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Some Things You Don’t Want to Learn the Hard Way. Like How to Aptly Perform a Dismount.

Listen.  The lack of daylight hours in my life does not have positive effects on my psyche.

And for someone with an already questionable psyche, this is a dismal turn of events.

I get plenty of sleep, but I’m always tired.

My normal, chipper, morning self has been missing for days.

And trippy things have been happening.  Things that feel like they should be dreams, but they’re not.  And dreams that feel like they should be real, but no.  They never happened.  And sometimes it takes me entire days to figure out what’s a part of reality and what was made up, in my sleep, by my demented little mind.

It’s like I really have fallen down the rabbit hole, except so far no one’s handed me fun little flavored hash cakes or a hookah or some “herbal” tea that would explain this fishbowl feeling that’s been taking over, like I’m watching my life happen from outside of my head.

For example, last night I went grocery shopping.  Dream, or reality?

If you answered “reality,” you are WRONG.  That was a dream.  I dreamt about grocery shopping.  Because my life is that exciting.

Another example:  Last night, I pulled into my driveway after a long-ish commute home from work.  I noticed that 2 couples from across the street were gathered outside, and there was some kind of commotion.  As I emerged from my garage to check it out, a huge black dog with ice blue eyes trotted up to me, sat at my feet, and licked my hand.  Huh.  When I got to the bottom of the drive, I saw what my neighbors were staring at — 2 other dogs, standing butt-to-butt.

“What’s going on?” I asked, shifting my armload of jacket, purse, phone, and water bottle so I could pat the big, black dog, who seemed slightly concerned about her companions across the street.

“These dogs are stuck together,” laughed Brad.  “Like… stuck together.”

How horrible!  I thought.  Did some cruel kids experiment with super glue?  What would drive someone to do something so awful?

Kasey added, “I mean… the yellow dog’s balls are actually on top, now.  He’s so twisted around.”

Ohhhhh.

I stared for another minute.  Really, it was all I could do.

Clearly, he forgot to pull out before the dismount.  Crucial mistake.

“So… are we just going to leave them like that?”  I asked.  Somehow, pulling them apart didn’t seem like a wise idea.

“Google says it should take about 20 minutes, but it’ll eventually pop out,” Kasey informed me.

Thank God for Google.

“Oh.”

Is this really happening?  “How long has it been?”

“Twenty minutes,” she laughed.

Then, pop!

Right on time.

“Ewww, it’s purple!  Poor guy!”  I did not step closer to verify whether it was, in fact, purple.  But I’m guessing she wasn’t lying.  Both dogs licked their wounds for a minute, oblivious to passing vehicles and the 5 gawkers who really could do nothing helpful except wave traffic safely past the pups on the side of the road.

Move along, folks.  Nothing to see here.  Show’s over.

Then, just as suddenly as they’d arrived in our lives, the 3 dogs took off together, as though answering some silent whistle call beyond the limits of our human hearing, and then they were gone.

“Welp, I have to go make dinner,” I heard myself say.

“Yeah, us too,” said Kasey.

“See you guys,” said Brad.

I went inside.

Dream, or reality?

If you answered “dream” because the story involved public sex in a suburban neighborhood, you would be WRONG.

That most definitely happened, I’m pretty sure.  Maybe.  Though I will probably ask my neighbors tonight to verify.  I just hope I ask them while I’m awake, or we really could have problems.  And the good news is that I didn’t try to make a dish with food I’d dreamt I’d bought.  Because that would be cracking the thin ice of “crazy,” and I’m not quite ready to go swimming.

Also, do you ever feel like you maybe have a ghost?  A ghost who messes with your things just to f*ck with your head?  I have a winter ghost.  He likes to take advantage of my SAD.  So far he’s busted 2 computers and stolen my reusable gold coffee filter from the coffee machine.  It’s just gone.  And it probably won’t reappear until I order a new one.  He’s been stealing socks for years.

He tries to bust that crazy ice — to push me over the edge — but I won’t let him win.  He can have that filter.  I don’t need it.

What I do need is some coffee.  And maybe to avoid writing blog posts before I’ve had any.  Because this is what you get, and I apologize for that.

On a positive note, guess what’s arrived?

I’ll give you a hint:  It’s not boxes of brochures about practicing safe public suburban dog sex.

Although maybe I should get some of those, too.  It seems we have a need.

Anyway.

Big changes are coming for this Domestiphobic house.  Stay tuned.

*Some of you asked that I keep you notified when I publish House Tours on Re-Nest.com.  I haven’t.  Here are the 3 I’ve done so far, if you want to check them out!

Matthew’s Eclectic Park Avenue Pad
John and Jaime’s Contemporary Woodland Escape
BJ & Megan’s Traveling Farmhouse Homestead

If you know of anyone within a few hour drive of Fayetteville, NC who’d be interested in having their house photographed for the site, let me know. :)

O Alcohol, I Still Drink to Your Health

Last night I announced to Justin that I hadn’t had any wine — or any alcohol at all, for that matter — since Saturday.

