Navigate / search

…And That’s Why “Ability to Multitask” isn’t Written on my Resume.

I have issues.

Clearly.

Not the least of which is my inability to make a decision — especially when it comes to home interiors.

While for me, spending money on things for the house is about as fun as getting a tooth cavity filled, I also think that, after 4 years, it might be nice for this place to feel like “home.”  Especially when I spend a good bulk of my time photographing other peoples’ gorgeous homes.

I just did a mental assessment, and I realized something quite shocking:  The only  room in which I’ve hung anything besides towel bars on the wall is the laundry room. The laundry room.  In there, I hung a doohickie on which I can hang the ironing board, so it’s purely functional.  Not decorative.  I also hung these kind of pretty wall hooks.

That’s it.

I did hang a gallery corner in my living room at one point, but that came down when I repainted the walls.

What does this mean?

That when it comes to decorating, I’m an indecisive, noncommittal, ball-less freak of a woman?

That’s a start.

But also, I’m pretty sure that nothing triggers my Life ADD more potently than decorating.

Case in point: I was alone this weekend.  It was the perfect opportunity to peruse Pinterest in search of simple, inexpensive and inspirational ideas for the master bedroom.

My first problem?  Why was I looking for master bedroom ideas when my office still has an unshaven armpit?

Well, I would get on the office thing, but the bedroom seems so much more pressing right now because for 4 years we’ve lived with falling-apart plastic vertical blinds, hand-me-down blonde wood furniture (which I intend to paint), blank white walls, and a popcorn ceiling.

In other words, it hasn’t been touched.

And a week ago, I bought a pillow.

The pillow was called “Crazy Ol’ Bird” and I thought it would be perfect to inspire a bedroom because I’m a crazy ol’ bird.

We can relate.

So I’ll bring the pillow here into the living room while I search on Pinterest, and wow — I kind of like that pillow in the living room.  And anyway, it doesn’t match the duvet cover which is something I’d rather not spend money on replacing, so yes.  I’ll leave the pillow in the living room.

Which gives me an almost-blank slate in the master bedroom.  And a green duvet.

And of course, if I’m going to think about the master bedroom, I should probably tie that in with the master bathroom, which still has this horrendous wallpaper border from when we first moved in.

So maybe if I start picking at that, the blank slate will give me some ideas.

Okay, I’m bored.  This stuff isn’t coming off.  And I can see into the bedroom that there are cracks in my vertical blinds, which means that anyone standing outside in the darkness can see me, so maybe I should get back to the relative safety of the living room and order some curtains.

I’ll start with curtains.

But it’s too quiet.

I’ll see what’s on Netflix and just put that on in the background while I search for curtains.

What’s this?  The Walking Dead?  Sounds like zombie stuff, which definitely won’t hold my interest for more than like a second, so that will be perfect.

Four episodes later…

I need  more wine.  But I can’t go into the kitchen because I don’t have blinds and it’s dark outside and there are woods.

And quite possibly zombies.

I really should order some shades.

Oh yeah, that’s what I was supposed to be doing.  Finding curtains for the master bedroom.

Concentrate, Katie.  Seriously.

Okay, wow.  Did you know there are like a bajillion curtains online?  Oooh, look at these from Anthropologie.  They are kind of groovy and scrolly and chic, which is exactly how I am, so these would be perfect.  I’ll get them.

Click.  Click.  Double click.

Wait.

Can that be right?

$148 for curtains?

No, that’s not right.

It’s $148 for just one panel.

I need 2 panels.

Yeah, I can picture that conversation.

Me:  So I bought some curtains for the bedroom while you were gone.

Justin:  Great!  We needed some.

Me:  They were $300.  Plus tax.  And shipping.

Justin:  Did they come with a hooker?

Me:  No, just 192 inches of velvety goodness.

Justin:  That sounds like they came with a hooker.

Me:  I’m pretty sure Anthropologie doesn’t sell hookers.  Or rent them.  But I can ask.

