so, i've been quite the cook over the holiday. and, you know what? most of it has been fantastic. i say "most" because the swiss chard was not so fantastic. i think (as does my mother) that the chard's lack of fantabulousness was owing to the quality of the chard itself. true story. i made it tasty, but i was working with less than stellar stuff.
that means that i've made a lot of really good stuff. what kind of good stuff, you might ask? okay, here's a list:
1. fudge
2. brownies
3. cookies
4. blackberry bread pudding
5. pasta carbonara
6. gorgonzola mashed potatoes
so, yes, i can cook. i can cook without killing people or making them think, "well, this is gross." and, here's hoping this good cooking streak will continue!
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Monday, December 04, 2006
Denied!
Dear Reader(s),
To update you all on the progress of my struggle with SAD, I must add that there has been some disbelief that I truly do suffer from this horrible affliction. Said disbelief comes from the most unexpected camp.
M--formerly my resident psychologist extraordinaire--has expressed the opinion that I do not suffer from SAD at all and that my problem might be self- rather than weather-inflicted. I see this as a blame-the-victim mentality that is completely inexcusable, and this is why I'm no longer attaching "extrordinaire" to his descriptor.
In short, SAD is a real problem that should not be taken lightly or attempted to be disproved with the use of an article found in a shoddy college newspaper. No. This is not acceptable. SAD sufferers must be treated with kindness and caring because their struggle with the weather is very painful and very real.
Thank you,
Sara [President, People for the Fair Treatment of SAD Sufferers]
To update you all on the progress of my struggle with SAD, I must add that there has been some disbelief that I truly do suffer from this horrible affliction. Said disbelief comes from the most unexpected camp.
M--formerly my resident psychologist extraordinaire--has expressed the opinion that I do not suffer from SAD at all and that my problem might be self- rather than weather-inflicted. I see this as a blame-the-victim mentality that is completely inexcusable, and this is why I'm no longer attaching "extrordinaire" to his descriptor.
In short, SAD is a real problem that should not be taken lightly or attempted to be disproved with the use of an article found in a shoddy college newspaper. No. This is not acceptable. SAD sufferers must be treated with kindness and caring because their struggle with the weather is very painful and very real.
Thank you,
Sara [President, People for the Fair Treatment of SAD Sufferers]
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Oh the weather outside...
Well, it's that time of year again. Yes, folks, it's time for the yearly update on my battle with Seasonal Affective Disorder. That's right! SAD.
It should be noted that this is a self-diagnosis made by, well, me. I consider myself a qualified psychologist, having spent years reading advice columns in magazines and newspapers, studying literary criticism, and watching a fair amount of Dr. Phil and Oprah. And, as such, I feel able to diagnose myself as suffering from SAD.
My battle with SAD started last year during my first winter in the Midwest. It was a time that found me questioning the reason for total darkness at 4:30pm, cursing like a sailor at the cruel Illinois wind, and spending an inordinate number of hours conducting on-line research in an effort to cure my illness.
On-line research proved only moderately helpful because SAD is an actual problem, requiring the ability to gain access to equipment that only real-live doctors or tanning bed operators can get, as the first cure I found was light therapy. Not having any source of light therapy myself and not wanting to risk skin cancer (or becoming the owner of a lot of creepy coconut-smelling tan booster) by heading to the tanning salon, I decided my best bet would be the grocery store. It's light; it's bright; it's full of cheesy music from the 80s that really speaks to my SAD-afflicted soul. So, I tried that out. It seemed to work pretty well, though I ended up spending a lot of time at the local grocery in the middle of the night.
I also ended up heading to the local Wal-Mart looking for light. This just ended with me contemplating the use of synthetic fabrics in the lingerie department but also thinking that sparkles could be a sexy addition to any girl's trousseau, a pretty good indicator that I was heading in a downward spiral the end of which was nowhere in sight.
In truth, I sort of lied about this being the first cure I spotted. There was one before that, but I almost needed a therapist to get over the trauma induced upon reading about it. The cure was found on some family-friendly site. They suggested playing board games. Those who know me well understand the trauma. Those who don't should keep my wine glass perpetually filled at a party and then, after a few hours, ask how it was to be an only child. Specifically, reference Pictionary.
So, anyways, I know this all may sound silly, but I really do hate this time of year in the Midwest, and I find it almost impossible to be cheery when it's so grey outside. Usually, I just want to shuffle around my apartment in my jammies, wishing I was somewhere warm with blue skies.
On the up-side, I just have a few more years of this. And, like my mom said, "Just imagine how bad it would be if you lived somewhere really cold. Like Alaska."
It should be noted that this is a self-diagnosis made by, well, me. I consider myself a qualified psychologist, having spent years reading advice columns in magazines and newspapers, studying literary criticism, and watching a fair amount of Dr. Phil and Oprah. And, as such, I feel able to diagnose myself as suffering from SAD.
My battle with SAD started last year during my first winter in the Midwest. It was a time that found me questioning the reason for total darkness at 4:30pm, cursing like a sailor at the cruel Illinois wind, and spending an inordinate number of hours conducting on-line research in an effort to cure my illness.
On-line research proved only moderately helpful because SAD is an actual problem, requiring the ability to gain access to equipment that only real-live doctors or tanning bed operators can get, as the first cure I found was light therapy. Not having any source of light therapy myself and not wanting to risk skin cancer (or becoming the owner of a lot of creepy coconut-smelling tan booster) by heading to the tanning salon, I decided my best bet would be the grocery store. It's light; it's bright; it's full of cheesy music from the 80s that really speaks to my SAD-afflicted soul. So, I tried that out. It seemed to work pretty well, though I ended up spending a lot of time at the local grocery in the middle of the night.
I also ended up heading to the local Wal-Mart looking for light. This just ended with me contemplating the use of synthetic fabrics in the lingerie department but also thinking that sparkles could be a sexy addition to any girl's trousseau, a pretty good indicator that I was heading in a downward spiral the end of which was nowhere in sight.
