eating habits

This past weekend I had three main jobs:

1. Set the Table.
2. Eat what is put on the Table.

3. Clean the Table.

In case you're wondering, my order of preference would be 2. and then 1. and then 3.

I've been told, by loved ones and such, that my eating habits consist of bread and cheese. In the midst of blubbering defenses, I've discovered that, when broken down, pizza, grilled cheese and even pasta can be boiled down to bread. and cheese.

So basically, my eating habits consist of bread. and cheese.

Yum.

I mean, no! I need to diversify (if that is actually a word. i think I saw it in one of my "how to manage money for idiots who are careless with money" books. thinking of it now, it probably has more to do with stocks and important things like bonds and less with broccoli and carrots.)

If I was a cookbook I would not be this:

I would be those oversized shiny recipe cards you get in the mail for free to convince you to pay $3.99 monthly for ten more oversized shiny recipe cards in the mail every single week for the rest of your life until you have piles and piles of oversized shiny recipe cards stacked in your cupboards because you have no desire to cook apricot meatloaf or oreo cream pie.

Ok, so the oreo cream pie wasn't terrible.

People who would be the lovely, simple, Real Simple cookbook don't actually buy the cookbook. It's like the world of self-help. They already grow fresh rosemary and understand the subtle difference between extra virgin and virgin olive oil and have large blocks of exotic looking cheese in their fridge.

Here's my theory (my bias, if you like): It's the people with the pre-packaged American slices & the the three cans of Pam cooking spray (in multiple flavors) that scramble to get this exact cookbook because they know, simple or not, they want to open their fridge and feel an instant lovely calmness like they feel when they look at the cover of this book instead of standing with the fridge door open suspiciously wondering what tupperware is the culprit of that smell.

So yes, I bought this cookbook.

I want the calmness, the exotic cheese, the simplicity, the muted color palate, the homemade vinagrette, the pantry full of capers and mustard seed and other things edible things I don't really believe are edible. I want to understand what kale is and how to roast garlic and is a radish a beet? is a beet a radish? are they related?

You should know, I've never bought a self help book. And I don't have to--because every single book I buy is self help. How to cook, sew, save money, save the world, etc.... it's really all my way of stacking up an unread pile of "How to Change Me."

While I do think that personal growth is a lovely, lovely thing---I don't think I should be banking my amazon account on my own.

I need to go a little deeper than roasted garlic and homemade marinara. Yes, I want to expand my bread & cheese diet, but I think my cookbook (granted, my new and very pretty cookbook) needs to stay a cookbook & not my personal revelation.

So much pressure for something that is really just trying to get me to steam the cauliflower right.

the f word.

why i like feminism:

I like to vote.
And wear pants.
And make as much money as my male counterpoint.
I like to drink in public.
I like reading whatever books I choose.
I like to consider certain people enemies.
I enjoy the concept of owning my own body.
I think equality sounds peachy.
I like writing emails and making phone calls to people like this.
I throughly enjoyed going to college.
I believe rape should have serious, lawful consequences.
I think maternity leave is nice.
I like being able to talk about my vagina.
I like having the option of whether or not to reproduce.
And not to mention, my kitchen floor is usually too dirty to stand on with bare feet.
I like to own property.
I enjoy respect.
I think it's nice that my career decisions aren't decided by how fast I can type.

****

You know, just one of those rainy Wednesdays where I like to ponder on this endless list of why I embrace and identify so strongly with this f-word.

8 for 2008 (aka: The 8 Things My Blog Will Most Likely Be About)

1. Burn flavorless things more often. I mean, cook. more often. yeah, cook.

2. Ultimate goal: read a book a week. Starting next week. 52-3=49 books for 2008. More realistic goal that I actually have a shot at obtaining: Read a book a month. Starting next week. 12-1/2= 11 1/2 books for 2008. People magazine does not count. Ok, it can count as the half book.