He made me hold out my hand to determine whether I had the withdrawal shakes.

As I held my hand out, palm-down, and feigned an exaggerated shake accompanied by an even more exaggerated eye twitch, I realized that sometimes it’s good to listen to your body.  And, after Saturday’s night out for my boss’s birthday following Friday night at Justin’s work Christmas party with an open bar, my body was telling me that it’s time for a detox.

Since my drinking habits normally don’t involve more than a glass (or two) of wine in the evenings, a binger I am not.  With the exception of this past weekend, obviously.

But I recently noticed something… something disturbing.  It no longer seemed as though, when I poured a glass, that I was taking the time to enjoy it.  To notice its color.  Its scent.  The way its legs coated the sides of the glass and the flavor as it rolled over my tongue.

It was just a drink.

Something to wash down my food.

And if that’s going to be the case, I may as well drink water.  Or tea.

Fewer calories, you see.

So, my body will remain vino-free until it tells me its ready to enjoy it again.  Which I expect will be Friday, when I take a girlfriend out to a new wine bar in town for a much-needed drink.  On her part, not mine.

The Christmas party was at the fancy, dancy Pinehurst Club once again this year, and this year I actually managed to don a dress.  Although no Kindles were won on my part, I did manage to make tipsy best friends with a Colonel’s wife before we (Justin, me, and some other enlisted stragglers, that is — not the Colonel’s wife) worked our way over to a low-key pub (much more my style) for a nightcap.  All-in-all, I paced myself well, drank plenty of water, and managed to feel decent enough to help a friend move on Saturday morning.

Then Saturday night happened.

It was my boss’s birthday party.  Food was ordered.  Bottles of wine were bought.  And somehow — somehow — my glass stayed full, no matter how much I drank.  For dessert, someone handed me a vodka tonic.

Then we went dancing.  I can’t dance to save my life.  I’m pretty sure I probably looked like a pug trying to swim — all wiggly and uncoordinated and ultimately spinning in circles when I knew more should be happening, if I could only just get all of my parts to cooperate.

“Don’t think about it so much!” yelled my dance partner for the evening over the blaring music.  “Just let it happen!”

Sarah, who was my boss’s business partner’s stunningly adorable fiancée (picture a young Jenna Elfman and just as cool), had professional dancing experience, it turns out, which allowed her to describe dancing like it can just happen, like an orgasm, and managed to make me look even more doofy than normal standing all gangly and awkward next to the petit blonde with the pixie cut and flying feather earrings who was trying her damnedest to teach me how to Dougie but it just. wasn’t. happening.

(Cali Swag District – Teach Me How to Dougie)

So I took another slug of my frozen chocolaty concoction, and while it certainly didn’t improve my dancing, it somewhat took away the fact that I cared.

And this is why, on Sunday morning, I felt like maybe someone let a donkey into our bedroom in the middle of the night.  A donkey that proceeded to kick me in the head.

Repeatedly.

And by Sunday afternoon, when my body felt like that of a withered 90-year-old man, I thought that maybe it was time to reevaluate this whole drinking-to-get drunk concept.  At 22?  Sure, it was no problem.  I could bounce back and rally with the rest of ’em.  But at 29?  Not so much.  It doesn’t help that my boss is 2 years younger than me.

Have I mentioned that?

It doesn’t really bother me.

Much.

So.  I’m making a declaration — it’s only like the 56th or 57th time I’ve done this — to not bother with drunkenness anymore.  A glass of wine?  Sure thing.  A healthy writer’s buzz?  Yessiree.  Attempting to dance with someone who knows how to dance and happens to be the only other white chick in the club?

No, thank you.

But that’s the thing about excessive alcohol.  Like a love-worn frenemy or a toxic relationship, you don’t even realize the bad stuff is happening until it feels too late to turn back.

Post title from the song Alcohol, by the Barenaked Ladies.  It’s surprisingly poignant.

Barenaked Ladies – Alcohol

I thought that Alcohol was just for those with nothing else to do
I thought that drinking just to get drunk was a waste of precious booze
But now I know that there’s a time and there’s a place where I can choose
To walk the fine line between self control… and self abuse

I’ve Got That Midas Touch

I’m pretty sure I have a curse.

Not that I’m personally afflicted by a curse, per se, but I carry a curse which affects things around me.

Electronic things, specifically.

Now.  I’m not one of those completely obtuse people when it comes to all things electronic.  The fact that there are wires connected to other wires connected to various pieces of equipment doesn’t scare me.  I know word processing and spreadsheets and file types and images and even a bit o’ HTML for you webpage tinkering types.  So.  While I’m no computer genius, I’m not completely oblivious, either.

They’re just machines, right?

There is no logical reason for them to succumb to my curse — to know that it’s me, not Justin, tapping away at their keyboards.

Yet somehow, they do.

It’s like I’m King Midas.  Except instead of everything I touch turning to gold (which, let’s face it, wouldn’t be all bad), every computer I touch turns to shit.  And I’m sorry I’m so addicted to swearing Mom, but there is no nicer way to put this.