In truth, I sort of lied about this being the first cure I spotted. There was one before that, but I almost needed a therapist to get over the trauma induced upon reading about it. The cure was found on some family-friendly site. They suggested playing board games. Those who know me well understand the trauma. Those who don't should keep my wine glass perpetually filled at a party and then, after a few hours, ask how it was to be an only child. Specifically, reference Pictionary.
So, anyways, I know this all may sound silly, but I really do hate this time of year in the Midwest, and I find it almost impossible to be cheery when it's so grey outside. Usually, I just want to shuffle around my apartment in my jammies, wishing I was somewhere warm with blue skies.
On the up-side, I just have a few more years of this. And, like my mom said, "Just imagine how bad it would be if you lived somewhere really cold. Like Alaska."
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Sleeping
Sometimes I think sleep is the greatest thing ever.
I mean, as long as I'm not listening to my nightmare-inducing mix.
Then I'd rather just be shopping for shoes. :)
I mean, as long as I'm not listening to my nightmare-inducing mix.
Then I'd rather just be shopping for shoes. :)
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Not a Mix-Master
So, a few months ago, I decided to make a little mix of songs that would be good to listen to when I went to sleep. I occasionally have great trouble falling asleep, so I thought it would be worth a shot. And, perhaps this could be a natural way to fall asleep that would even trump those oh-so-nice pills I picked up in Paris awhile ago. [Editor's note: Said pills are totally legal and available over the counter, so I'm not getting too crazy even with those!]
French Pharms aside, the mix seemed a fabulous idea, so I set about putting together some songs that I thought would be nice and mellow. In truth, I'm pretty bad at remembering song titles, so much of the mix is comprised of songs that I somehow remembered to be slow and mellow.
Perhaps my terrible memory was at fault. I'll blame it on that. Because, on playing the mix, I had nightmares. EVERY NIGHT!
That's right. Terrible, horrible nightmares that I don't even really want to talk about, truth be told.
So, I'm not good at making mixes. I will never make you a mix, no matter how much I like you...maybe if I really dislike you though...
French Pharms aside, the mix seemed a fabulous idea, so I set about putting together some songs that I thought would be nice and mellow. In truth, I'm pretty bad at remembering song titles, so much of the mix is comprised of songs that I somehow remembered to be slow and mellow.
Perhaps my terrible memory was at fault. I'll blame it on that. Because, on playing the mix, I had nightmares. EVERY NIGHT!
That's right. Terrible, horrible nightmares that I don't even really want to talk about, truth be told.
So, I'm not good at making mixes. I will never make you a mix, no matter how much I like you...maybe if I really dislike you though...
Monday, November 20, 2006
Oh, Thanksgiving!
Okay, this is where I admit that I love Thanksgiving. I know, I know. It's not at all right to like T-day anymore. But, I do.
And, here is why. I just like the very idea of being thankful. Of taking one day and being glad about the good things in life and being kind to your family and all of that stuff.
I guess my love of Thanksgiving is that I don't really associate it with anything. I don't feel overly patriotic or thankful for my country or any of that. It's not that I'm opposed to that; I just don't do it. I just feel glad to have my family around and to be able to see them and to, hopefully, manage to cook something that turns out. (fingers crossed, people! this year, it's a cheeseball--very retro and not at all something that goes in the oven. i imagine good things will come of this!)
So, I like Thanksgiving. I like the mad crush at the grocery store, and I like to see shopping carts full of earth-tone and orange foods that we normally never eat. And I like that everyone looks a little crazy at this time of year.
In the words of the icon of domesticity, it's a good thing!
And, here is why. I just like the very idea of being thankful. Of taking one day and being glad about the good things in life and being kind to your family and all of that stuff.
I guess my love of Thanksgiving is that I don't really associate it with anything. I don't feel overly patriotic or thankful for my country or any of that. It's not that I'm opposed to that; I just don't do it. I just feel glad to have my family around and to be able to see them and to, hopefully, manage to cook something that turns out. (fingers crossed, people! this year, it's a cheeseball--very retro and not at all something that goes in the oven. i imagine good things will come of this!)
So, I like Thanksgiving. I like the mad crush at the grocery store, and I like to see shopping carts full of earth-tone and orange foods that we normally never eat. And I like that everyone looks a little crazy at this time of year.
In the words of the icon of domesticity, it's a good thing!
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Domesticity: The Brownie Debacle
So, the other night, spurred on by some odd domestic zeal, I decided to make brownies. I found a recipe in this month's Jane magazine and went for it. A short trip to the grocery store and I was making what looked like some really tasty brownies.
Only, they were not really tasty brownies. They were dry and tough and not at all sweet enough. In short, not tasty.
And the crazy thing is, I'm really good at making brownies. I'll admit that I'm not much of a cook in general. I do well to heat up soup. But baking is a different story. I can bake. Only, now it looks like I can't.
Oh well, I'm going to give this baking thing another shot, if only to save face!
Only, they were not really tasty brownies. They were dry and tough and not at all sweet enough. In short, not tasty.
And the crazy thing is, I'm really good at making brownies. I'll admit that I'm not much of a cook in general. I do well to heat up soup. But baking is a different story. I can bake. Only, now it looks like I can't.
Oh well, I'm going to give this baking thing another shot, if only to save face!
Myspace as Personal Ad
Two things I find hilarious: (1) Myspace and (2) Personal Ads.
I find these funny for the same reason--people are terrible at describing themselves. Just think how difficult it can be to write something like a resume. Now imagine doing that in a much more casual atmosphere, but one in which you're expected to convey humor or make someone think you're the love of his/her life.
Anyways, what i find even more humorous is the use of Myspace as personal ad. It happens, really. And it's rarely good. But it's often funny.
I guess I find this funny because it makes me uncomfortable, as it's something I would never do. Maybe because I spend most of my time at home writing and stressing over coursework and, apparently, surfing Myspace for humorous profiles.