3. Be kind to the planet. I'd like to investigate how to "go green with less green." In other words, I'm cheap. And broke. And I'd still like to eat organic cucumbers and wear organic cotton sweatshop free sundresses and use cruelty free lemongrass lavender infused bath oils. Being that I'm a paper towel junkie, I've got a ways to go--but I signed up for these delightful daily emails and I'm gonna start a passionate love affair with distilled white vinegar and public transportation.

4. Answer my phone. Call my mother back. Keep in contact with loved ones--maybe (I say maybe) even write a letter or something like that. Maybe.

5. Although I know organization is the general theme of a new year--I feel like somebody I live with is planting these in the magazine rack in the bathroom to tell me something:


Ok, I get it. You want me to start a hip, young magazine that features young hip caucasian women on the cover. Hmmm....OR you want me to read the organization features and actually organize the multitude of "stuff" that slowly is taking over the nook and crannies of our home sweet home. '08 is it: the year that I simplify & organize & stress out less about the piles of unopened letters and unused hangers that live in the corners of the spare bedroom. There. Now cure me of my clutter madness Blueprint & Domino Magazine!

6. Dig a little deeper. Granted, every journal/diary I've ever found makes me cring and partially want to rip it up quickly to guarantee that no one will ever find it, but when it comes down to it, I'm a true believer in writing as a form of creativity & really cheap therapy. I'm talking cheap--steal a pen from the bank, find a cereal box, and go. to. town. On that note, this digging that I'd like to embark on encompasses creativity----I'd like to plug in my sewing machine (although it does look adorable as a table decoration) and cut up some scraps and make some sort of something that I can force my girl to use everywhere as a sign of her love & support of me. I'm a fan of this lady for personal reasons (as well as for her love of fried chicken & hollywood gossip) and I signed up for her free (free! my favorite word!) 12 steps for the soul e-mail e-course. Being that the first question instantly made me think "pizza!" I probably haven't gone that deep yet.

7. Pay Attention! To what these fancy politicians are saying! To what filmmakers are saying! To what women are saying! To what my neighbors are saying! To what journalists are saying! To what the historians/social activists/foreign countries/authors/world leaders/grandmothers are saying!

8. Start a store on Etsy. Ok, you got me. I'm completely the type of person that, when making a list-to-do, writes down things that I've already done for the satisfaction of crossing it off. It's true, Lady Friend did go Etsy, but it's my resolution to keep it going, adding new vintage goodness and making it something that I enjoy and does good for me and other corners of the world.


happy 2008 everybody & all.

warmly,
lady

a love letter of sorts

Dear Chicago,

It’s been four months since I left you.

Four and a half, if we want to get exact.

I feel like in the past four and a half months every memory I’ve had with you from the previous seven and a half years has floated up from my sub-conscious, surprising me with remembering pangs while I’m performing the most mundane tasks—brushing my teeth in the morning, checking my email, blinking.

I think about moments that were never important enough to resurface. Mediocre minutes spent in a downtown grocery store----waiting for the bus on Broadway----sharing the sidewalk with strangers.

I wonder sometimes if I’m getting close to running out of my memories—and in desperation my mind is reaching far back for anything related to you.

So far, in my life, seven and half years is the longest relationship I’ve had. It may sound strange, crazy, to think of our anything as a “relationship,” but I knew before I left it was the end of whatever word you can use to describe what we had. It felt different.

It feels very right, here, in my new home—my new city. It feels very hopeful, to be corny.

I do think about you often---and it’s familiar, this fresh break-up ache of loneliness and anxiety and fear of running into you at the post office and smiling brightly while my stomach sits on the top of my shoes.

Thank you for keeping me warm and safe for seven and a half years. And for teaching me a couple of things about living and life.

Take care of yourself.

Love,
Me.

a new soundtrack

I've been caught up in a music rut as of late. I think I just need to accept the fact that Kelly's newest CD is just not that good and let it go and move on. Ok, sure, you can pretend you don't love Kelly Clarkson. That's fine.

