update your feeds, people!

I've moved!

http://thatswhatsummersaid.wordpress.com/

Not sure how many actually check in with the blog...but just thought you might like to know :)

been gone too long

Sadly, I've not posted in a very long time. It's not so much by choice—-I've not had Internet in FOREVER (since I moved into my own apartment), and I've been relying on library visits and the kindness of my friends to do my 'net surfing and blog posting.

Hopefully that will change soon. I'd like to get Internet for my apartment sometime in the near future, and I plan to save a little chunk of my tax returns for a new computer. I'm think I'll likely get a netbook, which will be perfect for what I need it to do, and then I'll be saving up to eventually get a MacBook of my own. I've really been doing my soul-searching regarding what I need to spend my money on at the moment and what I need to wait about.

Some lightning-fast updates: I’ve been at my current job for about two years now, still enjoying what I do. Been living in my FAB apartment (and out of real estate hell) for one year next Monday. Another big number coming up: Jonathan and I will be crossing the two-year mark in April. Sheesh. Two years. That’s a long time (for me).

I posted on here a while back about how I was unhappy with my weight and how I wanted to get back to the person I used to be. I’ve lost almost 50 pounds in the past…while? Two years? And I’m on my way back to where I want to be. I took up running last June and I love it. I’ve done three or four 5ks, with more planned for the spring, and I’m aiming for a 10k in April and maybe a half marathon in the fall. My knees have been giving me a little trouble, but it’s not been nearly as bad as I was afraid it might be.

I’ve even inspired my sister to start running, and she’s been bitten by the bug and embracing it! (Alliteration abounds!) She’s even signing up for a Couch to Triathlon sort of program, with her goal being a sprint tri in August. I can’t wait to cheer her on! I’m so proud of how far she’s come with all the hardships she’s been dealt over the past few years. Let’s send up a little hoo-rah for her right now: GO, AUTUMN, GO!

Anyway, I’m hoping to be back on the blogging scene soon. I love it so…I just don’t always have the time and resources I need. Here’s to getting back!

Toaster Pastry Catastrophe

It’s a Toast-astrophe! Catas-pastry!

Or just a sad day in breakfast world.

Some mornings, I wake up early, get my shower, drink my coffee and eat my grits and toast while watching the Today show.

That’s some mornings, not most. Tuesday was like most mornings.

I woke up with a startling realization that my alarm had already angrily beep-beep-beeped at me—twice—while I snoozed peacefully and blissfully unaware of its attempts to rouse me from my sleep. I jumped out of bed and quickly began my morning ritual—the abbreviated version. Brush my hair, attempt to restore some sort of life to it, brush my teeth, find something to wear that fits the following three criteria: A) It looks the same whether it’s wrinkled or ironed, B) I’ve not already worn it that week, and C) It doesn’t smell (at least, not to a point where it’s offensive). Luckily, I found a few items that fit into every category.

As I rushed to work, I remembered one very important part of my morning that had been neglected until I was already speeding along to work: breakfast. Fortunately, I have a nice stash of treats in my desk drawer, just waiting to be summoned for this very purpose.

When I arrived at work, I surveyed the drawer with some dismay: a Ziploc full of pretzels, a granola bar that’s really just seen better days, a few root beer barrels, and a mini Snickers. Hm. Not what I was expecting.

As I was about the shut the drawer and pilfer around in the fridge downstairs to see what foods I might have forgotten about in there, I saw a peek of shiny silver under some papers. Pushing those to the side, I found something most exciting: a cinnamon sugar Fiber One toaster pastry! (A mouthful of words, I know. And it’s really just a Pop-Tart. But I know from being around AP style for some time that Pop-Tart is a brand….not a food item.)

Anyway, the toaster pastry.

Not only had I found something that is actually considered a “breakfast” option, it was cinnamon sugar. Which, in the words of a co-worker, everyone knows is the best. While there’s no toaster at work, there is a microwave. And while some may scoff at the idea of preparing such a pastry in a microwave, don’t knock it till you’ve wanted your tart so badly and tried it. I cooked said toaster pastry’s former wrapper mate in the same manner, and it was delish.