Justin:  So you’re telling me you spent $300 on curtains.  Do you have any idea how much steak we could’ve bought for $300?  That’s like… an entire cow worth of curtains.

Me:  I know.  I’m hoping they’re awesome because now I can’t buy anything else for the bedroom or the entire house ever.  And we will probably need to eat Ramen Noodles every night for dinner until February 2013.  But that’s okay because we can still budget for wine and now we have curtains.

Justin:  Did they come with a hooker?

So.  Obviously, I can’t buy these curtains.

What else can’t I buy at Anthropologie?

Oooh, a wine glass.

It’s $32.00.  Which is more than I spend on a bottle of wine.  Sometimes more than I spend on 4 bottles of wine.

Did someone say wine?

I need more.

But I can’t go into the kitchen because I don’t have blinds and there are zombies out there.

Shit.

Quick.  Ebay.  Order the same shades that are in my living room.

Done.

Now I can go into the kitchen because even though I don’t have shades right now, the thought that they’re on their way is strangely comforting.

So all-in-all, I’d call this a successful evening: Zillions of rooms perused on Pinterest, 4.7 square inches of wallpaper border removed, velvety curtain dreams developed then crushed, shades ordered for kitchen, and 5 episodes of The Walking Dead completed.

Clearly, when it comes to preaching about experiencing life, I really know how to walk the walk.

Welcome to my world.

Peace, Love, and… Who the F* is Kim Kardashian?

For the longest time, I’ve maintained the very real and personal belief that I was born sometime in the mid 1940’s, lived passionately in the ’60’s, and died of a dramatic drug overdose (is there any other kind?) sometime in the 70’s.

I came back in a hurry as a child of the ’80’s so I wouldn’t miss anything, but it turns out, unfortunately, I did.

I feel this way mainly because of a strong, inexplicable affinity for Vietnam era music and the television show, The Wonder Years.  I feel no such connection to feathered bangs and slap bracelets.  And Nick Carter couldn’t hold a candle to John Lennon.

I mean, really?

But there’s just something about the innocence of a time prior to all of the distractions of the present day — when answers came from actual books instead of Google, when entertainment came from imagination before television, and when people actually understood their cause.

Photo by Burk Uzzle.

Well… for the most part.

Photo by Burk Uzzle

The world was a scary place, for sure, but still there was hope.

And I think that maybe I would have liked to live then — when reporting still involved research and passion and integrity.  When family and friends conversed with each other during meals instead of fondling their phones.  When people became famous for doing extraordinary things — not how pretty they were or how many sex tapes they filmed or how envious they made us of their shallow lives.  When little girls were beginning to learn their intellectual worth, dreaming about building careers as scientists or writers or soldiers — not about how famous they could become for bleaching their hair, using their friends, and doing nothing of memorable note.

I realize it’s not healthy to live in the past.  Especially when, if you don’t believe in reincarnation, I never actually lived in the past.

But here’s the thing.

I think that maybe we’re forgetting ourselves here.

We’re too worried about how many Facebook friends we have rather than building real relationships.  We’re filling the empty parts of ourselves with stuff we don’t really want because it’s too hard or too time consuming or too terrifying to think about what might really be missing.

None of this is revolutionary, of course.

But think about this for a minute, the next time you look down at your phone when there’s a real, live person in front of you — the next time you tell a little girl how pretty she is instead of asking her about her favorite book — the next time you spend hours watching and envying how celebrities live their lives:

Life is built on experiences — the stimulation of conversation, the taste of good food, the reminiscing of a day well spent.  So maybe, just for a night, we should turn off our phones and experience it.

*Steps down from pedestal.*

On Wiggly Mutts and Puppy Butts

I had a dog.

I’ve pretty much always had a dog.

First, there was Muffin.

Muffin had a white triangle on her head.

