
<br />
We're going through an online thesaurus when my dad comes upstairs. My dad has been out running errands all day. This is literally how the conversation went:<br />
<br />
Mom: Larry, do you remember that snotty officer's wife who--<br />
<br />
Dad: Yeah, she used to call the furniture primitive.<br />
<br />
Mom: THAT'S THE WORD!<br />
<br />
<br />
True love.<br />
<br />
<br />
Also, the worst description for rustic furniture, ever.<br />
<br />
<br />
Interesting post script: My dad remembers this story from almost 20 years ago with no coaching, and ten minutes later, my mom asked him to remember the name of a soldier who he worked with three years ago, and my dad couldn't remember. True dad.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-19678570589020732852014-02-01T23:46:00.002-05:002014-02-01T23:47:29.739-05:00Fresh-uary!Like basically every other First World Person out there, I had decided January was going to be a glorious, Earth shaking month of change, productivity and glorious life-setting.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And like basically every other First World Person, January became a big pile of <i>Nope.</i> </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Goals like, </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
NO FAST FOOD! MEAL PLANNING! NEW RECIPES! REGULAR GYM TIMES! REGULAR WRITING TIMES! NOT WAITING UNTIL I'M OUT OF UNDERWEAR TO DO LAUNDRY! SELL STUFF ON EBAY! FINISH READING A BOOK! DON'T SPEND ANY MONEY YOU DON'T HAVE TO! ESTABLISH A SKIN CARE ROUTINE! VACCUM OUT CAR! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
became eclipsed by doctor's visits, sick days, a sudden move, and helping out with family issues. The month became kind of a wind tunnel of activity where most days I was in bed, and asleep by 9:15. Some months are just like that, though. And as life tends to go, you can't predict when it happens. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>So.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm instilling "Fresh-uary," where I'm starting over where I was supposed to start in January. I am going to focus on these areas of my life with dramatic intensity.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Meal planning!</li>
<li>Book reading!</li>
<li>Writing!</li>
<li>Blogging!</li>
<li>Gym-ing!</li>
<li>Health bettering!</li>
<li>Money Saving!</li>
</ul>
<div>
<br />
Ok, maybe not <i>dramatic</i> intensity. If there's one thing I know, I get overwhelmed with one Life Project, to say nothing of seven or eight. Maybe more like moderate to above average intensity. But dammit, I'm going to try. I'm about to be a real adult. It's really time to start behaving like one. Yeah. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And so, I decree: Piss off January. No one liked you, anyway. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2DzRxfpuWwFtnyE_JMFmmBwUp3YmvvcPu1zDZaGGqMcijWb12Zd_GRO7jWrerOW3rOIR2PbGwia24wBzO6tnSLPCdQg8erQi7DoBJibvCBKEIp7aJ_4A9HySgAcTXmjZOWkGxWk04KQr/s1600/battle-of-hoth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW2DzRxfpuWwFtnyE_JMFmmBwUp3YmvvcPu1zDZaGGqMcijWb12Zd_GRO7jWrerOW3rOIR2PbGwia24wBzO6tnSLPCdQg8erQi7DoBJibvCBKEIp7aJ_4A9HySgAcTXmjZOWkGxWk04KQr/s1600/battle-of-hoth.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This picture has nothing to do with January. But there is snow on the ground out here. And I am an AT-AT. </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Happy February, errryone!</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-65980471949234089612014-01-26T15:53:00.002-05:002014-01-27T10:27:10.140-05:00"They're already married. I'm just going on a date."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div>
Grey about killed me on Friday. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was upstairs in bed, propping up my busted knee (ah, aging), when Grey rushed up and asked me, excitedly, to come downstairs. I followed him to the kitchen, where he and Neve had set up a little ice cream date at the kitchen table. The lights were off and there was a lit candle in the center of the table. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Aunt Audrey, we're having a practice date and you're invited!" A little <i>Flowers in the Attic, </i>but my heart started melting. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">/heart melt scale: 10</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I fixed my bowl of ice cream and as I put it on the table, Grey jumped up and pulled out my chair. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">/heart melt scale: 50</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Grey, the 7 year old casanova, explained to me that he was practicing for when he takes his classmate, Mya out for a date. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Mya? I thought you were going to marry Mira?" Mira was a girl he met in pre-school, who he's been in love with for years. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Well, I was in love with Mira for a long time, but then I saw Mya and now I love her."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"But why?" Neve and I asked. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Mya is so much more beautiful!" I couldn't help but laugh at this, thinking, <i>Daamnn that shit starts early.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