So, look for this odd use of Myspace. You may find it funny as well.
I find these funny for the same reason--people are terrible at describing themselves. Just think how difficult it can be to write something like a resume. Now imagine doing that in a much more casual atmosphere, but one in which you're expected to convey humor or make someone think you're the love of his/her life.
Anyways, what i find even more humorous is the use of Myspace as personal ad. It happens, really. And it's rarely good. But it's often funny.
I guess I find this funny because it makes me uncomfortable, as it's something I would never do. Maybe because I spend most of my time at home writing and stressing over coursework and, apparently, surfing Myspace for humorous profiles.
So, look for this odd use of Myspace. You may find it funny as well.
Friday, October 27, 2006
smells and such
dear friends,
as you may know, i am very affected by smell. the wrong smell can make me nearly double over with discomfort. this is usually produced when i smell a woman wearing too much cloyingly sweet perfume, the worst smell in all the world, i think .
so, anyways, being someone who is so affected by smell, it is really painful to me that my car has taken on an odor. i think the smell is dead mouse. i'm not sure how i came to this or why it strikes me as a logical conclusion. in fact, that it strikes me as a logical conclusion causes me no small self-doubt. i mean, who assumes dead mouse?
i have not yet fully investigated the smell, but i plan a full-on exploration of the car. i will keep you apprised.
until then, your smelly friend,
sara
as you may know, i am very affected by smell. the wrong smell can make me nearly double over with discomfort. this is usually produced when i smell a woman wearing too much cloyingly sweet perfume, the worst smell in all the world, i think .
so, anyways, being someone who is so affected by smell, it is really painful to me that my car has taken on an odor. i think the smell is dead mouse. i'm not sure how i came to this or why it strikes me as a logical conclusion. in fact, that it strikes me as a logical conclusion causes me no small self-doubt. i mean, who assumes dead mouse?
i have not yet fully investigated the smell, but i plan a full-on exploration of the car. i will keep you apprised.
until then, your smelly friend,
sara
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
beware the stalker...
i'm a stalker.
yeah. a stalker.
okay, i got on friendster. i looked up people, including the girl my high school boyfriend started dating right after we broke up (yeah, i'm a total weirdo, but why not?). they actually broke up years ago, so we’ll refer to her as ex-GF of ex-BF from here on out.
so, i read her profile and realized that i would have been friends with her. now i plan to date men, break up with them, and then befriend the women they start dating. why not? chances are we'll have things in common, and chances are their relationship won't work either.
it's a plan.
here's the stalker part. i got an email showing me who'd been checking out my friendster profile. i thought, “weird. ex-GF of ex-BF checked me out.” so, my next thought was: "that's so weird that she checked out my profile because...i…just...oh my word...she knows."
so then i ducked away from the computer as if she could see me looking at her. the creepiest part is that i really did just want to check out friendster, so there is no info about or picture of me, no identifying markers, just a blank screen that gives my name and location. so i really am a friendster stalker of sorts.
okay, so now you know that i'm a stalker. but aren't we all in this high-tech age? i say that we are.
damn.
a stalker.
yeah. a stalker.
okay, i got on friendster. i looked up people, including the girl my high school boyfriend started dating right after we broke up (yeah, i'm a total weirdo, but why not?). they actually broke up years ago, so we’ll refer to her as ex-GF of ex-BF from here on out.
so, i read her profile and realized that i would have been friends with her. now i plan to date men, break up with them, and then befriend the women they start dating. why not? chances are we'll have things in common, and chances are their relationship won't work either.
it's a plan.
here's the stalker part. i got an email showing me who'd been checking out my friendster profile. i thought, “weird. ex-GF of ex-BF checked me out.” so, my next thought was: "that's so weird that she checked out my profile because...i…just...oh my word...she knows."
so then i ducked away from the computer as if she could see me looking at her. the creepiest part is that i really did just want to check out friendster, so there is no info about or picture of me, no identifying markers, just a blank screen that gives my name and location. so i really am a friendster stalker of sorts.
okay, so now you know that i'm a stalker. but aren't we all in this high-tech age? i say that we are.
damn.
a stalker.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
compulsive dieting=boyfriend
if you haven't gotten it yet, everyday food is a fun, tiny magazine that has yummy recipes. my mom sends it to me, but i don't really make any of it. they're the kind of recipes i like--yummy yet light with not too many ingredients or directions. so, they're perfect to look at and think about making, even though i know i never will.
the only thing that offends me is that they don't give nutritional info for all the recipes--just the single-serving recipes. like they're saying, "hey, single girl, you must be a real fatty!"
yes, that's why i'm single. i'm not single for the fact that i, like most third graders, still believe in taunting and physical violence as acceptable forms of flirting or that i strongly favor challenging and then beating men at competitions (or that, if said competition ends in a tie, i insist on telling them how i will kick their asses next time). no, those qualities aren't what's keeping me single, it's the fact that i haven't given everyday food's light-yet-tasty flounder a try!
that said, i think it's a fantastic little magazine, and you should definitely pick up a copy!
the only thing that offends me is that they don't give nutritional info for all the recipes--just the single-serving recipes. like they're saying, "hey, single girl, you must be a real fatty!"
yes, that's why i'm single. i'm not single for the fact that i, like most third graders, still believe in taunting and physical violence as acceptable forms of flirting or that i strongly favor challenging and then beating men at competitions (or that, if said competition ends in a tie, i insist on telling them how i will kick their asses next time). no, those qualities aren't what's keeping me single, it's the fact that i haven't given everyday food's light-yet-tasty flounder a try!
that said, i think it's a fantastic little magazine, and you should definitely pick up a copy!