She was a gift to my brother right before I was born, undoubtedly intended to lessen the blow of the impending realization that there’s going to be a baby in the house.  And a baby might mean people sometimes forget about my brother, the non-baby, but that’s okay because they gave him a puppy.

Muffin looooved Joel.

But she loved me, too.

Thirteen years later, Muffin died in my arms.

Soon after came Lexie and Beemer, named after 2 cars my parents wanted but would likely never own.

Mom, Beemer & Lexie

If you ask me, the dogs were better than the cars.

I missed them when I moved away from home, but they always remembered me when I came back.  No matter how long it had been.

Over time, the homes changed.  The people in them changed.  But the dogs were always there.  Beemer, with his incessant need to Fetch! and Lexie, nibbling my hair by way of greeting.

Earlier this week, Beemer got sick.  Ed and my mom took him to the vet, but they didn’t take him home.  They had to do what people sometimes need to do when they own a dog.  When they love a dog.

They had to say goodbye.

I said goodbye too, on the phone, trying desperately to keep my voice from catching on the lump that had lodged itself deep inside my throat.  They said his eyes lit up.  He heard me.  He knew me.  And when I hung up, I lost it but good.  Big, ugly sobs producing big, ugly tears.  That horrifically hideous cry that comes when you don’t care what it’s doing to your body, because all that matters right in that moment is the need of your soul.

And that need is release.  To grieve.  In waves with each new realization:

I’ll never throw him a frisbee again.

Ugly sobs.

I’ll never again bury my face in his fur.

More ugly sobs.

I’ll never get to see his entire butt wiggle with excitement when I give him a treat.

There isn’t enough tissue in the world, sometimes.

My dogs came to comfort me that night, nuzzling into my sides and laying their heads in my lap.  And the grief crested again, when I realized this probably wouldn’t be the last time I’d have to feel this way.

So.

I’m not sure it’s wise to admit how much that furball affected me.  And I’m sorry if I’ve made you sad this morning or if I’m only confirming the fact that I’m crazy.

If you’ve never known the undying adoration of a dog, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.

They just get in.

And when they do, they don’t ever really leave.

I’m gonna miss you, Beemer-butt.  You always made me happy.

And I hope that wherever you are, the peanut butter is plentiful and the frisbees never stop flying.

 

“Hey, Baby — I Don’t Care About Signs. What’s Your Mood?”

I was watching a show the other day that took place Great Britain in the early 1900’s where the characters wore black arm bands when they were in mourning.

I don’t know if you knew this, but people died a lot in the early 1900’s.  I’m pretty sure it’s because they didn’t have Echinacia.

Or Viagra.

Or iPhones.

But one thing they did seem to have was an inherent understanding of the fact that people can’t read other people’s minds.

Bear with me for a sec.

I think you’ll find it hard to disagree that most people, at least here in America, are pretty self-absorbed when it comes to their day-to-day business.  When we order our triple-shot-chai-caramel-mocha-latteatto from the pony-tailed, too skinny girl behind the counter at S’bucks, we’re not concerned about what kind of morning she’s having.  We’re not worried about whether or not she’ll pass her mid-term or get into law school get an abortion.  We just want our damn coffee, because WE are having a DAY.

So we might be a bit snippy with the skinny latte maker — we might be too busy thinking about how she must be thinking about how cool we are in our work skirts and ties and rushing off to a busy busy day to notice the fact that she’s actually thinking about her mother, who’s somewhere in Afghanistan and hasn’t called home in 4 days.

Or her boyfriend, who just dumped her for a skinnier latte.

Which brings me back to the arm band thing.  While politeness and compassion are virtues that we should probably practice all of the time, it’s sometimes easy to get wrapped up in our own little whirlwind wonderlands and forget that there are other people in other wonderlands that, on occasion, are actually sometimes a wee bit more jarring than or own.

And maybe, had we known that one of these little satellites within our colossal orbit was having a bad day, we would have been a little nicer.  Or understanding.  Or… equipped.

I’m talking about mood bands, people.