Thanks to Pandora a couple of ladies have been reviving me from my slump--and I wanted to make note of their loveliness (plus, you know, just throw it out there how much I do enjoy their music and would love to have the ability to listen to their music anytime I wanted, perhaps on a CD that I could you know, own, or yeah, something like that. For anyone out there. Anyone who buys me things this time of the year. Those anyones.)

K has already requested that she be put in charge of all music at my someday store. Which is fine--I trust her and being that at the same time I was alone in my room dancing my heart out to En Vogue, she was smoking to Nirvana--she does has cool points up on me.

I will have demands, however. Heavy on the female artists & producers, heavy on independent musicians, heavy on local bands and after I close and lock the door and triple check to make sure NO ONE is in the store, I can lip synch and show off my Free Your Mind moves.

Add to play/wish list:

a timeline of style

1985: The year my sister came into the world. As if I could already sense her feisty rebellion in her 9lb 4oz full body screams, I put all my efforts in sitting like a lady, dressing like a lady and acting like a lady. I insisted upon wearing a dress every. single. blasted. day. I refused to even acknowledge the existence of pants, let alone wear them. I was three.

1992: 10 years old. 5th grade. At some point during elementary school, I starting collecting pins, because, oh I don't know--I though it was cool? You know, pins--round metal things that say things like "Kiss me! I'm Irish!" or "Over the Hill" or "Kelly Tires Employee of the Month." (and yes, those three examples are all samples from my collection.) Anyway, the pinnacle of my pin collecting fiasco was the day I decided to display my collection by wearing (yes, wearing) all 100+ pins on the same day to school. Yeah, that should give you a good enough visual.

1996: One morning, out of the blue, I could no longer see my toes or pull my tight rolled jeans over my enlarged and swollen hips. Turns out my hips and breasts weren't swollen---they were just gi-normous. And they stayed that way! I was, needless to say, not incredibly excited. Since my vocabulary at the time didn't include words like voluptuous or curvy, I dedicated a couple years of my life to covering up those annoying body parts with baggy Disney t-shirts and over sized Mossimo sweatshirts. To this day I believe I had some really good tactics---who doesn't see someone sporting a life size Tigger on their shirt and immediately think, "They look small boned and petite!"

1999: The year I discovered dELiAs' mail order catalog. Knowing the popular baby doll tees wouldn't accommodate my maturing chest--I opted for shoes. Crazy, crazy shoes. I wore a pair of black oxfords with red flames for most of my junior year. I was Student Council President. I was not flame shoes. (on a side note: a google search for those shoes landed me in gothauctions.com) After the flame shoes a pair of steel gray platforms with an over sized (ridiculously over sized) round toe followed. I stomped all over band practice, prom planning meetings and fundraiser car washes in those shoes. They didn't fit in. I think deep down, as well as I appeared to fit in, it was my way of trying to say: I don't fit in here. You know, in a subtly rebellious teenager angst filled way.

2001: The freshmen 15. ( + an extra 15, you know, just for the hell of it.) I wore baggy sweatpants like it was my job.

2004: About to graduate college, I lived up my last reality/responsibility free days wearing cheap tight black shirts with too much cleavage and too many rum & cokes. Five best friends curling eyelashes and singing Bon Jovi into empty Corona bottles before scattering precious drunken regrets across a dark city on a painful pair of stilettos.

2006: Looking to enlarge my wardrobe on a shoestring budget---my girl and I discover the local thrift store. Most of my homesick feelings today are for that place. Our futon--the dog crate---my favorite sweater --all sweet reminders of our Sunday morning haunt. I started to build a new wardrobe of mismatched vintage pieces and retail rejects. Recently a woman at Nordstorms assaulted me over my multi-colored leather boots. When I told her I bought them used, for ten bucks, I thought for a spilt second she was going to spit in my face. I don't know if she was impressed or shocked that nice looking shoes aren't just hatched from shiny boxes in the back room of expensive stores.