Monday, October 23, 2006
shower disaster!
okay, i've been doing some reading and some goofing around on the internet tonight...so i decided to wash my face to prepare for bed. i really like how clean my face gets when i shower, so that's the plan. in shower, faced washed, decide to use those scrubby gloves i got from miss cutie-B (not use them on my face, mind you, that would hurt).
anyways, you know that three-tier shelf system at the end of my bathtub? well, the gloves are hooked onto one of the metal prongs. i try to un-hinge them gently. barely a tug. not working. the tiniest, i swear, movement to unwriggle them.
and then it happens. a crash greater then the pre-depression stock market crash. the ENTIRE three-tier shelf system crashes into my bathtub with me showering in it. product goes everywhere. mario badescu is completely askew.
now for the element of human tragedy. those shelves are not light. i got pegged by one right on my lower shin. within a few seconds (seriously, not even a minute) it had swelled up and turned a weird color.
i had said to hell with it and left the mess for the morning, but i couldn't stand the thought of the one line of metal prongs that are still in the wall just smirking at me in the morning, so i took a screwdriver out and got rid of them.
anyways, you know that three-tier shelf system at the end of my bathtub? well, the gloves are hooked onto one of the metal prongs. i try to un-hinge them gently. barely a tug. not working. the tiniest, i swear, movement to unwriggle them.
and then it happens. a crash greater then the pre-depression stock market crash. the ENTIRE three-tier shelf system crashes into my bathtub with me showering in it. product goes everywhere. mario badescu is completely askew.
now for the element of human tragedy. those shelves are not light. i got pegged by one right on my lower shin. within a few seconds (seriously, not even a minute) it had swelled up and turned a weird color.
i had said to hell with it and left the mess for the morning, but i couldn't stand the thought of the one line of metal prongs that are still in the wall just smirking at me in the morning, so i took a screwdriver out and got rid of them.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
It's Fall...Let's COOK!
Having never lived in a place that had seasons, I still get a little giddy with all this Midwestern change of seasons type stuff. You know--leaves on the ground in fall, cherry blossoms blooming in spring--that kind of stuff.
So, earlier today, I decided to embrace the fall-ness that surrounds me by cooking a squash. You heard me. Cooking a squash. That's fall-like, right?
The other day I purchased an acorn squash, and I've been pretty eager to put that puppy in the oven (wow, that sounded terrible). Anyways, today's delivery of this month's Real Simple got me all the more eager to cook up the squash, brown sugar and clove style.
Please don't let the subscription to Real Simple fool you. I am not at all domestic. By that, I mean that I can bake, but I'm pretty much a trainwreck at any other household chores. I basically had to suspend any disbelief I had in my domestic capabilities to even attempt hacking into the little acorn squash.
With the squash split open and scooped out, I commenced seasoning, tenting with tin-foil, and placing in oven to bake at 400 for 45-60 minutes. (All while carrying on a conversation about the CCCCs selection process and bathroom graffiti. You envy my life now. Just admit it.)
A few peeks and pokes with the fork later and I was ready to scoop out some squash guts and started mashing, all while adding a little pinch of this and a little dash of that. Now for a little taste...and...BLEK!
I'm not sure if was the this or the that. Whichever it was, my beautiful little acorn squash was a disgusting bowl of squish when I got through with it. Horrible.
That said, I'm not deterred from giving squash another go. Afterall, it's fall, and I've just gotta cook!
So, earlier today, I decided to embrace the fall-ness that surrounds me by cooking a squash. You heard me. Cooking a squash. That's fall-like, right?
The other day I purchased an acorn squash, and I've been pretty eager to put that puppy in the oven (wow, that sounded terrible). Anyways, today's delivery of this month's Real Simple got me all the more eager to cook up the squash, brown sugar and clove style.
Please don't let the subscription to Real Simple fool you. I am not at all domestic. By that, I mean that I can bake, but I'm pretty much a trainwreck at any other household chores. I basically had to suspend any disbelief I had in my domestic capabilities to even attempt hacking into the little acorn squash.
With the squash split open and scooped out, I commenced seasoning, tenting with tin-foil, and placing in oven to bake at 400 for 45-60 minutes. (All while carrying on a conversation about the CCCCs selection process and bathroom graffiti. You envy my life now. Just admit it.)
A few peeks and pokes with the fork later and I was ready to scoop out some squash guts and started mashing, all while adding a little pinch of this and a little dash of that. Now for a little taste...and...BLEK!
I'm not sure if was the this or the that. Whichever it was, my beautiful little acorn squash was a disgusting bowl of squish when I got through with it. Horrible.
That said, I'm not deterred from giving squash another go. Afterall, it's fall, and I've just gotta cook!
Monday, October 16, 2006
Little Dagger-Type Thing (A Front Porch Update)
Today, as I took my trusty terrier outside for her morning romp, I made note of the coffee table on the front porch.
Yesterday, the pumpkin had been sitting near the little dagger-type thing. Today, the little dagger-type thing was propped up against the pumpkin, point up.
Does the little dagger-type thing want to carve the pumpkin? Is that what's going on?
I'm not sure, but I'm keeping an eye out. If that pumpkin becomes a jack-o-lantern, I will be very perplexed. Surprised but perplexed.
Yesterday, the pumpkin had been sitting near the little dagger-type thing. Today, the little dagger-type thing was propped up against the pumpkin, point up.
Does the little dagger-type thing want to carve the pumpkin? Is that what's going on?
I'm not sure, but I'm keeping an eye out. If that pumpkin becomes a jack-o-lantern, I will be very perplexed. Surprised but perplexed.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
The Front Porch (No Song Involved)
There's something odd about my front porch. This is not a new thing, as the front porch has been an oddity for sometime. Remember, dear friends, that the front porch is where I may or may not have been asked out by my downstairs neighbor in what was one of the oddest exchanges of all time.
Him (looking at grill on front porch): Maybe we could grill sometime?
Me (also looking at grill): Is that your grill?
Him (a bit crestfallen): Um, no.
Me: Oh.
And that, folks, is how one English major may or may not have been asked out by another English major. Awkward. Truly awkward. (And, for those keeping count, that's officially 752 odd exchanges I've had with members of the opposite sex. And, perhaps, 376 times I've thought to expand my horizons far beyong Liberal Arts.)