If the dumpee at S’bucks were wearing a red arm band to symbolize just how ticked off she is at the world, we’d know to leave her the eff alone.

And maybe give her a slightly bigger tip.

And maybe hit on her, depending on our gender or sexual orientation.

Or, if our co-worker shows up to the office wearing a black arm band to symbolize mourning, we know not to heckle him too much about his losing football team.  Unless the band is for mourning that loss, in which case he’s abusing the system and should be heckled to no end.

Our waitress is wearing a green arm band?  Perfect!  She’s happy and helpful and will likely fill our drinks in a timely fashion.  But watch what you say — if you cross the line of rudeness and she returns wearing red, you might want to pass on dessert.

I’m thinking I could be on to something big here.

Here’s the Thing about the Woods.

The thing about the woods is that they can be quite beautiful and quite terrifying, all at the same time.

Photo taken with iPhone.

The good thing is that when you’re on a designated path in a state park, they’re a lot more beautiful and a lot less terrifying.

Photo taken with iPhone.

Unless you’re me, and you inadvertently lead your party astray from said path and out into the dense wilderness where every shadow is suspect, every rustle sounds menacing, and the legs of your fellow backpackers start resembling those of fried chicken drumsticks.

Extra crispy.

Photo taken with iPhone.

Fortunately, I stumbled back onto the path without even realizing I’d been off of it, and my much more wood-savvy companions were apparently aware that we were leaving the path and didn’t say anything because they, for some inexplicable reason regardless of knowing me, thought that I knew what I was doing.

Pfffft!

The truth is, I never know what I’m doing.

Like, at all.

I’m just stumbling blindly along like the rest of us.

And sometimes I can feel it when I’ve left the path, but other times I can’t.

Photo taken with iPhone

Rarely, as it did yesterday in Raven Rock State Park, does my inadvertent wandering turn into a bonafide short cut.

Photo taken with iPhone

So my lessons from our hike?

1)  Sometimes you have to look for even the most obvious paths, but wandering aside every now and again to enjoy the scenery isn’t the worst idea in the world.  Unless, of course, we’re speaking in the literal woods-hiking sense, in which case wandering from the path can be extremely dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.  (Anyone read The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon?)

2)  On my own, trekking through the wilderness, I wouldn’t last a day.

I’m just glad that no fried chickens — or human appendages — were harmed during the hike.

Photo taken with iPhone

(By the way, my comrades saw the path switchback ahead of us, so while they knew it was a shortcut and weren’t just allowing me to blindly lead them astray, I had to expertly cover my shock at stumbling upon a path when I thought we’d already been on the path.  This is why you should always bring smart people with you while wandering through the woods.)

This Gives Comfort Food A Whole New Meaning.

This morning I became sidetracked reading someone else’s blog — someone who’s poetic and dreamy and introspective and harsh — every bit the writer I’d like to be if I took myself more seriously.  A traveler.

I’d share it with you, but I selfishly want to keep it for myself.

Hey, buddy, life isn’t fair.

Don’t you hate it when people say that to you?  Like I don’t know.

Anyway, now I don’t have enough time to write a proper post before leaving for work.  And the only reason I’m wasting your time at all is because I’ve had an epiphanal moment I feel I need to share.  Are you ready for it?

 

Here it is:

 

When I can’t travel, I replace the desire with food.

 

Was that obvious to everyone but me?

I absorb myself in discovering new recipes, cooking it, tasting it, eating it, washing it down with red wine.  I hope this doesn’t mean I’m psychologically unsound.

Though, would that really surprise anyone?

Oh, and here is that blog I don’t want to share.  I’m only telling you because sometimes life can be fair, if I can help it, and I don’t like making people curious without providing answers.

It seems unnecessarily mean, you know?

And now, because I’m here (not traveling), I’m going to get ready for work and then fully embrace my culture by buying a sausage cheese biscuit on my way to the office.

I never said I’d pretend to be above it all.