Two — count ’em, two computers have turned to steaming coils of doodoo just at the touch of my hands in the past week.

Thankfully I live with an un-cursed person who’s managed to save all of my data thus far, but the computers?  They’re dropping like flies on a bug zapper.  Minus the smoke and the funky smell.  Which, frankly, wouldn’t surprise me at this point.

And this little phenomenon isn’t exactly convenient for my job — my job which involves writing and photo editing and submitting to people who run a gigantic website and simply don’t have time to listen to my sob story about fried hard drives and cold, lifeless motherboards and how I would have my piece done except I’m waiting for a full version of PhotoShop to install on a dinosaur of a laptop — a laptop which, hopefully, doesn’t yet understand that it’s doomed at my hands and will hold out long enough for me to finish my latest submission to Re-Nest.

That is, if it doesn’t crash while I’m writing this post.

And it’s things like these that make me long for the days of the simple machines — of typewriters and corded phones cassette tapes and VHS — things that didn’t scratch or crack or short a fuse when you tossed ’em around.  Back in the day, technology could take a beating.

It wasn’t all prissy and didn’t ask to be handled with silk-effing-gloves.

I know old technology had its own set of frustrations, but sometimes I just miss wrapping a coiled phone cord around my waist while standing in the kitchen talking to my friends.

So.  I have to buy a new computer now.  Preferably one that can stand up to my particular brand of curse.

Any suggestions?

Are You Sure You Don’t Just Want A Corkscrew for Christmas? Because I’m Pretty Sure I Can Make That Happen.

Here are my thoughts on gift-giving.  Because I know you care.

I think we all know, by this point, that an efficient shopper I am not.  This is why I’m terrified of Black Friday and why it took me approximately 5 hours to buy blinds for the kitchen online when I set out to buy curtains for the bedroom.

And why I still don’t have curtains for the bedroom.

The problem is that I love giving gifts.

I mean… who doesn’t like hearing that someone is happy because of something you gave them?

In fact, I’ll go so far as to say gift-giving is inherently selfish for that reason, but it’s completely awesome selfishness because the recipient happens to benefit as well.

But, when I set out to find some kind of appropriate gift for specific dates and events (ie. Christmas, birthdays, weddings, etc.), I feel all pressured and sweaty and confined and if I’m shopping in public, I might get a wily look in my eye that makes people — even crowds — give me a 3-foot berth and run the other direction when I try to ask them whether they think Aunt Betsy would prefer the red-knit socks from Macy’s, or if I should just go back and get the ones from Target because they’re $3 cheaper and she’ll never know anyway and CRAP did I just buy her socks last year because she’s always complaining that her feet are cold?, and I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to buy her anything red ever because it triggers the pyro tendencies and don’t-look-at-my-eye-twitch-because-clearly-everyone-ELSE-in-my-family-is-crazy-but-not-me-not-ME!

If I’m shopping online, the ordeal is even worse (though decidedly less detrimental to the general public).  I basically start with one idea, then spend hours following internet wormholes and reading reviews and finding the best deal without shipping and then with shipping and then one reviewer said I should maybe try this other item instead and the process starts all over until finally I throw my computer out of the window and pour a glass of wine.

And now, to complicate matters even more, all these babies are popping into my life.  (And they definitely didn’t come with kalamatas or 6-packs.)

Like *I* know what to buy for babies.

Look, kid.  Until your mom lets me take you to your first concert, Auntie Katie only gives out books (which you’ll probably hate until you’re in your 20’s), hugs (although they’ll probably feel awkward because I didn’t grow up in a huggy family), and advice about life (which you never asked for because you know it will be the truth, and no one wants to hear that).

Also, maybe one day I’ll let you borrow my cool thrift-store leather jacket.

Registries do make things easier when it comes to events like weddings and baby showers.  In fact, I’m kind of in love with registries and think that maybe people should keep one all of the time, like in the form of an Amazon.com wishlist, where I can just easily type in their name, see what they want, and a couple of clicks later I’m chillin’ on the sofa with the cerveza and olives that didn’t come with a baby.

But that does take the fun out of gift-giving.  After all, if the recipient already knows what she’s getting, and I don’t get to see that surprised-yet-thrilled look on her face or receive that thankyou-thankyou-thankyou phone call that makes giving gifts so damn gratifying.

Hey.  I’m just being honest.

So I really think we should just abolish this whole gift thing altogether.

Well, not all-together.  But we should stop with the obligatory gift-giving.

Sometimes, when I’m walking through a farmer’s market or a foreign book store or perusing pictures on Pinterest, I find the perfect gift for someone.

I mean, I’m pretty sure this person has to have this gift, and he has to have it right now.

The problem?  It’s June.

And his birthday was in May.

And Christmas isn’t for another 6 months.

And anyway, he’s Jewish.

So now I have to either save the darn thing until next year so I’m not short a gift when the nerves hit because there’s too much pressure, OR I can just give it to him now.  And now worry about whether or not I’ve found something for his next birthday.