He then went on. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'm going to pull out her chair for her. And I'm going to bring her a plate of cookies. And we're going to sit at the table, asking questions about ourselves." <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">/heart melt scale: 300</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Like what her favorite color is, or if she has any pets?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Yep."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Are you going to tell her about Meg and Moo?" (his dogs)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"No, I don't think it's time yet. I'm going to like, ask her if I'm too kind." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Too kind?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Girls don't like kind boys." (Once again, <i>Daaamn this shit starts early.</i>)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'm sure they do, you should always be kind." (how do you explain to a 7 year old that yes, girls go through a "I only like assholes" phase?)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Well, I asked her if I winked too much, and she said yes, so I winked at her again, hahahaha"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">/heart melt scale: 1,000</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What about the cookies, are you going to bake them yourself?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"No, I'll just order them at the place."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Classy touch."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I know." And then he just grinned from ear to ear. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">/heart melt scale: 70</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then, he jumped up and whispered in my ear, "I'm going to bring her flowers!" and sat back down, grinning. "And after I give her the flowers -- no roses, because they have thorns-- I'm going to give her her surprise. 50 silver diamonds and 50 rainbow colored diamonds." <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">/heart melt scale: 1,000</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Oh wow, that's a lot of surprises!'</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"And then, we'll sit outside and relax by candle light." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Are you going to hold hands?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I think her hands will be full of diamonds." <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">/heart melt scale: 500</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Grey told me that he wanted me, Mimi and PopPop (my parents), his Mommy and his Daddy, and Neve to come, also. "You can sit at the table behind us."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"In case you get stuck or have a problem?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Yeah, we'll be at the vineyard, and we're going to sit in the high chairs. You guys can sit in the back chairs. The girls will wear dresses, and the boys will wear tuxedos. Mya will wear the prettiest dress she has." <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">/heart melt scale: 1,000,000</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I think it sounds like a really special date. You and Mya are going to have a good time."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Yeah! And since I just went on a practice date with 2 girls, going on a real date with 1 girl will be a piece of cake." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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For a little kid who only talks to me about <a href="http://www.skylanders.com/video-games/skylanders-giants">Skylander Giants</a>, this blew my mind. He was glowing and grinning like a love-sick teenager the entire time. By the time they blew the candle out and I was putting the bowls away, my heart had melted into a giant puddle in my socks.</div>
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I went back up stairs, and Grey and Neve followed me. </div>