(Is this post as confusing as I think it might be?  Welcome to my unedited, pre-breakfast, post-coffee mind.  It’s a scary place.)

Didn’t Think Chicken Could Turn You On? Think Again.

If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you probably already know that I don’t cook a whole lotta plain ol’ chicken dinners.

Every now and then I get a hankering for a lightly salted and peppered drumstick thrown on the grill with those lovely little blackened bits and maybe a side of coleslaw.  But usually, if I’m cooking chicken, it’s getting the royal treatment — like tossing it with a gooey, caramelized, Adobo-spiced sauce for tacos; bathing it in a hot-tub of rich red wine and veggies and fancified with a French name; or safely tucking it inside warm biscuits filled with melty cheese and salsa.

And dinner from the other night was no exception.

I thought was simplifying my life by making some simple, roasted chicken.

I thought wrong.

This ain’t yo’ mama’s chicken, kids.

This chicken is sophisticated.

It should probably be wearing a maroon chenille bath robe and smoking a pipe, with all its delicious snobbery.

I have to say that not only is this probably the best chicken I’ve ever encountered, but it’s probably one of the best meals I’ve ever made.  I’ll keep this one in the vault for when I need something to impress company or for when I need to make myself feel really, really special.

It’s Roasted Chicken in Marscapone Mustard Marsala Sauce, and I have a woman named Rina from I Thee Cook to thank for the original recipe.  Don’t be thrown by the “mustard” in the title.  It tastes nothing like mustard.  It tastes like slowly melting angels on your tongue.

Or something less… violent.

I’m not gonna lie — there are a couple of splurge-worthy items in the ingredient list.  But don’t skimp or substitute for something cheaper — using the real stuff is so, so worth it.

For the chicken itself, you will need:

  • 4 drumsticks and 4 thighs (I used 4 leg quarters.  Anatomy lesson: leg quarters are a thigh and drumstick still attached to each other.  Math lesson: 4 leg quarters, each with 1 drumstick and 1 thigh, equals 4 drumsticks and 4 thighs.  Economics lesson: You wouldn’t believe how much money it’ll save you to buy your chicken parts still attached to each other. Who knew cooking could make me so smart?)
  • 1 tsp. kosher salt (next time I will cut this back or out completely — mine was a little on the salty side)
  • 1 tsp. black pepper
  • 1 tsp. onion powder
  • 1 tsp. garlic powder
  • 1 tsp. dried thyme
  • Optional:  1-2 Tbsp. olive oil (I added this to the dry rub to make it a… wet rub.)

For the sauce, you will need:

  • 2 oz. pancetta, diced (pancetta is kind of like bacon, but not. Do NOT substitute bacon! The closest I could get was pre-diced stuff in front of the deli counter at my fancy grocery store. I used the entire container, which probably has something to do with why my chicken was a wee bit salty)
  • 6 garlic cloves, peeled
  • 6 shallots, peeled and halved (these are like tiny onions — you can get them in most grocery stores near the onions)
  • 1/4 cup Marsala wine
  • 1 (16 oz.) can chicken broth (Rita uses fat-free and sodium free. I did not. Again, probably contributed to my salt factor.)
  • 1 Tbsp. chopped FRESH thyme
  • 1/2 cup Marscapone cheese (this is a little like cream cheese. But don’t use cream cheese. Use Marscapone. Thank you.)
  • 1 tsp. coarse ground mustard (I just used regular ground mustard because that’s what I had)
  • 1 tsp. honey
  • 1 Tbsp chopped fresh parsley
  • 1/4 tsp. kosher salt
  • 1/8 tsp. black pepper

Whew.  This looks a little overwhelming, I know, but half of that is me rambling about the ingredients — not the ingredients themselves.  And you’re about to see that it’s really not difficult to make.