And the thing about gift-giving excitement is, sometimes it doesn’t keep.  Maybe the recipient will no longer need this item next year, or maybe he’ll have new interests entirely, or maybe he’ll be dead, or maybe worse you’ll be dead, and the intended recipient will find the gift tucked away in your closet, and he’ll know who it was for because it was just that perfect, and now he can never get any enjoyment out of it because every time he sees it he’ll be reminded of how you were shot in a mall parking lot when you walked up to a patron muttering about red socks and arson and you twitched a lot so he thought maybe you had rabies so he did what he had to do to protect his family.

These things happen.

All because we’re supposed to give gifts when the time is right — not when the gift is right.

And really, what’s better than receiving a gift when you don’t expect it?

But I’m thinking that all of this is probably just me.

Because I’m an inefficient shopper.

Do they have support groups for this?

Apparently Alcoholism is the Least of My Worries. And Carrie Bradshaw is the Root of All Evil.

Well.

I’m just going to say it.

Apparently I can expect a big, fat lump of coal in my stocking this year, because apparently I have not been a good girl.

In fact, not only am I writing this post on stolen property (this is Justin’s computer — mine is still kaput), but I’m also obsessed with sex and swearing.

Yep.

This is what I’m told.

But the good news is, it’s not my fault.

Really, it all started with my mom’s vagina.

The Scene:  Thanksgiving Day, 2011.  My little sister’s adorable apartment is filled with smells from holidays past.  Her culinary skills unthwarted by working with limited tools and nonexistent lighting, the turkey has been roasted to a goldeny perfection, and it’s literally oozing the butter and garlic she’s been injecting into it for the past 6 hours.

Our table is tiny, but it has all the necessities:  Four plates full of Kelly’s avian delicacy, skin-on smashed potatoes, green bean casserole with fresh green beans, some kind of awesome stuffing I can’t even begin to describe, Mom’s homemade gravy, and my completely out of this world sweet potato casserole.

Except one plate — my brother’s plate — is missing the casserole.

I don’t want to talk about it.

But we also have wine.  It’s good wine, and everything feels okay thus far because Ma had only just arrived, right on time to make her famous gravy using primitive cookware and completely sans tupperware shaker, oh miracle of miracles, and this night in Fort Lauderdale is the first time the 4 of us have been together in as many years.  In fact, it’s the first time the 4 of us have been together unsupervised ever, I’m pretty sure.

I fill Ma’s glass.

So this is a family dinner, it dawns.  The conversation is pleasant.  We jibe and cajole — the things families do when it’s been a while, and the laughter is real.  I look around the table and think about how different we all are,  yet somehow the same.  We siblings have the same sense of humor — it’s crass.  But we make no apologies because life, after all, is too short.  The humor must be genetic because we weren’t together long enough to learn it.  Joel basically grew up alone with my mother, spending time with his father according to whatever arrangements the grown-ups had made, and then eventually my dad comes along, and Joel’s stepmother, and new families are created and he’s kind of stuck there in the middle dealing with that and who knows whatever else teenage boys deal with when the world is at its most confusing.  He escaped when he was 17.

I managed to float through adolescence with nary a scratch.  My father moved us to Nebraska (from Minnesota) when I was in 7th grade.  I was awkward, to be sure — I never went to prom or involved myself fully at school, though my grades were superb.  I flipped burgers when I was 15, then learned about the world of “white-collar” work when I accepted a 30-hour/week position at Best Buy during high school.  Ironically, my co-workers at the one job for which I’ve ever had to submit to a urine test are the co-workers who taught me to smoke from a water bong.  And the rest is a bit of a blur, until I emerged from the haze to attend college in Ohio, near-but-not-too-close to Joel.

Kelly is tough.  Though only 4 1/2 years apart, it might has well have been the world for how little we knew each other.  It seemed we were always pitted against one another — brains (me) versus beauty (her) in an all-out battle of who’s-gonna-make-it-out-of-this-with-an-ounce-of-self-esteem-intact?  I’m pretty sure most women can relate.

We weren’t close.  But then I ditched her for college, and somehow we became close, through the distance.  And then when Dad left but didn’t physically leave, an event that gave our mom a proverbial eye twitch — a twitch that must have somehow sent electrical signals to the place in depths of her brain where all logic exists and shorted a fuse and suddenly everything was emotion — all emotion, all the time (can you really blame her?), Kelly begged me to come home.  So I quit school, told Dad to move out, provided tissues for Ma’s spirals, and tried to convince Kelly that everything would be okay.  That really, whose parents don’t get divorced anymore?  But, at age 16, the damage had been done.

I’m pretty sure none of them remember any of it.  That haze was far more potent than anything I might have smoked in high school.

But we emerged, mostly, and while the stale stench still lingers, we’re all creating lives.  Pretty good ones, at that.

So we’re sitting at the Thanksgiving dinner table and I’m thinking about how the lines between blood and upbringing are blurry, for sure, and I realize it’s strange how the lives of 3 siblings could have been so diverse when, after all, we all came from the same vagina.

So I say just that.