I couldn’t remember how long to set the timer for, so I just randomly selected a time and figured I’d take it out when I felt it necessary. I chose a seat at a table near the mic and watched the pastry spin round and round as my eyes glazed over, much like the sweet cinnamony goodness topping my treat.

As I was awaiting breakfast bliss, the president of our company walked into the break room. We began to make small talk, when I noticed something strange out of the corner of my eye: A small cinnamon sugar volcano was erupting from the center of my Fiber One toaster pastry.

“No!” I cried. “My pastry is burning!”

I immediately ceased conversation and shut off the microwave that wa,s in essence, cremating my breakfast. He gave me a short of “yeesh, sorry” look and headed on his way to his office.

As I opened the door, smoke billowed out and up, along with the unmistakable smell of burnt sugar.

I quickly closed the door.

Not sure what to do, I stood there for a moment and watched the inside of the microwave turned a hazy gray as it filled with smoke. Trying to think on my feet, I armed myself with a plastic serving tray resting in the drain rack and boldly opened the door and proceeded to fan like a madwoman. The smoke permeated the room, looking like the ghost of my breakfast’s past. It soon dissipated, taking with it my hopes for a delicious morning treat.

I attempted to eat what remained, but I was soon deterred when I realized it was scorched from the inside out.

Forgive me, Fiber One toaster pastry, for I knew not what I did.


I'm so sorry, little friend.

Happy Hollo-ween!

Don't have time to make a real post, but I just wanted to share mine and Jonathan's joint Halloween costume: Joan Holloway and Roger Sterling from Mad Men on AMC.



Hope y'all had a good Halloween!

Racing for the Cure

What, what?!?! Add .1 to that and you've got me after my first 5k!


So I survived my 5k! It was great, so much fun. I definitely recommend to anyone wanting to do a 5k to do Race for the Cure. It was so exciting, having people cheer you on! My friend Joy and I ran, while my mom, Joy’s mom, and my sister walked. We went back to cross the finish line with them when we got done. It took us 43 minutes, but that’s with an INSANE about of people at the starting point. There was no way to start running at the beginning. And there were so many walkers to dodge, not to mention the rain made it super slick and we were trying not to slip (I saw one lady fall and some one else run into a street sign, yikes!).




My sister and me right after the race




Autumn and me at the pink fountain (they’ve also changed out the streetlights for pink ones, not to mention city hall and the great Vulcan are pink for October, too!)




It was muddy…I had to give my kicks some TLC after the race




3.1 miles! And yes, the picture is flip-flopped. The phone I was using takes mirror image photos…weird. (I planned for it, though, the way we were holding our hands!)


I need to update badly, I know...soon!

What No One Ever Tells You About Losing Weight Health & Fitness: glamour.com

This story made me want to cry.

What No One Ever Tells You About Losing Weight Health & Fitness: glamour.com

Shared via AddThis

Race for the Cure

Hello all! I'm thinking of starting a team to run/walk the Birmingham Race for a Cure for the Susan G. Komen foundation. I'll post more later with details and information on how you can join my team or just donate. Let me know if you are interested; the race is October 10.

http://www.komenncalabama.org/

i'm a mad woman

So, I am OBSESSED with Mad Men on AMC. Specifically, I'm obsessed with Joan Holloway, played by Christina Hendricks. So sexy. I would love to look like this woman:



Meow, she is sexy. All the other characters are delightful as well, I just have a "thing" for the reds.

Anyway, I digress. So I want to be Joan. And thanks to madmenyourself.com, I can be:



This was my second go at my Mad woman. I liked the first one I did, but she just lacked some pizzazz I felt. Here's my first lady, featured with Jonathan's Mad man character:





Visit madmenyourself.com to make your own avatar. or should I say "Madvatar"?

decorating

I'm finally hanging my crap on the walls! (Not literally. Gross.)


Here's the series of things behind my loveseat. It was the main wall and it was all empty.



And here's the giant Chicago poster I got from my friend Catherine. It's HEAVY. I waited forever to hang it up bc I thought I needed help and stronger hooks. Turns out I had hooks and I didn't need anyone other than me, myself and I.

the strangest thing...