Today: I'm a cross between new and old, confident and insecure, comfortable and awkward. Right now I'm wearing a vintage red dress, a sweater from a high school shopping spree at Maurices and yellow kitten heels from the 80s that a co-worker's compliment, "Nice yellow shoes?" made me doubt for a hot minute. (I love it when people end a compliment with a question mark and still pat themselves on the back for being nice. I guess I should just say "Thank you?" and let it go.)

Like the flames, maybe these bright yellow shoes are just my way of saying, in a subtle rebellious 20-something angst filled way, "I do not belong in this cubicle mindlessly stuffing envelopes for corporate giants."

Style speaks. It can be loud, like the grating noise of hundreds of little metal pieces scraping against the desk seat when the bell rings. It can be quiet, homesick and baggy, invisible in an imaginary popularity contest.

You're on the journey to find your own voice from the beginning. (I was a wise three year old--dresses are incredibly comfortable and easy to wear!) But it's easy to lose yourself amidst fads and the fear of judgement. (For example: buried in my parent's coat closet is a Miami Heat Starter Jacket. I'm from the Midwest and I've always strongly disliked sports and bulky winter coats.)

Regardless of future fashion faux pas moments, I hope that I manage to stay true to my own fashion sense, whether or not it's a language easily translated by the general public. It's worth any embarrassing story--and it's the reason every time my mother cleans house and pulls out a worn shoebox containing flame covered oxfords, I beg her to hold on to them for me, just a little longer.

to do: make to do list.

I adore lists.

And being Friday, it's time to make the weekend to-do list that will be faithfully ignored until Sunday night when I scramble around to look productive. And then end up falling asleep to SVU reruns on USA.

for the first weekend of december:

1) buy groceries. try to incorporate green things. don't forget dog food. less dog give you wicked evil eye.
2) take long walk in wooded area. preferably holding hands with someone.
3) mail important things. like bills and shoes.
4) attempt to take photographs of goodies for online imaginary (so far) store.
5) try not to wear sweatpants the entire weekend. at least not 15% of the time.
6) finish laundry. put clean clothes away instead of choosing outfits from massive pile on spare bed.
7) give new teapot a test run.
8) finish creating "office in a bag." i'll give you the tour next week.
9) call my mom. and best friend. and sister.

9 being my lucky number, I'll leave it at that. I'd like to cram a little thrifting in the mix, but we'll see. Shit, "we'll see" is mom language for "no." I'm already letting myself down, without realizing it.

Happy Weekending to All.

step one!

We can have lots of fun.

Damn it.

Everytime I say, think or even see the phrase --step one-- NKOTB instantly rushes to my head. Even after 15 years and finally pitching the cassettes and corresponding sleeping bag, they still get to me. Shame.

My first step (there we go....) doesn't have as much to do with re-kindling my love for early 90's cheese as much as pursuing my lifelong dream of cococting the perfect retail haven while working as a temp in my own private human resources hell.

Huh? What? That isn't the dream of every little bright eyed girl?

Are you also trying to tell me that little girls across America don't dream of growing up to become a lesbian and experience a good ol' quarter-life crisis?

Well, I'm shocked.

Thinking back, I suppose it wasn't the dream of the ten year old version of me either...but it's comforting in a way to realize that destiny knows you well enough to keep your white picket fence dreams far away even when you may think that's what you want.

My current dream/hope/plan came out of late night discussions over really bad Chinese food with four best friends. The company alone made up for the poor take out decisions.

The five of us decided, in between finals and salsa dancing and smoking and watching re-runs, that the perfect situation would be in the form of a bookstore. An everything-in-one kind of place where we could teach ballet classes and hold political rallies and host workshops on how to make mashed potatoes sandwiches. Think of it as a storefront smashing all of our passions and dreams together.

The place has fluctuated over the years--as we all have. We've added on plans for a Domestic Violence Hotline---Sewing Classes---and Storybook time for Tiny Toddlin' Feminists. We've dreamt about fancy free trade coffee drinks and a fat cat sleeping on the non-fiction section.