Only without all of the background context and qualifiers, so it just comes out as, “Isn’t it weird that we all came from the same vagina?”

Sometimes my thoughts run ahead of my mouth and the actual words can’t keep up, so they paraphrase.

It doesn’t always work out.

For a moment everyone is quiet, of course, because who doesn’t want to take a moment to contemplate a thought like that while eating roasted turkey with cranberry stuffing and mom’s gravy and — “EWWWWWW!”  (From my brother and sister simultaneously.)

Ma just looks at me — that knowing look — and says, “Katie, I know why you’re so obsessed with sex and swearing.”

Really?  This is news to me.  I mean, I like sex, and I have been known to cuss inappropriately from time to time (maybe more in front of Mom because I know it bugs her), but now I’m obsessed?  This is how it works?  You mention your mom’s vagina ONE time at the dinner table, and suddenly you’re a maniac?  And certainly, while I mentioned a certain unmentionable body part, I was definitely not talking about sex.

“And I know it’s my fault,” she continued.

Now I’m intrigued.  Because, while I’d argue ceaselessly about her use of the word “obsessed,” I’m willing to put that on hold to hear this.

“Well.  Remember when I bought those DVD’s?” she asked, her voice losing its laughter and growing somber.  “Those… Sex and the City DVD’s?”

Oh, wow.

“And you asked if you could watch them?  And I let you, even though I hadn’t seen them yet?”

Jesus.

“And then, when I finally watched them, I couldn’t believe I’d let you watch them…”

Is this really happening?

“And now you’re obsessed with sex and swearing and it’s all my fault!”

I’m pretty sure, at that point, that some cranberry stuffing flew out my nose.  We laughed.  But hard.

“Well,” I retorted while taking a sip of my wine, “thank God I became an alcoholic too, so I could deal with all of the trauma!  The trauma that was undoubtedly caused by Sex and the City!”

I mean, duh.  Obviously it’s Carrie Bradshaw’s fault.

In fact, I’m pretty sure this excuse will now work for everything:

Honey, I know we can’t afford those $300 curtains.  But Carrie Bradshaw made me buy them!

What?  I know you wanted to save that nice bottle of Cabernet for our anniversary, but Carrie Bradshaw told me to drink it!”

Okay, I know I’m not supposed to talk about my mom’s vagina during Thanksgiving dinner, but it’s Carrie who tells me to do these things! She’s all up in my head!

And now, should I ever decide to see a shrink again, I’ll know who to blame.

I’m Dreaming of a Working Electronic Device

Well, kids, I still don’t have a computer. I almost have a computer, thanks to my geeky husband and his geeky coworker, but she’s not quite blog ready. Which means I’m attempting to fat-finger type this on my phone, which isn’t going so well. Not well at all. And I should probably stop before my husband has to fix another electronic device because this one somehow ended up in the pond out front.

(In case you didn’t hear on the Facebook page, I’ve had another computer incident. I’m not ready to talk about it. But things should be ready to go again by this weekend.)

Black Friday, Indeed.

Okay.  I’m back.

Now, maybe life can return to some semblance of normalcy (BOR-ing).

Or, maybe not.

It seems my days are filling up insanely fast, and for someone who’s not used to having any type of social calendar — or any type of calendar at all, I’m a little overwhelmed.

Some people are good at this.  When presented with large lists of to-dos and schedules and time frames, they immediately jump in — tackling the onslaught like taking a sledgehammer to a brick wall.

Others, like me, become paralyzed with indecision.

There are too many choices.  Where do I start?

My time is valuable, you know?  And I want to make the most of what I have.

Which is exactly why I opt out of Black Friday every year.

What?

You heard me.

Black Friday.  That horrendous day that used to be reserved solely for nursing tryptophan hangovers and detoxing the cranberry sauce from our systems and reflecting on the thanks we gave yesterday for all of the things we’re fortunate to have has somehow, via very deliberate media and marketing ploys, turned into a day of dragging our food-filled butts out of bed in the middle of the night to stand in line and then fight with perfect strangers over all of the things we still want.

Sure.

Makes perfect sense.

Of course, if you’re a Black Friday fanatic, I’m not going to change your mind.  You’ve heard it all before — it’s turned into a high-stress, competitive day of finagling and bargaining and deal-gettin’, the likes of which you only witness en masse but once per year, and you love it.

And there’s no way I’m going to convince you otherwise.

But.

For me, at least, beyond the traffic and the frenzy and the gimme gimme attitude, there’s a bigger reason why I opt out of Black Friday.

The deals aren’t worth it.

At least not for me.

And probably my definition of “cost” is different than your definition of “cost.”

What??  I could save 40% off a flat screen television?

Don’t care.

And 25% off a new washer and dryer?

Whatevs.

And if I buy one Magic Bullet with the complete accessory kit, they’ll throw in another identical bullet plus the kind that makes baby food in baby-sized portions for free?

Meh.

You see, it all comes down to what you perceive as a deal.

Bu– but– a deal is a DEAL, you say?

Not so much.