I was on my way back from dropping a friend off at the airport (6 in the am...it was earl-eye) when I saw the funniest thing.  There was a cat wandering around in the street, but obviously chasing something.  I thought it was a pinecone.  When I got closer, I saw the silliest, most animated-looking mouse.  No joke.  It looked like a teardrop turned on its side!  And it was moving on what looked like its tiptoes!  The mouse would move, then the cat would move, then the mouse would move again...I don't know what kept that cat from just pouncing!  There are pictures:



Here's the pair of them.


And the cat...


...and creepy mouse.

So are the days of our lives...

My dad was in town last night.  Whenever we're in the same room, I usually get filled with this anxiety because my apartment is a mess, or my car, or I've not done some things I should've or I've done things that I shouldn't.  This time was a little different.

He lost his job a few weeks ago, and it's been really hard on him, esp since this came only a week after my grandmother (his mom) passed away.  Today he was traveling to Montgomery to take some tests, and it was just easier for him to leave from my place in Birmingham.  When he arrived, we chatted for a bit and then decided to head to dinner—IHOP, his favorite. 

We had some nice conversations, and it's times like this that I think, "Wow, when did I become grown-up enough to have adult conversations with my dad?"  We talked about work and life in general, and my anxieties about getting up and facing the day.  I'm having a lot of trouble doing that.  I've gotten into this mentality that my life is a giant hourglass, and the grains of sand are passing through much too quickly, while meanwhile, I'm just drowning in them.  I feel like I've got nothing to be proud of it, like things are just happening around me and time is moving way too fast.  Like I'm going to die soon, and it'll all just be over.  Why can't we live forever?

Anyway, moving past my existential crisis…we came home from dinner (after stopping to get a gas station cappuccino, another of my dad's favorite treats) and strapped on our tennis shoes to squeeze in a quick walk around my neighborhood.  My dad told me that he had been terrified to turn 30.  When I asked him why, he said simply, "Because I wasn't ready to let go…of my 20s, of being young."  At that point in his life, my dad was married, had one kid, and was making a pretty decent living at the steel mill in Gadsden.  But he still felt that way.  That gives me some comfort.

After getting back to the apartment, we sat and talked some more on the balcony, looking out onto the glittering city.  He told me that he knows that I love where I live, but that he couldn't stand it.  As he put it, he was "born in the sticks, made to stay in the sticks."  We talked some more about how I was freaked to turn 24, how I felt like I only had about 50 good years before I bit it (I know this is totally irrational and ridiculous, but I just feel this way).  I told him that I'm tired of not being able to enjoy the day, of being scared of the way the weeks are flying by, and feeling like I'm in a slump.  I told him about how I wondered if it gets easier when you get older, if you get a peace about "The End," and this coming to a close.  My mom told me once that she still feels that way.  My dad?  "It's a gradual thing," he said, looking down into his water glass (which was essentially a plastic Red Lobster cup—another example of my feelings of failure:  I can't have anything nice).  "I know that this isn't the best life, and there are things I wish I could change, but it's got to get better than this.  There's got to be something better." 

I'd like to say that knowing that my parents have felt the same way that I do makes me feel better, but it doesn't, really.  It makes me scared that this will never go away, that I'll always be living my life trying to keep the sun from rising on a new day.  And I don't want to feel like that.  I want to look forward to things.  I <i>do</i> have things to look forward to.  I just get so overwhelmed.  For everything I should be happy about, I find ten more reasons to shut those feelings down.  Right now, I'm back to my list-making.  Sometimes I think if I can just get all out on paper, it'll be in front of me, and I can just cross those things off the list and out of my mind, one, two, three.  If only life worked that way…

foodography...and 100th post!

So…I have a habit of sometimes taking pictures of the foods I’m eating. Then I never do anything with them. I’ve decided it’s time to take advantage of my food photos in a blog. (Sadly, I also realized this is my 100th post...I say "sadly" because I wish it was of slightly more substance!)

I made a soup a few nights ago, with the aid of a few recipes but mostly what was in my head. I need a little guidance on how to prepare everything. What resulted was a spicy black bean soup. It’s probably going to need some tweaking, mainly in the spice department, and it’s probably going to need to be thinned out with some broth or water (if you’re cheap, like me). It was pretty delicious, and I ended up freezing the leftovers in half-cup portions. I'll list the recipe at the bottom, if anyone is interested. The stats are pretty decent, esp considering I added no fat or anything, other than the 2 tbsp of veggie oil to sauté with. And that’s divided amongst 5.5 cups.