And we return to it every chance we get.

Now understand this---I'm a dreamer, not a do-er. I'm also a bit of a nervous nelly. Oh! And I like things to be predictable.

I found this on the internet:

How to open a store*:

1. Dream, but more importantly: DO.
2. Don't be nervous.
3. Accept the unpredictable.

(*I didn't actually find this on the internet---so to say. I more just made it up. But you get my point. Exactly. I was trying to make a point. You know, by lying. I saw it on Fox News once.)

I could give about ten reasons why this probably isn't the best idea for me to set out to try to accomplish.....but the reasons start to rush together and become a rambling messy pile of poor excuses.

I like to think, that fifteen years ago---my dreams of a white picket fence was (correctly) misinterpreted by my own destiny to a red brick storefront in a little artsy town filled with novels and vintage dresses and handmade goods and strong coffee, bustling with feminists and college students and grandmas and the occasional ballerina or two.

In order for me to properly start making long lists entitled "Things to Do to Open Store" and "How to Find Money to Open Store" and "Famous People to Invite to Grand Opening Ceremony," I ordered this book off amazon.com after reading an obscure quote regarding it in an interview with a NYC Boutique owner.
Now that I think about it, I probably should have read the rest of the quote before hitting the "Take me to checkout bitches!!!" button. I hope it wasn't along the lines of...."(title of book) is what I ordered. And it's the reason my first store miserably failed. I also blame it for the weight gain."

Hmm.

killing those old habits dead.

Last night I was cleaning and I found an old journal. I had just graduated college. Spending my days at my parent's home, sneaking menthol cigarettes and miserable, apparently, according to the excess usage of the f-word in my short! dramatic! entries.

(just to be clear, I generally like to reserve the four-letter words for worthy outrages, such as our current political administration or when the applebee's waiter forgets my side of honey mustard.)

What struck me after embarrassingly scanning over my old thoughts with one eye closed and shuddering was that I was worrying about the same things that I worry about today. And yesterday. And last week. And tomorrow. Two completely non-important things that keep me awake at night---make me sick to my stomach---give me furrowed brow lines--and make me a tad bitchy. (((( Money and People Liking Me.))))

As much as it concerns me that I'm dedicating years---years--of my life becoming a professional worrywart about my visa bill and if the girl two cubicles down is pissed because I left colored paper in the printer--it concerns me even more that my worries aren't fluctuating with my life.

Now, if worrying is actually one of the few tangible skills I've been actually putting effort into the past few years, it most definitely upsets me to think that I've limited myself to two measly worthless causes. Jesus, what have I missed about worrying about?!?!?!

Things I definitely know that I have not worried about the past five years of my life:

* any illegitimate children being born out of wedlock
* how to tactfully display my homecoming queen tiara
* recycling
* my abs
* what that dream about my junior high arch nemesis actually meant
* how to casually wear my homecoming queen tiara in public
* what I will do if they just suddenly discontinue bagels
* why my eyesight keeps getting worse
* the inappropriate love I have for coffee
* if my mugshot picture will surface if I run for public office
* that I can eat my body weight in bread
* if conservatives have their way and push women back a hundred years and I can no longer wear pants or drink in public
* fashion fads
* the plethora of germs making a happy home under my bathroom sink
* why brad & jen couldn't make it work
* taking the GRE before they change the format to: impossible

It's like this whole other world is opening for me right now. So much worrying--So little time!

No--for serious---I would like to calm down the worrying. Better yet--I'd like to be a productive worrier. I'll have stress--fine! good! (it comes with change, I've learned)---but maybe I could worry, then do something, and then not worry. You know, instead of frantically holding on to it like it's a child sized lifejacket in the middle of the atlantic.

a nice reminder to myself: drink more tea, return loved one's phone calls, read something other than the back of the pop tarts box or US weekly, take the dogs for long walks, make the bed in the morning, be kind to yourself, be honest with yourself and write more dramatic, curse-filled journal entries.