What if I did need a new dryer?  What if I really could save $200 off the ticket price if I woke up at 2 a.m., stood outside in the cold for 2 hours in a squishy line of tense people, rushed mob-style through the department store doors, dodging angry women with flying purses and pepper spray and competitive adrenaline, jumping over the bodies of those too weak to handle the pressure, pushing slow-moving children and the elderly out of my way like some maniacal greed-driven beast, jumping through the air and splaying my body across the last dryer in the store because it’s MINE, all MINE — and get-back-you-bitch-because-I-WILL-bite-you, and finally — finally — I get home with my new dryer.

And get this:  it only cost me $400, 6 hours of sleep, the flu from standing with germy people outside in the cold, 2 years off of my life from the stress of the ordeal, and, oh yeah, my dignity.

But at least I saved $200.

See my point?

 

I’m Still Alive. I Think.

*In case you’re wondering, no. I did not reach Miami and just keep on drivin’ — cruising along 1A with its bars and beaches and bars some more, dancing a jig along the twists and turns of this country’s southeastern tip before winding my way to Hwy 1, then following it across actual oceans of water, the highway like a big strand of drool dripping off the goatee of Florida, passing Key Largo and Islamorada and Duck Key and maybe stopping in No Name Key before reaching Key West because, let’s face it, No Name Key is probably more my style.

Not that I would know.

I did not do any of those things, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted.

I wrote this post last Wednesday. Today is Sunday. I’m posting it today because I finally have some internet access on a computer. Travel, while awesome, isn’t always convenient for blogging. And I do believe this is the longest I’ve neglected the blog in… ever.

Many things have gone down since I wrote this 5 days ago, but we’ll start here:

I drove to Florida yesterday — a trip that, theoretically, should have taken over 12 hours to complete, but instead only took around 11, including the 45-minute pit stop to catch up with an old college buddy off of I-95. It is for this very reason that I cannot bring myself to shun social networking; while the number of Facebook “friends” tallied on one’s wall has little to nothing to do with one’s real life social circles, it really is a fantastic way to touch base with people you would otherwise probably never see again.

Whether that’s good or bad, I’m not quite sure. But at least it’s interesting.

See, while most people don’t mind letting acquaintances slip away, I have this very odd way of wanting to hang on to people — of wondering how they’re doing, of what’s happened in their lives since we last intersected orbits — and Facebook provides that lost connection.

It keeps people neatly tucked inside my radar screen.

You think that makes me a stalker. I think that makes me… curious.

Okay. I have to interrupt myself for a second. I just took a bite of one of the most delicious items I’ve ordered from a menu in a long, long time. My sister has to work today, and my mother and brother don’t arrive until tomorrow, so I’m finding myself inexplicably untethered for the first time in a while.

And what’s a girl to do when she finds herself in a strange city with an entire day to indulge in whatever she chooses?

Head to the apartment pool? Nah… there’s plenty of time for that.

Walk one of the many miles of gorgeous ocean shoreline? I’m pretty sure sand is overrated.

Lie out, relax, and attempt to expose some of this pasty whiteness to the miracle of UV rays? For my skin, I’m afraid, the situation is hopeless until next May.

Plus, I think I may have divulged by now — I’m not your average girl.

So. Instead of celebrating what Florida is best known for — that brilliant, white-hot sunshine — I plopped my ass back in the car and headed 40 minutes north to West Palm Beach in search of a cafe I read about on Urban Spoon.

Why?

I had a feeling it would be worth my time.

Casper's on Park on Urbanspoon

And it is.

When I finally arrived at Casper’s on Park after many turn-arounds and indecision about whether I should really drive this far, I no longer cared about what I might be getting myself into. I didn’t care, when I pulled up, that the restaurant was nowhere near the water or any of the more fashionable areas of West Palm. I didn’t care that there wasn’t a single other patron in sight, or that they don’t have wi-fi (the owner/chef, Giuseppe, informed me he hopes to change this soon), or that it was too balmy for my northerner-at-heart self to sit outside on the dog-friendly patio.

Casper, by the way, is the name of the owner’s dog.

I was so hungry by the time I walked in that I asked Giuseppe to bring me the best item on the menu. After debating out loud between the gumbo and the jambalaya, he selected the slightly higher-priced (though not expensive at under $10 for the bowl) pasta jambalaya.

Alex, the co-owner, poured me a glass of sangiovese while I set up shop at a corner table facing the patio. He also brought me this:

Photo taken with iPhone.

And I think that maybe a part of me fell in love.

Some dreamy French music was playing when I arrived, but after multiple issues with skipping CD’s, they switched to something — a sultry almost-techno slow dance something-or-other — that was significantly less palatable, but who the hell cares because here comes my jambalaya.

I originally felt slightly ridiculous as the steaming bowl of bowtie pasta, hot sausage, shrimp, Parmesan cheese, and other New Orleans delicacies was brought to my table on this balmy afternoon, but now I feel like I am probably the most brilliant person anywhere with an 100 mile radius.

Photo taken with iPhone.