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"Aunt Audrey, should I get Mya Sun Flowers or Daisies? I really want to give her big Sun Flowers."</div>
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"I think you'd have an easier time finding Daisies right now. Maybe you can give her Sun Flowers when you take her on a date in the summer time."</div>
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"Oh, that's a good idea. We're going to have so many dates. Like, 5."</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">/heart melt scale: 5,000,000 </span></div>
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"Should I give Mya my $4?" </div>
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"Aww, no, you should use the $4 to pay for the date, instead."</div>
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"But, no, I'm going to use that $4 to buy my Iron Man." </div>
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"That's a pickle."</div>
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"I know! I'll say I forgot my money, and then I'll make mommy and daddy pay for it." Then, we high fived. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">/heart melt scale: infinity</span></div>
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It all starts so early. It's hard to believe that he's 7, and that in 7 more years, he'll probably be trying to go on <i>actual </i>dates. And in 10 years, he'll be old enough for girlfriends and real relationships and all the hell that comes along with dating in high school. I hope, in that time, he still feels like he can talk to me about the dates he wants to go on. And I can tell him to keep his Gentleman instincts, but to stay away from the girls who say he's too kind. </div>
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And hopefully, he saves enough money to buy all those diamonds. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-29719195418544651972014-01-21T19:36:00.000-05:002014-01-21T19:55:13.603-05:00New Digs (or, home again home again, jiggidy jigg)So, I moved back into my parent's house over the weekend, and I'll be here for the next 6 months.<br />
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But Audrey, you're all asking, didn't you just move out like, 5 minutes ago?<br />
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Yes. Yes I did. And there's a slew of reasons as to why I moved out so suddenly, but I'll get into them later.<br />
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But I did stay up til 5 AM on Saturday packing everything in the condo, and then spent 7 AM to 7 PM moving to Gainesville and dropping off furniture. By the time I got home and finished unloading the last of brick a brack from my mom's truck, I was beyond sore and exhausted. I'm ready to just throw everything I own into a donation pile for the Lupus Foundation of America so my next move is done in 4 hours.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMF70EacaMCjaBUXxI4ZJ1kfI4q8G5daCL3TW9eAsfnXRLtl6Fqx7N3gkggLQnH24JHFI9NauTfJRtYym5ersr72vwFS9sRZF20wVN1CZij8iOcd_ix5trFmkuj7c_fpsd0sTEFphlcun/s1600/IMG_20140117_234946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMF70EacaMCjaBUXxI4ZJ1kfI4q8G5daCL3TW9eAsfnXRLtl6Fqx7N3gkggLQnH24JHFI9NauTfJRtYym5ersr72vwFS9sRZF20wVN1CZij8iOcd_ix5trFmkuj7c_fpsd0sTEFphlcun/s1600/IMG_20140117_234946.jpg" height="320" width="306" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>At 4 AM. On the verge of psychosis. </i></td></tr>
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For now, though, let's concentrate on how awesome my new room is. Since my basement room was dismantled and de-walled when I moved out in September, I had to move back upstairs. But, my parents and their friend Sue cleaned and re-painted my old room, and when I brought my great grandmother's furniture in, the room took on a life of its own. I've never liked blue paint before this year, when I inexplicably fell in love with shades of Robin's egg. I don't understand the sudden blue love, I do love this place.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg57SwDI9HTZcnhK6R8EEM8kzB_vwGG_gDwHeGl9Spm_a27vstD2yDv0rrsS_K1Hpi50Cxja19Zc9WBw_Q8mQZUS5k1qxrP0rj9MhXPHkr9E0wokBh4QpSX0VmdjyVZzIUzGN8OHAadcEBX/s1600/DSC04612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg57SwDI9HTZcnhK6R8EEM8kzB_vwGG_gDwHeGl9Spm_a27vstD2yDv0rrsS_K1Hpi50Cxja19Zc9WBw_Q8mQZUS5k1qxrP0rj9MhXPHkr9E0wokBh4QpSX0VmdjyVZzIUzGN8OHAadcEBX/s1600/DSC04612.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The room color is "babbling brook" by Valspar.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwI2ZLYtrXtGTNKh0C_w2-sEOpm2XIQIX0Xl3r7k2DjniaECvjBMhsPMFYvz8zc3ugX6wNQWr5y760PldVoce2etDR63TZi2gnUlrBA_XGGxfSrcP9a4NU1omnNLaKtdrcWl6JLxzoAUS3/s1600/DSC04597.