1)  Preheat your oven to 375 degrees F.  Combine the teaspoon of salt (next time I will leave this out if I don’t use sodium-free broth), teaspoon of pepper, teaspoon of onion powder, and teaspoon of garlic powder.  I added a little more than a tablespoon of olive oil to this rub and then spread it all over the chicken.  Place the chicken in a roasting pan (I used a glass pan because that’s what I had), and bake for about an hour (until a thermometer reads at least 180-degrees F).

Whew.  That takes care of the first set of ingredients.

2)  Gather your pile of shallots and garlic cloves.  Whisper sexy words into their ears while slowly peeling off their layers.  The goal is to get them naked.  Or, you could just chop off the shallot heads, then cut them in half from root to tip, and peel them that way.  Smash the garlic cloves with the side of your knife and the peel should slip right off.  Normally I try to pick love over violence, but it’s definitely faster this way.

3)  Meanwhile, grab your container of pancetta.  Try to ignore how much you spent on it.  Trust me, it’s worth it.  Toss it into a pan over low heat and cook for about 5 minutes.

4)  After 5 minutes, remove the pancetta from the pan and set aside.  Then toss your naked shallots and garlic into the lovely grease left behind, increase your heat to medium, and saute the garlic and shallots for 10-15 minutes until nicely browned.  Don’t panic if your shallots fall apart a little.  And if some smaller pieces start to get a little too brown, simply remove them from the pan and toss them in with your pancetta.  When it’s all cooked, remove every morsel from the pan and set aside with the pancetta.

5)  Add the 1/4 cup of marsala wine to the pan to deglaze it, and let it cook down for a few minutes.  Then add the 14 oz. chicken broth, shallots, garlic, pancetta, and also 1 Tbsp. chopped fresh thyme, 1 tsp. ground mustard, and 1 tsp. honey.

6)  Cook the sauce, uncovered, for about 10 minutes.  If it will still be awhile before the chicken in the oven is cooked, throw a cover on it and reduce the heat to low to keep it warm until the chicken is just about done.  When you’re about ready to serve, stir in the 1/2 cup of Marscapone cheese.

It will melt and give the sauce a nice, thin, creamy consistency.

7)  Remove the chicken from the oven and move it to a serving dish.  Pour the sauce, shallots, garlic and all, over the top of the chicken.  If I’d used a fancier serving dish than my ugly blue one, this would have looked stunning.  And the smell?  I can’t even describe it.  Incredible.

Oh, my.

This is nothing short of delectable.

Of course, this photo was taken before I poured massive amounts of Marscapone sauce over everything.

Oh, and think you don’t like cooked carrots?  Think again.  Make these, undercook them slightly, and then eat.  They are fantastic.

Enjoy!  Thanks, Rina!!

Petition to Re-Label Halloween the Holiday of Hope and Good Cheer. I’m Not Even Joking.

I don’t exactly know why, but Mondays have started taking on a lot more pressure since starting this blog.  I have to tell you that I spend the day feeling terrible — terrible — if I can’t knock out a post on a Monday morning.  I feel like I let you down.

Is it more excusable if a missed Monday happens to be a holiday?

Didn’t think so.

Especially when it’s a holiday I’ve already kind of openly admitted that I don’t take very seriously. Like last year, I spent the evening passing out candy from my neighbor’s front porch.  Only this year I graduated from hiding a wine glass behind the railing to hiding a martini glass.

Because if you’re going to force me to sit outside for 2 hours when it’s cold and raining, you can bet your slutty bunny ears that I’m going to do what it takes to stay warm.

I have to admit, though, the little kids kind of get to me on Halloween.  In a good way.  They soften my cold, anti-kid Grinchy heart with their tiny pink tutus and sparkling bug antennae and Harry Potter glasses.  The ones who actually walk door-to-door with their parents (as opposed to riding inside the ever-popular neighborhood golf carts or, even worse, hopping into the back of the family mini van to ride 200 feet down the street at a time) get extra candy.