And once in a while, go to this place:

it makes me happy.

Lately I seem to spend countless hours wandering around the ridiculously large hallways of places like Home Depot and Lowe's.

Last night our fruitless search for an area rug was comforted by multiple slices of pizza. After we wobbled on stools at the counter, pretending like we'd have pizza left for a to-go box, we headed over to the 7-11 to finish the night off with swedish fish and lottery tickets.

And it was there that I found what could possibly be the best postcards in the entire world. Now, please remember--the images that you are about to see are postcards. Yes, those things that you write on the back of--phrases like "wish you were here" or "weather couldn't be better" or "tulsa is much bigger than I thought it would be."

**********
Maybe one wouldn't at first guess that another-such-someone would be interested in sending a loved one a forever memento of the fully first automated Post Office, but! that somebody wouldn't know that this such someone has a retired postmaster general in her family and yes, this former postmaster general would love to receive a postcard of, um, this fully automated Post Office:

**********
I found a lovely card for my dear best friend, visiting in a few weeks. I think it's only fair that she knows about the potential threat of grimacing bare chested mermaids here in Southern England before she visits.

**********
And my personal favorite. Because you know, despite whatever "postcard norms" are out there--and trust me, they exist, what else is going to break the mold and really make a statement than a postcard of a fire. A fire at an old mill. Now that's a postcard that's going to make you think.
Damn, it was a good night.

desperate times call for cheesecake.

Before I left Chicago, I paid a last visit to my college career counselor, whose upfront frankness I have a love/hate relationship with.

Sitting before her with my .0001 margin resume, I sweated out my woes of leaving behind the world of steady direct deposit. I fumbled over my carefully paper clipped stack of papers, marked with a bright yellow post it: "Jobs: Applied". I think the word "applied" was underlined, making it clear: See? I've applied for jobs. I'm a go getter. I print out the job descriptions and keep them in a file. I'm very on top of this.

Now that I look back on it, the post it probably tipped her off to my insanity.

After she ridiculed me for trying to take advantage of every square inch of my resume, she gave me this advice:

People do not fall in love with desperate people.
People do not hire desperate people.

Ok then. Thank you.

I've been trying it out as ammunition for raising my spirits---do not feel desperate! feel powerful! feel skillful! feel desirable! And I've had a couple of great fake moments where I smile and walk taller and think about words like "possibilities" and "adventure" and "unknown" without breaking into tears.

But today, in a moment of this so called desperation, I really thought about this advice.

Is it crazy to think that both systems--finding a job and falling in love--are actually set up to create desperation?

"Well, I got laid off, you know, which is difficult in this time of such lousy economy, but I've got to be honest---I really enjoy having this time to pursue want ads and I've especially enjoyed explaining my situation over and over to people. It's refreshing, you know."

Looking for work and love aren't too far off from one another. Interviews and first dates live parallel lives: we shamelessly self promote ourselves while not wanting the other party to know about the time you called in sick three days in a row because you became passionately addicted to Queer as Folk and Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey.

It's ideal to think that in the equation you're always the "people," choosing not to fall in love with desperate people or hire them, for pete's sake.

But the coin flips, and you find yourself looking for that perfect one. The one with a dental plan and a great sense of humor.

A couple of weeks ago me and my girl ate dinner at an outdoor cafe. Behind us sat a middle aged woman and a middle aged man. He sat with a yellow legal pad and sipped tea while she rambled and he scribbled something sporadically. At the end of their conversation, they stood and she awkwardly shook his hand. "Either way, whatever you decide, please, if you can just let me know, well, that'd be great, either way." Her voice shook as bad as her hands.

I hated the yellow legal pad with the notes about the woman that was not going to be hired for this job that she desperately wanted.

I had to resist hollering down the street after her, "You don't need him!"

But it's really what we all need to hear.