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwI2ZLYtrXtGTNKh0C_w2-sEOpm2XIQIX0Xl3r7k2DjniaECvjBMhsPMFYvz8zc3ugX6wNQWr5y760PldVoce2etDR63TZi2gnUlrBA_XGGxfSrcP9a4NU1omnNLaKtdrcWl6JLxzoAUS3/s1600/DSC04597.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Antiques and Ikea. Story of my decorating life. </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3GGBHsYHbotOAKKrSPkcvkjHif0xfwP7I-f5ODIOXuz2xdIo9BQSPk5RGJmNzqef6wCOBYVsGbpQezsk1AzXEDTlb-FKCWuVSJtvVsvhHY6ud1VzdexA1P2L1s-QJz-5i2VIloPr-nDp/s1600/DSC04598.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI3GGBHsYHbotOAKKrSPkcvkjHif0xfwP7I-f5ODIOXuz2xdIo9BQSPk5RGJmNzqef6wCOBYVsGbpQezsk1AzXEDTlb-FKCWuVSJtvVsvhHY6ud1VzdexA1P2L1s-QJz-5i2VIloPr-nDp/s1600/DSC04598.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My reading corner. So excited to stare wistfully out the window.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ciV-nABYYPhLjmlPYPBcuDVbpHCGb-zqefNzmRP5tJX24YTAkPKtDgCvmkA3YqEUr64JzXRwTxw31GLntdBdLjogCS-RvXuyQi96SPr-_cnCZo40t7bGwOdHZogo5lDqp5Bbo5SSG_iB/s1600/DSC04601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ciV-nABYYPhLjmlPYPBcuDVbpHCGb-zqefNzmRP5tJX24YTAkPKtDgCvmkA3YqEUr64JzXRwTxw31GLntdBdLjogCS-RvXuyQi96SPr-_cnCZo40t7bGwOdHZogo5lDqp5Bbo5SSG_iB/s1600/DSC04601.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Woo, vanity times. Hopefully this will encourage me to shower and wear make up and not look like a zombie.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpvT7xztDhw20PCfPX23vAPgscwB8yXVdCSBR_PFFIYMdChuMeGRobD23Kyc2avS6y9rogHHSkx2VySAGh7KYX0ZT_V2VP-Om2KNEx4BqxWvzaZj93AmgGpS6D2LmXT5id9ppb4ffkE2cc/s1600/DSC04607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpvT7xztDhw20PCfPX23vAPgscwB8yXVdCSBR_PFFIYMdChuMeGRobD23Kyc2avS6y9rogHHSkx2VySAGh7KYX0ZT_V2VP-Om2KNEx4BqxWvzaZj93AmgGpS6D2LmXT5id9ppb4ffkE2cc/s1600/DSC04607.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Morning Encouragement</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mey_28nEaXTw3H3WvIM7fIScU06ayjZYT2fXhhN1ImyAV8WpT6Y95PVJuG-hMjPKGc9c2wXQIDalcY-37LgnMDMhcOnw9awmPdbpNBzlWIaV-hIdliJS5bmqr96tDZyy3SkASpYhAtdn/s1600/DSC04606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0mey_28nEaXTw3H3WvIM7fIScU06ayjZYT2fXhhN1ImyAV8WpT6Y95PVJuG-hMjPKGc9c2wXQIDalcY-37LgnMDMhcOnw9awmPdbpNBzlWIaV-hIdliJS5bmqr96tDZyy3SkASpYhAtdn/s1600/DSC04606.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Another form of morning encouragement</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiM9lKPddra5lOW-5_U7mSyW1s8IsTMaf6QWBxCcrS-2WRq6GZu4RP8u5U7L0rxZS2jBfKquX7bOFUj7LR7GTeTv9HmgR02fICWyhhO5cmWlIo-aZDSseBsWx5bOoRclJynhLsTUuxZQ68/s1600/DSC04609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiM9lKPddra5lOW-5_U7mSyW1s8IsTMaf6QWBxCcrS-2WRq6GZu4RP8u5U7L0rxZS2jBfKquX7bOFUj7LR7GTeTv9HmgR02fICWyhhO5cmWlIo-aZDSseBsWx5bOoRclJynhLsTUuxZQ68/s1600/DSC04609.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Maybe one day I will grow out of indoor outdoor patio lights and paper lanterns. No promises.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeP38ijG1EbzYy7NIDi7WKa7OYxBPUL_MyArREfhpzdrhVcU2syhbKxOgGgKEP2xcbDybVwbRfvuFfpmXRT9jvXRgCOrz7wEAZ6CRRLNlfuF_fIvTHV0j1RezRhlhf68Kx0es0Hxu0CKfi/s1600/DSC04613.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeP38ijG1EbzYy7NIDi7WKa7OYxBPUL_MyArREfhpzdrhVcU2syhbKxOgGgKEP2xcbDybVwbRfvuFfpmXRT9jvXRgCOrz7wEAZ6CRRLNlfuF_fIvTHV0j1RezRhlhf68Kx0es0Hxu0CKfi/s1600/DSC04613.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I've become one of those women who hang up "Goal Clothes," ie. I want to this to fit me better someday.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2KitHfjkDvQvpiwUmL3yACciCRBsd0UzJ6pGTcwXHr5HmKZCIY78A6o1Vz0kW77jehjUOSLIQ2RrT0_0FfSZKzxfZIyQA-LyymAYEW__eQFbuQgaJQjGDiAn7VMndvf7h0_IKXqboFCd/s1600/DSC04614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd2KitHfjkDvQvpiwUmL3yACciCRBsd0UzJ6pGTcwXHr5HmKZCIY78A6o1Vz0kW77jehjUOSLIQ2RrT0_0FfSZKzxfZIyQA-LyymAYEW__eQFbuQgaJQjGDiAn7VMndvf7h0_IKXqboFCd/s1600/DSC04614.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I found out I can stream Amazon instant videos through my Wii. Life is forever changed. </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UbKq1dVyNxKrONITNevxt4hcpJL7I5frhplNtP8CBVnlkx_NCIFYwt1IY_W8zn4IH3fT_65AihRb7wohmzQBeivLIllE0VKB0CmrxzaKC0AEP7lctr-Yb6_TnirdaBoiv4TlWcIUFqNV/s1600/DSC04615.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_UbKq1dVyNxKrONITNevxt4hcpJL7I5frhplNtP8CBVnlkx_NCIFYwt1IY_W8zn4IH3fT_65AihRb7wohmzQBeivLIllE0VKB0CmrxzaKC0AEP7lctr-Yb6_TnirdaBoiv4TlWcIUFqNV/s1600/DSC04615.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The tiny closet is going to take some getting used to. Basically, half my clothes are under my bed.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUWMj9mkJ0ctrRy-djVFAG_JFN_J6gt4siGE0cc5G0JwDTTnsaYhtK8mRFw2PK5WzsfQb_qms_3C6BJCjNzoJMT2-QjqLcDS-D3G8VY_YvKXAwsaiOFSg3lIxwz5a2TTgapPM_sJRALv3/s1600/DSC04619.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUWMj9mkJ0ctrRy-djVFAG_JFN_J6gt4siGE0cc5G0JwDTTnsaYhtK8mRFw2PK5WzsfQb_qms_3C6BJCjNzoJMT2-QjqLcDS-D3G8VY_YvKXAwsaiOFSg3lIxwz5a2TTgapPM_sJRALv3/s1600/DSC04619.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Morning encouragement is encouraging. </i></td></tr>