But, anyways, the oddities of late concern the coffee table that's on the front porch. Yes, we have a coffee table on the front porch, which puts us in the ballpark of white trash (though not so much as a deep freeze would).
So, this coffee table has been here the whole time I've been here. Until lately, it hadn't seen much use. Then, a couple of months ago, someone must have entertained on the front porch because I saw some candles on the coffee table. Three yellow candles sitting on magazine subscription cards, to be exact. Nice.
The next to appear on the table was a stick that had been fashioned into a little dagger-type thing. Very odd.
Just now, I went outside, and there's a big pumpkin sitting on the table. It's fall, so I understand the whole jack-o-lantern thing. But it's not a jack-o-lantern. It's a giantish, schlumpy pumpkin that doesn't even stand up straight. And it's sitting right next to the little dagger-type thing, near the three yellow candles sitting on magazine subscription cards.
I just wonder when this will end. Or, better yet, if it ever will. I mean, the coffee table is not very big and seemingly not very stable, so I'm not sure how much it can sustain. I will track this and make note for future entries...
Anyways, that is my front porch. It's weird, but, for now, it is home. Though I surely don't feel like singing about it!
Him (looking at grill on front porch): Maybe we could grill sometime?
Me (also looking at grill): Is that your grill?
Him (a bit crestfallen): Um, no.
Me: Oh.
And that, folks, is how one English major may or may not have been asked out by another English major. Awkward. Truly awkward. (And, for those keeping count, that's officially 752 odd exchanges I've had with members of the opposite sex. And, perhaps, 376 times I've thought to expand my horizons far beyong Liberal Arts.)
But, anyways, the oddities of late concern the coffee table that's on the front porch. Yes, we have a coffee table on the front porch, which puts us in the ballpark of white trash (though not so much as a deep freeze would).
So, this coffee table has been here the whole time I've been here. Until lately, it hadn't seen much use. Then, a couple of months ago, someone must have entertained on the front porch because I saw some candles on the coffee table. Three yellow candles sitting on magazine subscription cards, to be exact. Nice.
The next to appear on the table was a stick that had been fashioned into a little dagger-type thing. Very odd.
Just now, I went outside, and there's a big pumpkin sitting on the table. It's fall, so I understand the whole jack-o-lantern thing. But it's not a jack-o-lantern. It's a giantish, schlumpy pumpkin that doesn't even stand up straight. And it's sitting right next to the little dagger-type thing, near the three yellow candles sitting on magazine subscription cards.
I just wonder when this will end. Or, better yet, if it ever will. I mean, the coffee table is not very big and seemingly not very stable, so I'm not sure how much it can sustain. I will track this and make note for future entries...
Anyways, that is my front porch. It's weird, but, for now, it is home. Though I surely don't feel like singing about it!
Thursday, October 12, 2006
In which I ask, "Should I be allowed to speak?"
Current Condition: Disgustingly overcome with nasty allergies
Current Responsibility: Going to school, trying not to break into spasms of coughing, wheezing, tearing up like my date on prom night after I informed him that I was, indeed, a nice girl
Current Desire: A nice, hot bath followed by some good, deep sleep
Okay, so the desires and the responsibilities are pretty incompatible right now. In addition, I'm beginning to wish that I would just lose the power of speech at moments when I'm about to say something weird or socially awkward.
Example:
Yesterday in class, having left briefly for an attack of coughing, wheezing, (etc, etc), I came back knowing that I shouldn't talk. As in, if I did, I would just begin the coughing/wheezing/crying cycle all over again.
Apparently, my look said otherwise. Apparently, my look said, "I have much to say on this subject. " Which, in truth, I did. But, well, you know what because I just told you. I knew I shouldn't.
So, of course, I got called on. Of course.
"I don't really have anything specific to say. Nothing specific. At this time."
Yeah, that's my reply. I've become John Cusack in Say Anything when he's asked his plans for the future. I mean, really, that's pretty much my response when I'm asked my plans for the future, too, but that's another subject.
Professor seemed surprised, saying that I looked like I really had something to say.
"I'm really just hoping I don't start coughing again. I just thought, 'Shit. I can't talk for another hour.'"
Honestly. That's what I said.
So, I ask you, should I be allowed to speak? Should I just spend classtime hiding under my desk?
I'll leave it to you, dear reader, to decide.
Current Responsibility: Going to school, trying not to break into spasms of coughing, wheezing, tearing up like my date on prom night after I informed him that I was, indeed, a nice girl
Current Desire: A nice, hot bath followed by some good, deep sleep
Okay, so the desires and the responsibilities are pretty incompatible right now. In addition, I'm beginning to wish that I would just lose the power of speech at moments when I'm about to say something weird or socially awkward.
Example:
Yesterday in class, having left briefly for an attack of coughing, wheezing, (etc, etc), I came back knowing that I shouldn't talk. As in, if I did, I would just begin the coughing/wheezing/crying cycle all over again.
Apparently, my look said otherwise. Apparently, my look said, "I have much to say on this subject. " Which, in truth, I did. But, well, you know what because I just told you. I knew I shouldn't.
So, of course, I got called on. Of course.
"I don't really have anything specific to say. Nothing specific. At this time."
Yeah, that's my reply. I've become John Cusack in Say Anything when he's asked his plans for the future. I mean, really, that's pretty much my response when I'm asked my plans for the future, too, but that's another subject.
Professor seemed surprised, saying that I looked like I really had something to say.
"I'm really just hoping I don't start coughing again. I just thought, 'Shit. I can't talk for another hour.'"
Honestly. That's what I said.
So, I ask you, should I be allowed to speak? Should I just spend classtime hiding under my desk?
I'll leave it to you, dear reader, to decide.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Panic! At the Movies
I hate hipsters.
I know that sounds both weird and hateful. How could it sound other than hateful, what with the word "hate" right there and all? Allow me to clarify. Maybe some background could be helpful?