Here, I sautéed the bell pepper, onion, and garlic.


This was followed by the addition of Rotel, corn, and black beans. Then there's an inset shot.



And voila! The finished product, topped with 2% cheese, reduced-fat sour cream and some green onion. (Pssst…there’s brown rice under there, too.)


I had this with a grilled cheese, made with reduced-calorie wheat bread and fat-free cheese. It was YUMMY.

Ingredients

2 tbsp vegetable or olive oil
1 bell pepper, seeded and chopped
1 red onion, peeled and chopped
4 cloves garlic, chopped
1 can no-salt-added corn, drained
2 cans black beans
1 can Rotel
2 tbsp cumin (or to taste)
2 tsp chili powder (or to taste)
optional: sour cream, cheese, green onion


Directions
Using a large pot or dutch oven, saute bell pepper, onion, and garlic in vegetable oil until tender, about 5 minutes. Add corn (drained), Rotel and black beans. Season with chili powder and cumin, to taste. Bring to a boil, then bring temp back down to low to simmer and let flavors blend, about 15 minutes. In small batches (about three cups each), puree soup in blender (or use an immersion blender in pot). Serve hot, topped with sour cream, cheese, and green onions if you like (not in nutrition). My recipe made 5.5 cups of soup, it may vary. The info is for a 1/2 c serving. I didn't use any broth or water to thin it out during cooking, though, and you might want to do that. I've been adding a little water after cooking to stretch out the amount; it does very little to the flavor.

Number of Servings: 11

Nutrition Data

My Big Blueberry Blunder

I love Publix. I often go there when I’m feeling down and low. Something about how nice the people are, how great the store is and how fantastic of a selection they have makes me feel all warm inside.

Speaking of the sales, I noticed they were having a particularly surprising markdown on blueberries, which can get rather expensive—a pint for just $3. Not believing my good luck, I grabbed one of the last containers and headed on my way about the produce section.

There was also a special going on with cherries. They were absolutely beautiful, all shiny and red with healthy green stems. I’ve never had a cherry like that, just maraschino cherries, really. Someone had opened a bag, and they were strewn about the cherry produce section like so many gleaming red baubles. I thought of how people will taste grapes, and I was tempted to take one just to see what I thought about them. I picked one up, but instantly I was worried about what I would do if I bit into this monstrous cherry and it didn’t like how it tasted. I couldn’t just spit it out. I decided to just hold on to it. Not wanting to look suspicious, I maintained the fruit in my hand, casual slipping it into my jean jacket pocket later. Remember this little sequence. I believe it had everything to do with what happened next.

I strolled over the cereal aisle, and then on to the canned fruit section. I was browsing my sale paper to see what great deals were going on through the store, and at some point during my adjustment of the blueberries, the paper, and my purse, it happened: I shifted something the wrong way, and the pint of blueberries tumbled to the floor.

My eyes widened. My mouth formed an “o” of astonishment. The escaped blueberries rolled about like misplaced marbles. I then did the only thing I could do: I shoved the plastic container behind something in the aisle and proceeded to try and kick them away from the center of the aisle. One thing about blueberries I realized: They are round. And they roll. It was like some sort of effed-up pinball game. Lucky for me, not a soul was on the aisle, nor were there any store patrons lurking about at either end. I walked away, quickly, with an incredulous expression on my face. As people began to turn down the aisle, I mumbled “What the heck happened over here? Who would just leave this here?”

I went back into the produce section and found a charming young fellow stacking bags of carrot chips. “Sir,” I interjected. “Someone appears to have dropped blueberries on the floor over in one of the aisles.”
“What? Where?” he responded.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “It might’ve been…Aisle three, canned fruits and vegetables?” I had the location of my transgression memorized. I led him over, and he said “Thanks” and muttered a sigh of disgust.

I quickly walked away, anxious to distance myself from the Great Spill. As I browsed the next few aisles over, I heard the intercom crackle to life.

“MIKE: CLEANUP ON AISLE THREE.”