Another couple has just arrived and is sitting on the patio with their cocker spaniel. They ordered sandwiches. And while I’m sure he sandwiches are delicious, it’s taking all of my willpower to not run out there and tell them how crazy they are for not ordering Creole from a transplant.

Seriously.

Do I sound like a snob?

I’m pretty sure I can’t help it.

If it’s any consolation, I don’t look like a snob with my nose running from the not-spicy-but-not-not-spicy jambalaya.

It kind of sneaks up on you.

But I finished the bowl.

And now there’s no way I’m squeezing myself into a bathing suit.

Well.

If there’s anything I learned about travel, it’s that you should never rule anything out.

But for right now, I’m perfectly content to finish my glass of wine, watch Giuseppe lovingly pet the couple’s dog out on the patio, and wash everything down with the complimentary shot of espresso (looks like it’s been softened with something like cream — thank God) they just placed in front of me, which is exactly the motivation I need in order to plant my butt back in the car and head to Hollywood.

Hollywood Florida, that is.

P.S. It’s not espresso. Giuseppe informed me that it’s chocolate wine. Cocoa di Vino. Which pretty much tastes like a shot of Bailey’s.

And this just became my favorite place ever.

Here’s the Beef

You want to know where the beef is?

Well, here it is.

I have it.

With you.

Yep, you heard me.

I have a beef with some of you.

Want to know what it is?

I’ll tell you anyway.

Too many of you now, after I share a delicious recipe post, have left comments about them here or on Facebook.  And while many of the comments are thoughtful and nice, others are not.  Not nice at all.

Comments like, “Wow, that looks amazing! I know I could never make something like that myself, but wow!”

or

“Hey, that looks like another delicious recipe. I’d love to try it, but I’d never make it for just myself.”

What?  You think those comments sound nice?  Well they’re not.  Because think about it:  Saying you can’t do something a Domestiphobe can do, is like admitting you weren’t potty trained until you were eight.

Yep.

Those comments are mean to the people who wrote them.

And my beef is, whenever you deny yourself a pleasure simply because you think it’s too difficult to do or because it’s not worth the effort if no one else is around to enjoy it, you are doing YOURSELF a disservice.

And I have a beef with that.  I can’t help it.

First, basic cooking is not difficult.

I didn’t learn this fact until I was 25-years-old.  Until then, I’d thought of cooking as this mysterious kitcheny task with which only certain people were burdened gifted, and that I was a soul relegated to takeout, convenience foods, and depending on my husband’s sporadic cooking spells for sustenance.  (Justin enjoys cooking, too.  Just not with vegetables.  Ever.)

Knowing that I was a quarter-of-a-century old and thereby not getting any younger, a diet based on meat, potatoes, boxed meals and restaurant food was not the best thing I could do for my body.  Or our budget.

So I started looking up recipes.  And following blogs with step-by-step cooking photos.  And looking up things I didn’t know on Youtube, like “how to blanch asparagus” and “how to dice an onion.”

I had to look up everything.

But, once I saw someone else do it, I realized it wasn’t nearly as hard as I’d thought.

The mystery had made it seem unattainable.  But once that curtain was raised, it was like an entire slew of mental obstacles were removed and finally, I was able to try.

Just try.

And really, that’s all you need to do.  Will you (or I) ever be a gourmet chef?  Certainly not.  That takes a natural talent and passionate dedication I know I’ll never have.  And will I mess up?  Certainly.  Many a meal has turned out less-than-savory or completely inedible due to mistakes on my part.

But, just like anything else, mistakes are how we learn.

What bothers me more, my friends, than a lack of desire to try (after all, that’s your prerogative) is the lack of desire to make an effort for just yourself.

The military takes my husband away for the occasional week or 6 at a time.  And, when he’s gone, I live like a single person — a single person who’s not allowed to date or have sex with anything other than a battery operated device.  So.  You think I’m just going to keel over and subsist off of nothing but Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and Tuna Helper for the duration of his absence?

Heck no.

I mean, I keep those things around.  Don’t get me wrong.  And sometimes I do resort to making them, especially on nights when I’m feeling particularly lonely and nostalgic for the simplicity of the boxed meals of my youth.

But the truth is, the nights I feel the best are the nights I take the time to do something for myself. When I get home, pour myself a glass of wine, turn on some music or the news, and set to work.

For me.

Work, it turns out, isn’t so bad when you get to enjoy the fruits of your own labor.  And the process itself is a great wind-down from the day.  Start boiling the pasta; set a pan of bacon sizzling on the stove; mince up some garlic; grate some Parmesan; saute some frozen corn; toss it all together with some egg yolk and pasta water, and we have a creamy, satisfying pasta carbonara for one.

It sounds like a lot of work, but this can be done in 15 minutes.  Just buy yourself a decent knife and take the time to learn the basics — like how to mince a clove of garlic and how to boil a pot of water.

Trust me — if you can learn to follow directions, you can learn how to cook.  That is to say, if I, Ms-how-much-water-do-I-need-to-cook-pasta-and-what-pray-tell-is-a-“pinch”-of-salt? can do it, than you most certainly can do it.