I mean… really, parents?  This is North Carolina, not the North Pole.  You’re not going to freeze to death while walking your kids from house to house on Halloween.  Especially if you pack a flask.  You might even find that you… I don’t know… bond.  Plus, you’ll feel a lot less guilty about the occasional Reese’s you snag from their bags.

Anyway.

As much as the little kids get me with their doe-eyed, sugar-highed cuteness, the big ones get to me, too.  In a not good way.

You know the ones I’m talking about.

Usually they’re boys, and they’ve reached that age — maybe 12 or 13 — where they apparently feel a little too old to dress up, but apparently not too old to walk door to door begging for handouts.

Except they don’t even beg.

Just try getting one to say, “trick-or-treat.”  I dare you.

They just stare at the bowl of candy, avoiding eye contact with homeowners (or in my case, the martini-laden girl who sits on the front stoop with a bowl of chocolaty goodness), holding out their pillowcases.  Then, when they’ve gotten what they came for, they turn and hightail it out of there, fixing their Justin Bieber hair beneath their hoodies so they’ll still look good when they go home to take photos of their hauls to post on Facebook.

They don’t even say thank you.

And that’s what ticks me off the most.

If you’re old enough to make the conscious decision to not dress up for Halloween and yet still go door-to-door taking candy from strangers, you’re old enough to say “thank you.”

And I let them know that.

And then my neighbor yells at me because she’s afraid I’m going to get her house egged.

Anyway.

It was about time to close up shop last night when a few stragglers came rambling down the driveway.  Tall stragglers.

Great, I thought, here come these teenagers who think I owe them something for throwing Daddy’s Army jacket over their Polo shirts to take the last of my chocolate.  MY chocolate.

I sighed and took one more sip from my sidecar before they got close enough to notice.

But wait.  What’s this?  They’re wearing costumes?  Costumes that took… effort?

“Nice costumes!” I said with a smile when they approached the stoop.  “Though I’m not sure what that one is.”  I pointed to the kid in the middle.

“I’m a Central American revolutionary fighter!” he said with a proud smile.

No.  Frickin’.  Way.

Not only did this kid know there were people with real political struggles outside of the U.S., but he knew there were people outside of the U.S.

It totally blew my mind.

“Really?” I asked.  “Which country?  Nicaragua?  Guatemala?”

“I didn’t really specify,” he said with a laugh.  “But I’d love to visit Costa Rica one day.”

Of course that opened the floodgates.  After all, I spent 2 months there last year.  We spent a few minutes excitedly discussing the merits of work exchanges, and I could literally see the light behind his eyes as he mentally explored the boundary-less possibilities.  His friends piped in with their passion for travel as well, and then they made their way back up the driveway after exchanging “thank yous” and “goodbyes” in English, Spanish, and German.

They said thank-you.

No, they said thank you very much.

I was flabbergasted.

And elated.

And it made me happy to think that these kids — especially the one in the middle — probably would travel and experience the world.  They might even make a difference.  Something I’ve failed, so far, to make myself do.  And I wanted to call their parents and thank them for giving me hope for the future — for raising little people who cared about more than trying to get famous or which Kardashian is getting divorced.

Is that a little much?

Probably.

But it doesn’t change the fact that this year for me, Halloween — that holiday I usually face with amused disdain — turned into the holiday of Hope.

And any time Hope comes pre-packaged with adorable fairy princesses and mini Peanut Butter Cups is just fine with me.

Thank you very much.

Does This Kind of Thing Only Happen to Me?

So.

I’m no stranger to embarrassment.

I mean… I survived a 3-hour interview with a spider bite on my ass.  I showed a middle-aged woman at the airport a vagina on my kindle.  I read every book in the Gossip Girl series until the original author stopped writing them and they tried to continue the series with ghost writers and then they started sucking.

Because I’m pretty positive they didn’t suck before that.

And admitting that is embarrassing.

Which is probably why my face didn’t even flush a little yesterday when it probably should have.  Because the good thing about embarrassing yourself on a regular basis is that you actually get used to it.  You learn how to laugh at yourself in a way that says to any witnesses, Yeah I just did that.  Yuck it up, Chuckles.  It’s just another day.