The mention of “aisle three” made my face flush with fruit-fumbling embarrassment. I stepped quickly, making my way to the opposite end of the store. I heard the request again:

“MIKE: REPEAT, CLEANUP ON AISLE THREE. SOME IDIOT MADE A MESS WITH THE BLUEBERRIES.”

That last part may have been an exaggeration, but I honestly felt like everyone in the store could see me, knew what I did. I was staring off into space at the pasta/sauces section, when I heard someone say, “You doing alright today, m’am?”

I broke out of my daze, suddenly aware that it probably looked like I was staring at this gentleman who’d just spoken to me. I nodded, and it was then that I realized that this fella pushing a garbage can and various cleaning utensils was Mike, heading off to tame the wild blueberries rolling around aisle three. I felt as if his smile was matching with eyes that said, “Yeah, bitch. I know what you did.” I hurried away.


It was about this time while I was visiting the chips/rice cakes/salty snacks section of Publix that I reached into my pocket, and I remember the cherry. I whole-heartedly think that this was the cause of the previous events. The fruit gods were punishing me for trying to get a freebie. I thrust the cherry behind the caramel rice cakes and hoofed it to the checkout.

I’ve not eaten so much as a grape in a grocery store since. It’s too traumatic.

...can you ever just be "whelmed"?

Well, I'm slowly but surely getting more settled into my new apartment. At times I feel like it'll be just like that last place: never unpacked, never finished, never home. But I really want it to be different. I spent about 3 or 4 hours yesterday after work trying to get some stuff done. I organized the bathroom, put away clothes, hung up my sheers in my bedroom...definitely made some headway.

I've developed this unwanted feeling over the years, however, that always settles in whenever I move. I think: Don't get too comfortable; you won't be here forever. I know I won't be here forever, but who's to say I won't be here for a few years, at least? I mean, I like Birmingham. A lot. I think that while I was in college, that was a definite thing—I knew where I would be and what I'd be doing for about 4-5 years. And I've never renewed a lease on an apartment because something always happens and I have to move anyway, which is why I think I always feel so temporary.

I'm really trying to work on myself this year and my whole outlook. I always seem to get so overwhelmed by things because I either try to take on too many things at once, or I have so much in my head that I get bogged down thinking about all the things I'll never be able to do or flat-out won't do. I forget so many things, too...I need to focus more on the right here and right now and not think too far ahead and enjoy what's going on currently.

For example...I keep thinking about fixing my apartment. Then I think about how I want things on the walls. Then I think about putting pictures up. Then I start thinking about all the pictures I want to print out and frame. Then I think "I'd better get those together." Then I tell myself to keep reminding myself to do it, but then I say, "No, there are so many other more important things." Then I see something I want somewhere, and I think I don't have any money to waste on those things; maybe another day. Then I go in someone else's nice apartment and think that my place will never look as good as theirs, so why bother...it's enough to give someone a really big headache.

There are always just so, so many thoughts racing around in my head. Lately I've been just trying to narrow it down to the most important ones. Set things out in tasks, and then just complete them as I can, in an orderly fashion. I worry a lot about work, too...I know what's going on with the economy and the world (somewhat), but—sad as it sounds—I'm trying not to think about it. I want to feel protected in my little Summer bubble, and not think about it because I know if I do, I'll get really depressed and won't be able to think about anything else.

Four eyes

I found these glasses the other night while looking for my good pair. Haven't worn them in years...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

pack it up, pack it in, let me begin...

...actually, it's pretty much the opposite of that right now: I have a massive amount of unpacking to do right now. And as much as it sucks to have an apartment full of boxes, it's also kind of fun. I like being able to go through every single thing I own...I find lost items (the top to my grandmother's tea kettle!), throw things away (stacks of old magazines), and basically just take inventory of all the crap I consider to be so important that I've brought over to my new place. I'm trying at the moment to go from room to room, unpacking boxes and decided what goes where. I'm just ready to make it a home, like put stuff on the walls and make it feel like it's mine. The last place I was in, I hardly did that at all, and I never quite felt comfortable there. This place just feels more inviting.

But it’s been a tough weekend. Let me just recap a little…

My dad took a half-day from work on Friday to drive up and help me with a few things. He was going to take my washer and dryer back home that evening (I have no hook-ups in the new place) so we wouldn’t have to worry about it on Saturday. It just so happens that we practically had a monsoon. My dad called me the night before to tell me there was a 100% chance of rain. Excellent. At least we were prepared. He came up anyway, and we went to lunch and to sign my lease.