Okay. So I went to see The Last Kiss. I had a terrible reaction to it. No, there were no hives involved, no swollen glands, no odd or mysterious rashes of any kind. And, for that, I'm pretty thankful.
What was there was a near panic attack/depression as I flashed forward to the next few years of my life and saw an endless string of commitment-phobic, mousy, uninteresting men who all had better hair than me. I admit that I'm not perfect. But, just grant me a few minutes of panic attack, okay?
So, that was my fear. My shuddering, heart-palpitating fear (with added bonus of sweaty palms, gross). And, let's be honest, I'm not going to be attracting men of any ilk when I'm all sweaty and looking like I'm about to burst into tears and/or go hide under a table for the next few years, so what am I really worried about? I mean, even Mister "and-don't-you-love-my-Urban-Outfitters-ensemble?" isn't coming near the freaky-panic-attack-chick. No way!
But, eventually, I moved out of being freaky-panic-attack-chick and into being just normal me. Except that now I have an almost Pavlovian response when I see a very hipster-esque male, which results in my screaming, "I hate you hate you hate you!" anytime I spot one. Um, I did mention that I do that in my head, right? Right. I mean, I'm not really crazy. It's just in my head...Oh that didn't help clear up matters AT ALL. Perhaps the fact that I majored in English helps? We're a little weird (and a lot passive aggressive).
So, anyways, I'm trying to work through this, trying to think back on the good old days of men in movies. You know, when they were really good guys? When they were handsome and dashing, dashing and handsome. Hell, when they were Billy Crystal and just funny and charming. Whatever happened to funny and charming? I liked funny and charming. I could date funny and charming.
But personality-less hipster? No thanks. I hate you hate you hate you!
[Editor's Note: I really bear no ill feelings toward hipsters. In fact, some of my best friends are hipsters (scenesters, even). I think I just had a terrible reaction to Mr. Braff's character who had to have been the least likeable characters I've encountered in quite some time. Trust me, I still love the Urban Outfitters...and my uber-hip checkered Vans I bought there. :)]
I know that sounds both weird and hateful. How could it sound other than hateful, what with the word "hate" right there and all? Allow me to clarify. Maybe some background could be helpful?
Okay. So I went to see The Last Kiss. I had a terrible reaction to it. No, there were no hives involved, no swollen glands, no odd or mysterious rashes of any kind. And, for that, I'm pretty thankful.
What was there was a near panic attack/depression as I flashed forward to the next few years of my life and saw an endless string of commitment-phobic, mousy, uninteresting men who all had better hair than me. I admit that I'm not perfect. But, just grant me a few minutes of panic attack, okay?
So, that was my fear. My shuddering, heart-palpitating fear (with added bonus of sweaty palms, gross). And, let's be honest, I'm not going to be attracting men of any ilk when I'm all sweaty and looking like I'm about to burst into tears and/or go hide under a table for the next few years, so what am I really worried about? I mean, even Mister "and-don't-you-love-my-Urban-Outfitters-ensemble?" isn't coming near the freaky-panic-attack-chick. No way!
But, eventually, I moved out of being freaky-panic-attack-chick and into being just normal me. Except that now I have an almost Pavlovian response when I see a very hipster-esque male, which results in my screaming, "I hate you hate you hate you!" anytime I spot one. Um, I did mention that I do that in my head, right? Right. I mean, I'm not really crazy. It's just in my head...Oh that didn't help clear up matters AT ALL. Perhaps the fact that I majored in English helps? We're a little weird (and a lot passive aggressive).
So, anyways, I'm trying to work through this, trying to think back on the good old days of men in movies. You know, when they were really good guys? When they were handsome and dashing, dashing and handsome. Hell, when they were Billy Crystal and just funny and charming. Whatever happened to funny and charming? I liked funny and charming. I could date funny and charming.
But personality-less hipster? No thanks. I hate you hate you hate you!
[Editor's Note: I really bear no ill feelings toward hipsters. In fact, some of my best friends are hipsters (scenesters, even). I think I just had a terrible reaction to Mr. Braff's character who had to have been the least likeable characters I've encountered in quite some time. Trust me, I still love the Urban Outfitters...and my uber-hip checkered Vans I bought there. :)]
Thursday, September 28, 2006
My Endless Love!
As of late, I have fallen in love. A deep, abiding love that will last a lifetime.
Yes, folks, I have become addicted to Last.fm. If you don’t yet know about Last.fm, it is…heavens, I don’t want to oversell here, but…it is the greatest invention of all time. No joke.
I really hope I didn’t falsely raise your hopes. How could I have? Because, until they create chocolate-flavored air, fat-free foods that taste just like the real thing, or a button that can be pushed to bring peace, happiness, and an abundance of glitter to the world, Last.fm will remain my pick for number one invention.
By now you might be wondering, “What is this Last.fm of which she speaks?”
Fair enough, as asserted by the geniuses at Last.fm, it is, “the social music revolution.” To be honest, I am pretty much technologically un-savvy, so I know that there are many layers of Last.fm of which I am ignorant.
However, I do know that Last.fm allows me to input the names of singers/bands that I like, and it will create my own little radio station for me, all on my little Gateway laptop. And, in addition to playing those music selections of mine, it will play music from related artists. If I don’t like a song, I can skip it. No problem.
Unfortunately, it was this need to skip a song that forced me to see that there may be a chink in the armor of my new love, the moment every woman dreads.
It just happened yesterday, as I was listening to my Last.fm. Now, I’ve been in a weird country mood since the other day. Not sure why, but I sure want to hear me some good old country music. So, I input the following list into Last.fm:
“george jones, lucinda williams, george strait, brooks and dunn, lyle lovett, robert earl keen, david allan coe, darryl lee rush, dolly parton, tammy wynette, crystal gayle, Alabama”
Hey, I said it’s a weird mood! And Last.fm was there for me, playing some favorites from Jones, maybe even a little Pride. But, all of a sudden, I heard a strange voice. A woman’s voice. But not my beloved Crystal Gayle or my dear Tammy Wynette. It wasn’t an unfamiliar voice, but it was out of place. I looked at the computer screen.