And yesterday was no exception.

It was supposed to be a balmy 78-degrees, so I figured I’d take advantage of possibly the last unseasonably warm day this year by wearing a lightweight dress to work that had a wrap skirt.  For the fellas, this is basically a skirt that overlaps on itself, like when you wrap a towel around your waist coming out of the shower.

The whole ensemble was probably around $28 at Tarjay.  Because I’m spendy like that.

What I didn’t realize is that if I want to start earning a little extra cash, wearing this dress would be a good place to start.  Following a lunch meeting yesterday, my boss, Alpha and I were standing outside of the restaurant along one of the busiest streets in town, engaging in a healthy work debate that had spilled out into the parking lot.

My boss was mid-point, and it was a good one at that, when a mischievous gust of wind decided to entangle itself in my skirt, “unwrapping” it, so to speak, in one of those Marilyn Monroe moments that would be all hot and glamorous if I were… you know… Marilyn Monroe, but I’m clearly not,  and instead I was just a 29-year-old woman flashing her undergarments to her co-worker, her boss, and countless passerby on a 5 lane road.

Yeah, that’s not me.

All I can say is, thank God I was wearing undergarments.  Cute ones.

Apparently My Design Genes Have Been Replaced With Wine.

It occurred to me that I’ve never showed you our living room.

I mean, aside from this picture from move-in day:

And, while it’s far from finished, I think it’s come a long way since then.

This is slightly embarrassing.  This is a photo I quickly snapped when the room was clean for about 4 seconds.  It’s especially embarrassing after recently publishing photos of my friend Matt’s ridiculously awesome home on Re-Nest.  I wish I could replace everything in my house with his delicious, paint-peely, story-filled furniture, but alas.  New furniture — even old new furniture — is just not in the cards right now.  Which is why, dear readers, it’s important to collect things you love slowly over time.

A lesson I still clearly need to learn.

Anyway.  Looking at the above photo, it’s obvious I like things cozy, and, as determined by that style quiz of yore, I’m into a room with craftsman style that’s apparently filled with booze.

Hey, that’s the quiz talkin’– not me.

But it’s also me,

The overstuffed sofas have seen better days, as I’ve mentioned before.  They’re too big for the room and happen to be the first new furniture Justin and I bought together… seven years ago.

Everything else is way too matchy-matchy — my entertainment console on the left, which I’ve had for 9 years, used to be blonde wood laminate that I’ve since disassembled and painted dark.  Then apparently I went on a dark wood kick, because the Target bookshelf, end tables, and sofa table (not pictured), are also all dark wood.  Matching dark wood.

And finally, the carpet.

That carpet is nasty.

Like, installed-in-1994-and-survived-years-of-renters nasty.

And I use the term “survived” loosely.  As in, it’s still there.  Mostly.

And this, my friends, is next on the list.  We’re getting ready to order some laminate floors.

Why laminate?

Well, we’re set on a DIY install to save some much-needed moolah, and wood requires a lot more work (nailing, gluing, etc.).  Also, while we’re getting a really nice laminate, the material is less expensive than wood.  Also, we’ve really already spent too much money on this house for its price point, so we really shouldn’t expect to recoup anything else we spend.  Higher end laminate will look just as nice as wood floors, and while it doesn’t have the classic longevity, frankly, we’re not going to be here long enough to care.  Plus, with the warranty, this laminate should last much — much — longer than carpet.

This is what we’ve been eyeballin’.  In the Cosmopolitan color.  Yes, it’s high gloss, which worries me, too.

Anyway.  I’ll share more details on that when we actually order.

I just thought you should know.

Any strong opinions out there on laminate vs. hardwood?   Are we making a horrible mistake?  Should we just abandon the house and move now to a yurt in northern California?

Actually, the yurt thing doesn’t sound like a bad backup plan.

Source

What say you?