As I said, it rained and poured. But after about 45 minutes of signing and reading and listening, the ink was dry on my new lease, and the keys to my new apartment were in my hand. My father and I braved the rain to go check it out. He’d been pretty skeptical, but when he saw it, his face said it all: He loved it. Feeling a bit of relief, we trudged back out to the car to head back to my old place. We decided in the end it would just be best to get the washer and dryer the next afternoon, when he and my sister would be heading up to help me out.

He dropped me off, and I began the laborious task of finishing my packing. It was fortunate that I’d started early, but it seems you never start early enough. J came over, and we continued to box things up, emptying drawers and gingerly wrapping up knickknacks. Sometime after nine, we began loading boxes into the car, hoping to do a little preemptive moving. Trying to be respectful of my neighbors, we stepped lightly and began working in a sort of assembly line manner. I soon realized how incredibly out of shape I am. Huffing and puffing, I carried box after box down the stairs to the front door, where J was traversing back and forth from the car to the apartment. When we could hold no more, we headed over, stopping at the Waffle House for some dinner.

Of course, it started pouring pretty much right after we put the last box in the car. Smiling at my good luck, I put the key in the ignition and prepared to leave. Then I remembered—the new apartment keys were still inside. Cursing myself and my slippery mind, I put my hood up on my jacket and sprinted back up the stairs (three small flights) to get the forgotten keys.

After dinner, we unloaded the cars in the new apartment and headed back for more. We made two trips and decided to call it a night. It was almost 3am.

My dad and sister arrived sometime around 10am the next day. We had some light, drizzly rain and a chilly wind, but it wasn’t so bad. We broke for lunch and pressed onward as the rain grew heavier. When my family left, it was freezing outside, and there was still much to do inside. I was determined, though, to leave that place for good and not have to come back at all. It was almost 4am when we got back to my new apartment…and I still had to return to the old one for my vacuum and a bag of clothes that needed to go to the Goodwill.

As if the weather hadn’t spit in my eye already, Mother Nature decided to deliver a curve ball that seldom occurs down south, here in Alabama—snow. Yes, it frickin snowed the first night I was in my apartment, while there still boxes of my stuff that needed to come up. It was everywhere. And while we Southerners are usually in a bit of awe at the sight of a winter-white wonderland, I was just pissed. Not to mention, every single muscle in my body like it had been tied in a knot, and my head was pounding. Muscles I didn’t even know I had screamed at every step, threatening to take me down if I refusing to give them rest.



A view of snowy Birmingham from my balcony.

I didn’t even get out of bed until about 2pm, and by the afternoon, most of the snow had turned to slush. J and I bundled up to go grab some dinner and run some errands, including rescuing my beloved vacuum from the old apartment. We returned home, still exhausted and sore, and began trying to make some sense of the mess. I finally fell into bed around 1am.

While this weekend presented me with many problems, several out of my control, I still feel the same way—I’d do it again in a heartbeat, even in worse conditions. I love my new place! It’s so much better than my old apartment. I don’t quite feel like it’s mine yet. I told J that I feel like I’m in a hotel or something. I took some pictures, but please don’t judge the fact that it’s teeming with clutter or that my stuff is strewn about the rooms.


This is the kitchen. It's kind of small, but there are a million cabinets with tons of storage, and the counter space is incredible. I love it. It looks better than this now; I've put away most of those things that are on the counter now.


Here's the bathroom. The sink and mirror are separated from the shower and toilet, which is nice. The lighting is really cool (embedded in the ceiling), and if you look in the mirror, you can see the best part: There's a little counter on top of some cabinets, with two more cabinets above! The shower part of the bathroom has lots of cabinet space, too.


Of course, this is the shower. It's a pretty big tub (bigger than my last one, by far), and I love the stone-like tile on the walls.


Here's the bedroom. It looks so sad right now! There's one big window, which I plan on hanging my sheers over very soon, and there are two closets off to the left (that you can't see). I plan on moving my TV and dresser in front of the bed. Off to the right, there bookshelves made into the wall. It's about the same size as my old room.