CHER!
Cher?
Cher.
Sure enough, the greatest invention of all time was playing Cher in the middle of my country mix. I’m not sure how it happened, and I don’t feel completely let down. But I do feel confused and a little hurt.
Nevertheless, I still believe in the ultimate goodness of Last.fm. And, with a lot of TLC and a little counseling, I think we can get through this.
Now, back to listening!
Yes, folks, I have become addicted to Last.fm. If you don’t yet know about Last.fm, it is…heavens, I don’t want to oversell here, but…it is the greatest invention of all time. No joke.
I really hope I didn’t falsely raise your hopes. How could I have? Because, until they create chocolate-flavored air, fat-free foods that taste just like the real thing, or a button that can be pushed to bring peace, happiness, and an abundance of glitter to the world, Last.fm will remain my pick for number one invention.
By now you might be wondering, “What is this Last.fm of which she speaks?”
Fair enough, as asserted by the geniuses at Last.fm, it is, “the social music revolution.” To be honest, I am pretty much technologically un-savvy, so I know that there are many layers of Last.fm of which I am ignorant.
However, I do know that Last.fm allows me to input the names of singers/bands that I like, and it will create my own little radio station for me, all on my little Gateway laptop. And, in addition to playing those music selections of mine, it will play music from related artists. If I don’t like a song, I can skip it. No problem.
Unfortunately, it was this need to skip a song that forced me to see that there may be a chink in the armor of my new love, the moment every woman dreads.
It just happened yesterday, as I was listening to my Last.fm. Now, I’ve been in a weird country mood since the other day. Not sure why, but I sure want to hear me some good old country music. So, I input the following list into Last.fm:
“george jones, lucinda williams, george strait, brooks and dunn, lyle lovett, robert earl keen, david allan coe, darryl lee rush, dolly parton, tammy wynette, crystal gayle, Alabama”
Hey, I said it’s a weird mood! And Last.fm was there for me, playing some favorites from Jones, maybe even a little Pride. But, all of a sudden, I heard a strange voice. A woman’s voice. But not my beloved Crystal Gayle or my dear Tammy Wynette. It wasn’t an unfamiliar voice, but it was out of place. I looked at the computer screen.
CHER!
Cher?
Cher.
Sure enough, the greatest invention of all time was playing Cher in the middle of my country mix. I’m not sure how it happened, and I don’t feel completely let down. But I do feel confused and a little hurt.
Nevertheless, I still believe in the ultimate goodness of Last.fm. And, with a lot of TLC and a little counseling, I think we can get through this.
Now, back to listening!
Monday, September 25, 2006
Andy Griffith: My Kind of Man
Now, if you've gotten over the initial shock of the title, I hope you'll read on and give me a little chance to explain.
I'm not talking Matlock here, folks. However, I think the man deserves a shout out for fine perfomances there. No, I'm talking The Andy Griffith Show, a show which I am much too young to remember from its original broadcast but which I do recall catching in re-runs when I'd come home from school.
Until a few nights ago, I hadn't watched the show in years. I'm not sure why, but I never really felt like watching when I did my usual late-night scroll through the channels. But, for whatever reason, that catchy, whistly intro got me the other night. Sucked me right in and trapped me for a few hours of Opie trying to feed Dolly the horse and Howard Sprague becoming the town villain after an unfortunate choice of jokes on a television variety show.
Sure, the shows are simple. But they're nice. They're funny in a somewhat goofy kind of way, and the characters are really likeable--even Clara Edwards. And, sure, it may be difficult to judge who delivers a more nuanced portrayal of a small town mechanic (Gomer or Goober), but those two are equally delightful to watch.
Okay, so I'm getting off topic here, and before long, I'll go on to talking about Gomer Pyle, USMC, and then you'll never know about my love of Andy Griffith. Did I just say that? Really? Yes, so it's out. I love Andy Griffith.
Or, more to the point, it's Sheriff Taylor who's won my heart. He's a good guy, a real catch.
I mean, just think of his qualities. He plays guitar. He's sensitive. He protects the public, keeps the peace. He's a man of few words, but he always brings people together. He's a tough guy without being a "tough guy." In short, this man is great.
But maybe, just maybe, I love him because he's in love with a writer. A good guy in love with a writer. How can you not love him for that? Because, as Andy Taylor said to Helen Crump, "I see no reason why a sheriff and a lady author shouldn't get along just fine."
Agreed, Andy Taylor. I see no reason either.
I'm not talking Matlock here, folks. However, I think the man deserves a shout out for fine perfomances there. No, I'm talking The Andy Griffith Show, a show which I am much too young to remember from its original broadcast but which I do recall catching in re-runs when I'd come home from school.
Until a few nights ago, I hadn't watched the show in years. I'm not sure why, but I never really felt like watching when I did my usual late-night scroll through the channels. But, for whatever reason, that catchy, whistly intro got me the other night. Sucked me right in and trapped me for a few hours of Opie trying to feed Dolly the horse and Howard Sprague becoming the town villain after an unfortunate choice of jokes on a television variety show.
Sure, the shows are simple. But they're nice. They're funny in a somewhat goofy kind of way, and the characters are really likeable--even Clara Edwards. And, sure, it may be difficult to judge who delivers a more nuanced portrayal of a small town mechanic (Gomer or Goober), but those two are equally delightful to watch.
Okay, so I'm getting off topic here, and before long, I'll go on to talking about Gomer Pyle, USMC, and then you'll never know about my love of Andy Griffith. Did I just say that? Really? Yes, so it's out. I love Andy Griffith.
Or, more to the point, it's Sheriff Taylor who's won my heart. He's a good guy, a real catch.