If you want to.

So.

Go to the “Living and Learning” tab at the top of my page.  Click “Down the Hatch.”

Then, pick one.

Make a half batch of this chili.  Bring the rest to share with co-workers, or live off of the leftovers for days.

Make yourself a Grilled Veggie Sandwich.  The flavor will surprise you in a very, very good way.

California Grilled Veggie Sandwich

Feeling daring?  Make this pizza.  Six ingredients never tasted so good.  Your tastebuds will thank you profusely.

Or, do like I did last weekend and make yourself a mini appetizer plate — mine had mixed olives, smoked salmon, dill cheese, and chocolate.

Best. Dinner. Ever.

The point, dear friends, is that you really are worth it.  So much more than shampoo, feeding yourself well makes you feel good from the inside.

You only get one body, and consistently stuffing it with processed junk isn’t doing it any favors.

Besides.  If YOU’RE not worth the effort, then who is?

It’s SAD, but true.

It’s happening again.

Every year, when the telltale signs of inevitable changes start appearing outside of my window — the deceptively warm-colored leaves trying their damnedest to pull a hood over my eyes to distract me from the dull winter browns and grays to come — when it seems like everyone else is excited about holiday shopping and knit sweaters and roasting chestnuts (do any of you actually roast chestnuts?), I get SAD.

I do.

Don’t let the beauty of these trees deceive you.  They serve to tell tales of menacing things to come.

In fact, the only thing I really like about this time of year is the smell and taste of mulled cider.  If I could sit in front of an infinitely fueled fireplace with a never-ending cup of mulled cider and the superpower of not needing to pee for 4 months (which would require stepping onto the cold, tile bathroom floors), there is a possibility I could remain content throughout the winter.

But probably not, because there’s only so much perfection one can take before it gets old, you know?

Like an awesome apple pie with vanilla ice cream.  I love it, but could I eat the whole pie in one sitting?

I think not.

So 4 months of this is a little excessive.  If winter lasted a week, maybe we’d have a better relationship.

But it doesn’t, so I get SAD.

Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Yes, I diagnosed myself.

Yes, I do this a lot.

Yes, I’ve sought professional help.  It didn’t go well.

Normally, I am a morning person.  I willingly get up at 6:45 — maybe 7:00 or 7:30 on the weekends — just to have my coffee, do some morning reading, and maybe write a blog post, all before showering and heading to work.  (When you’re dependent on coffee, like me, you don’t drink it — you have it.  Like it’s a part of you.  Is that wrong?)

However, come the chilly months, I just don’t want to get out of bed.  Like… at all.  And not just because stepping outside of the warm covers means my body temperature will instantly drop 20 degrees, and not just because it’s still dark outside, but simply because I don’t want to face the day.

Seriously?

How SAD is that?

It’s like one of those horrible depression commercials where they talk about it physically hurting (and sometimes it does), except I know what is happening and why it is happening, which, I think, somehow makes it a little less depressing.

Because I know it won’t last forever.

Which is good, but not good enough to make it go away.

So, like last year, I’m taking a bit of a reprieve.

It’s time, once again, for the beautiful people of Miami to squint — not against the ever-present God of the Sun, but against the phenomenon of my blindingly pasty skin, pure and white as the freshly fallen snow.  Well, maybe snow that’s been sitting for a day and has a light coating of freckled sand from the trucks that stop the streets from getting slippery, if we’re going to be honest.

And you know we’re nothing if not honest here.

This year will be different, though.  Interesting.

See, this is going to be a reunion of sorts, which is exceedingly rare for this brokedown family.  My little sister Kelly, who lives in Fort Lauderdale, is not only going to be hosting me for Thanksgiving, but we are also cooking for our mother on her first trip to the Sunshine State since my sister took up residency, and our brother, whom Justin and I recently visited in Cleveland.

The last time the 4 of us were together was about 4 years ago, when we decided to visit Kelly when she was living in Savannah, Georgia.  So apparently, if we want to continue having these little get-togethers, my little sister needs to keep moving.

Joel will be getting a hotel room after the first night, which is why we usually refer to him as the intelligent sibling.  Because with my mom, sister, and myself holed up in a tiny apartment for an extended amount of time, there’s no telling what might happen.

It could be a really interesting study for any burgeoning sociologists out there.

Anyone?

No?

You’re right — it’s best to stay away from a lit fuse.  Which is why we decided Justin should stay behind, as should Ed, my mother’s significant other.  (Really, the reasons were more financial than anything else, and while it’s weird for Justin and me to spend this holiday apart, we figure we’ll make up for it by spending Christmas together.  You know — fires and chestnuts and all that jazz.)

What’s even more exciting is that I’m getting a road trip out of the deal.  Yep, the Tracker and I are headed south for part of the winter, and we couldn’t be happier.

I just wish I had a little more time to do some exploring, but maybe I can still cook something up for the arrival of spring.  Because nothing is better than celebrating the return of warmth, sunshine, and — you guessed it — my sanity.