This is the view from the hallway leading into the den. Again, it's so super messy.


Here's the den, overcrowded with my shit. You can see the vertical blinds that cover up the sliding glass door that leads to...the balcony! (I love sitting outdoors.)


And this is the gorgeous view of the city from my apartment. It's so nice right at sunset...sigh. I can't wait for warm weather.


I love the bar pass through window in the kitchen. Now I won't feel so closed off from anyone sitting in the den while I'm working in the kitchen. Not to mention I can watch TV while I cook!


The view from the walkway outside my front door.

what you see is what you get

I moved this weekend. ALL weekend. It took for-freakin-ever. My muscles feel as if they've been twisted and rung out like wet washcloths. Muscles I didn't even know I had are crying out with each step I take. I haven't had hardly any sleep...but more on the move later.

My point is, I'm tired. This morning I got up knowing full well I was going to be later for work. I contacted my boss, hit the snooze, and got a little more sleep. When I did finally get up to get ready, I dashed out the door without any makeup on. Before I went in, I put on a few quick swipes of mascara, slicked on some tinted lip gloss, and puffed on some pressed powder. I checked my reelection and felt okay with the way I looked. "I'll just put on some foundation later," I thought.

When I got to my desk, I pulled out my compact. I didn't think I looked too bad for someone with no makeup (really) on. Little did I know.

I went to someone's office to chat for a sec, and she took one look at me and said, "Whoa, you got some sun! Goodness, your face is so red!"

"Um, yeah...that's it," I responded.

I went to the kitchen to snag a cup of coffee. A co-worker doing the same took one look at me and said, "Ooh, long weekend? You look really tired."

A bit perturbed, I said, "Yeah, moving weekend...busy time."

Walking up the stairs, I was met by yet another co-worker, who stopped me by the arm. "Hey! ...oh, you don't feel too good either? Everyone's been sick...you look like you don't feel too well."

Good gravy! I just ignored this last person and dismissed them with a shoulder shrugged as I trudged up the stairs to my office.

I'm looking for my makeup sponge as we speak.



I didn't think I looked that bad...
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

valentine's day...yes, I know it's march.

I didn't get a chance to write about Valentine's Day...so I'm doing it now. And I know it's March, but I don't care. Boo ya.

Ah, Valentine’s Day. Usually a day I like to avoid but never could—I worked in a restaurant for over 5 years. V-Day was more like D-Day in that it was an inescapable evil, perpetuated by insatiable couples pawing at each other while we made sure they had enough cheese biscuits on the table and water in their glasses (as if they needed it; I had a lot of customers who looked like they were going to each other alive as it was). $2 tips from the happy couples only helped to fuel my fire and convince me that February 14 was a day I wanted no part of. Here’s a brief look back at where I was three years ago. EDIT: Ok, the link isn't going where it should, instead it's just linked to this page, so here's the actual link: http://thatswhatsummersaid.blogspot.com/2006/02/happy-tuesday.html

This year was different for me. I've never really had a valentine, never been dating anyone around that time of year. Well, except for that one time. In fourth grade. He turned out to be my very best friend in the whole wide world. (Also, did I mention he’s gay?) But it was a good one. I remember V-Day was on a Wednesday, and he gave me balloons and other presents on that Monday and Tuesday, and then he gave me this adorable stuffed white tiger from Hallmark. I still remember the poem on the card:

I wild about you, and that’s putting it mildly
But then, tigers always do everything wildly!
So love me to pieces, it won’t be atrocious
Because I’ll be loving you something ferocious!

But I digress.

This year is different. J and I have been together (officially) for 10 months, dating almost a year. I didn't really expect anything for V-Day, considering I didn't really have anything to compare it to (save for my white tiger). All I really wanted was to cook dinner and hang out, but I really wanted to recognize the fact that it was Valentine’s Day, for the very reason that it meant something to me. Maybe that’s dumb or whatever, but that’s how I felt.

The week leading up to Valentine’s Day, nothing was really said about the fact that Saturday was February 14. All that had been discussed was that I had an appointment to go check out apartments that day, in the afternoon, and there was a party at my friend’s house the night before. We went to look at places, as was planned, and he helped me by being my voice of reason. Afterward, we decided to walk down to 5 Points for coffee. Once we got there, he gestured over to the 5 Points Grill and asked did I want to just go for lunch, since we were going to need to eat soon anyway. So we did.