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The next 6 months should be pretty comfortable (provided I can fix the low-flow shower head). Plus, I'm now able to pare down on all my shit that's just clogging up boxes and closets and every useless corner. Also, being able to sock away 90% of my pay checks for the next few months is going to kick so much ass.<br />
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BIG, BIG, THINGS ARE HAPPENING. <br />
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And now I'm off to go tromp in the surprise snow storm that's going on. I love waking up at 5:45, taking a shower, and <i>then</i> finding out that the Federal Government is closed. But hey, I'll take a snow day any way I can get it.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01548505779747259528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4470791479452895907.post-48724800446889766452014-01-21T09:42:00.001-05:002014-01-21T18:06:08.316-05:00Blackie the Hippo, RIPLast week, Leah alerted me to the passing of a glorious, but somehow lesser known American celebrity: Blackie the Hippo of the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo.<br />
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Mr. Blackie was born on a Game Reserve in Tanzania in 1955. At a little over one years old, he was captured, crated, and shipped to the booming cultural metropolis that is Ohio, where he grew to be 3,700 lbs of zoo-tastic Hippo sensation. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81ysZkm4GW0IxKkb4Y5njtFmwyre2Tr0BZOJA03oI0h1LBwx_Ia0FlTT8V99MmPrTckcnFmFms7BZRDVItxX1-vSe-Ue4K0FbG1aClEkzHT7L3T-sGy901fU9bqv3TSHGx8oYNU83jObA/s1600/0115-blackie_full_600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81ysZkm4GW0IxKkb4Y5njtFmwyre2Tr0BZOJA03oI0h1LBwx_Ia0FlTT8V99MmPrTckcnFmFms7BZRDVItxX1-vSe-Ue4K0FbG1aClEkzHT7L3T-sGy901fU9bqv3TSHGx8oYNU83jObA/s1600/0115-blackie_full_600.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>dat face</i></td></tr>
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Humanely euthanized at the ripe old age of 59, Blackie was believed to be the oldest living Hippo in North America. Not many animals get to set a record in their lives, and to spend at least 58 years of that record setting life spraying poo against the walls in front of squealing children is just delightful. He even sired 3 sons while in captivity (way to go!), which was a real shot in the arm to the Hippo Community. In 2008, he was officially retired, and spent the last 6 years of his in a private, heated tub, eating and sleeping to his heart's content. Not too shabby.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.inquisitr.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/Blackie-The-Hippo-Was-Euthanized-Will-PETA-Freak-Out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://cdn.inquisitr.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/Blackie-The-Hippo-Was-Euthanized-Will-PETA-Freak-Out.jpg" height="390" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Son of Blackie</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Oh Blackie, even though you were more brown than black (seriously, what a missed opportunity for a name, Cleveland Zoo), you were a majestic creature. A true "river horse." I hope you're happily spraying walls of Hippo Heaven with poo.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MFdvbUY3GKcVDvTqfX4TLHSEwxL6R1iZUBwhsZrZiezcmHJt8588twplAon-KExQHiyGnbML7vvGOkqRG2wSuEs9yK4VAFSXkMJm9l7JQJEk1z00e1xia8VTtDTKyB6WgUdHk1F0vtpU/s1600/14082970-mmmain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_MFdvbUY3GKcVDvTqfX4TLHSEwxL6R1iZUBwhsZrZiezcmHJt8588twplAon-KExQHiyGnbML7vvGOkqRG2wSuEs9yK4VAFSXkMJm9l7JQJEk1z00e1xia8VTtDTKyB6WgUdHk1F0vtpU/s1600/14082970-mmmain.jpg" height="430" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Blackie enjoys Pumpkin Spice on his 50th Birthday</i></td></tr>
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RIP, Blackie the Hippo. Cleveland, and the world, mourns a favorite son.<br />
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(ps. Seriously, have you seen a hippo pooping?<a href="http://youtu.be/eeCCr2mQKpk"> it's gross</a>.)</div>
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