We were treated to a sign advertising Valentine’s Day specials, including $2 mimosas and $8 bottles of champagne. Being the lushes that we are, we opted for the latter. Our waiter brought us both the champagne and a carafe of orange juice in a nice little ice bucket, accompanied by champagne flutes. It was all so fancy. And delicious.



We ordered our food, and while we waited, we talked about the day’s events, and then, the day.

“I’m sorry I didn’t really have anything planned,” he told me. Then he said we should cook dinner that night. I told him that’s all I really wanted…that, and to actually make plans. I just wanted to know that it was Valentine’s Day. I told him that.

Then, after talking about it, I realized that I didn’t have to have plans, or hear him say it to know that he loves me and that he was glad to be spending this day with me. He took my hand in his and told me he loved me anyway, and that was really all that mattered.

We finished our yummy lunches and headed back out into the crisp air. Later that night, we headed back to his place to make dinner, where he surprised me with a box of chocolates. It was then that I remembered all the little things he does—playing my favorite music (actually knowing my favorite music!), cooking my favorite foods, watching my favorite TV shows—and all the reasons why I love him. I love the silly things, too—like when we were looking at my new place for the first time, and he spun me into a slow dance, humming one of our favorite songs, then singing along with his own made-up lyrics.

I love him just as much on March 3, or November 8, or July 21 as I do on February 14 and every other day of the year. I already feel special enough; I don’t need a special day. Nonetheless, it was the very best Valentine’s Day ever.

My delicious lunch.
J was equally as excited about his food.

My chocolates!

don't be hatin, yo

I honestly don't know why I be hatin.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

sober summer, day two

I love to drink. I really do. And it's not a "whoo-hoo, let's all go get drunk!!!" thing, either (not all the time, anyway). I love a good beer, one I can really taste. I also love a good cheap beer, one that makes delicious pizza that much better. Or even crappy pizza that much better. The smell of a dark roasted porter makes my mouth water. And wine...oh, wine. Wine not? That’s what I always say (I also like a little cheese with my wine ;). I love a nice, spicy Shiraz or a warm Cabernet in the wintertime. I love having a glass (or seven) of perfectly chilled Pinot Grigio in the summer, especially on a porch somewhere. My friend Kristin and I co-founded the "one-bottle club" one night when we stayed up, all night, talking and laughing, when we realized we'd gone through an entire bottle—each!

My point is, I love beer. I love wine. I love food and cooking, friends and fellowship, and I feel that all these things are inextricably linked with some occasion-appropriate adult refreshment. These things paint the story of my life: Had a bad day? Head out for a beer. Get a big promotion? Break out the champagne! What's that? It's 530pm on a Tuesday? Wine all around!

That's why it is so hard for me to say this: I've decided to give up alcohol for Lent.

It’s like telling your best friend, “No, thanks, best friend. Can’t go out tonight. I can’t see you for another, oh, six weeks or so.”

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t have to drink to have a good time. I do a pretty damn good job of that on my own. I frequently join my close friends over at the karaoke bar, and I’ve been completely sober doing that before. Of course, it is a little easier to hit the high notes in Electric Light Orchestra’s “Don’t Bring Me Down” when I have an ice-cold Pabst Blue Ribbon clenched in my grateful hand.

What’s even more difficult is not being able to indulge in the sacrament with J. We cook dinner together often, and as I stated before, I love to have a little wine while preparing dinner. I told him he’s free to do what he wants, and just because I’m not drinking, doesn’t mean he has to give up the good stuff. I wish he wouldn’t have agreed so heartily…I think he’s just glad he gets to help himself to my leftovers in the fridge.

So it is with a heavy heart and a wistful sigh that I put my good friend back on the shelf for the next 40 days or so. But it’s not goodbye, but merely so long; until next time.

And next time is April 10***, circled in red on my calendar.

Hmm...going through my pictures...I swear, it's not my fault! It's the beer! It's addicted to me!



***This is the day after Holy Thursday, when Lent supposedly ends, as I’ve read. I’ve also read that Lent ends on Easter Sunday, or rather the day after…anyone care to enlighten me?