I mean, just think of his qualities. He plays guitar. He's sensitive. He protects the public, keeps the peace. He's a man of few words, but he always brings people together. He's a tough guy without being a "tough guy." In short, this man is great.
But maybe, just maybe, I love him because he's in love with a writer. A good guy in love with a writer. How can you not love him for that? Because, as Andy Taylor said to Helen Crump, "I see no reason why a sheriff and a lady author shouldn't get along just fine."
Agreed, Andy Taylor. I see no reason either.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
English Major Girl Finds Love (or not...)
On the last day of my stay in NYC, Kate and I headed out to see the Zaha Hadid exhibit, partake in some retail therapy, and eat too much fabulous food. All in all, a great day.
Heading home on the subway (intent on grabbing a bottle of wine and settling in for a screening of Apres Vous), we spotted a handsome young man in our subway car—late twenties/early thirties, pensive, completely oblivious to anything in the car outside of his book. Kate leaned over to me and said, “That’s your boyfriend.”
“That’s Your Boyfriend,” for those not in the know, is a game for which Kate deserves all the credit, though her friends are owed some applause for its perpetuation. The purpose of the game is to call your girlfriend out, to pick the one guy out of the crowd who so obviously epitomizes her “type” that it’s funny. So, good call, Kate. Handsome young man—late twenties/early thirties, pensive, completely oblivious to anything in the car outside of his book—was an excellent “That’s Your Boyfriend” call.
However, the game is just that, a funny game. It never leads to anything else, and that’s because it’s played by a group of women who met in English class. We keep journals, listen to the Cure, empathize with Sylvia Plath. Occasionally, we dabble in poetry. So, we’re not the most forward or socially skilled girls, even if we are sometimes funny.
As evidence, witness how even the spotting of a handsome man turns into a truly sad spectacle in this, um, sort of transcript of what followed the “That’s your boyfriend” statement.
Kate: That’s your boyfriend.
Sara: Good call, Kate. Is that a Signet Classic?
Kate: What?
Sara: The book he’s reading. Doesn’t it look like a Signet Classic?
Kate: I think you’re right. I see the logo.
Sara: But, which book is it? I haven’t seen that cover before.
Kate: Could it be Shakespeare?
Sara: Yeah, maybe. Hey, do you think this could be a good marketing campaign for Signet Classic? You know, two girls on the subway see a handsome guy reading and wonder, “Is that a Signet Classic?”
This exchange took up the rest of our train ride, as we discussed the length of the book, the possibility of its being a play, additional materials included in Signet Classic publications. We may or may not have discussed favorable relations we've had with our own Signet Classics. I can't divulge all of the juicy details.
So, Kate was right. That was my boyfriend. He probably lit up a cigarette as soon as he got out of the station, grabbed a cup of coffee (black), and walked home to enjoy his Signet Classic. [Or to add a darkly Pollyanna-esque, “Glad Game” twist to this, there is the possibility that he did all of those things just before starting on a shooting spree throughout Queens and that there actually could be an upside to being an awkward English major girl…Just a thought!]
Note: Somewhat regrettably, the humor of this game rests on the objectification of men, something with which I am not usually comfortable, but the fun-making is all at the expense of your girlfriends. So, two wrongs make a right. Right? Right!
Heading home on the subway (intent on grabbing a bottle of wine and settling in for a screening of Apres Vous), we spotted a handsome young man in our subway car—late twenties/early thirties, pensive, completely oblivious to anything in the car outside of his book. Kate leaned over to me and said, “That’s your boyfriend.”
“That’s Your Boyfriend,” for those not in the know, is a game for which Kate deserves all the credit, though her friends are owed some applause for its perpetuation. The purpose of the game is to call your girlfriend out, to pick the one guy out of the crowd who so obviously epitomizes her “type” that it’s funny. So, good call, Kate. Handsome young man—late twenties/early thirties, pensive, completely oblivious to anything in the car outside of his book—was an excellent “That’s Your Boyfriend” call.
However, the game is just that, a funny game. It never leads to anything else, and that’s because it’s played by a group of women who met in English class. We keep journals, listen to the Cure, empathize with Sylvia Plath. Occasionally, we dabble in poetry. So, we’re not the most forward or socially skilled girls, even if we are sometimes funny.
As evidence, witness how even the spotting of a handsome man turns into a truly sad spectacle in this, um, sort of transcript of what followed the “That’s your boyfriend” statement.
Kate: That’s your boyfriend.
Sara: Good call, Kate. Is that a Signet Classic?
Kate: What?
Sara: The book he’s reading. Doesn’t it look like a Signet Classic?
Kate: I think you’re right. I see the logo.
Sara: But, which book is it? I haven’t seen that cover before.
Kate: Could it be Shakespeare?
Sara: Yeah, maybe. Hey, do you think this could be a good marketing campaign for Signet Classic? You know, two girls on the subway see a handsome guy reading and wonder, “Is that a Signet Classic?”
This exchange took up the rest of our train ride, as we discussed the length of the book, the possibility of its being a play, additional materials included in Signet Classic publications. We may or may not have discussed favorable relations we've had with our own Signet Classics. I can't divulge all of the juicy details.
So, Kate was right. That was my boyfriend. He probably lit up a cigarette as soon as he got out of the station, grabbed a cup of coffee (black), and walked home to enjoy his Signet Classic. [Or to add a darkly Pollyanna-esque, “Glad Game” twist to this, there is the possibility that he did all of those things just before starting on a shooting spree throughout Queens and that there actually could be an upside to being an awkward English major girl…Just a thought!]
Note: Somewhat regrettably, the humor of this game rests on the objectification of men, something with which I am not usually comfortable, but the fun-making is all at the expense of your girlfriends. So, two wrongs make a right. Right? Right!
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Welcome to my Blog
So, this is my wonderful new blog. How wonderful it is remains to be seen, of course.
Yes, it's crackersandsoda.blogspot.com. I suppose that's a pretty silly name. No. Change that. I know it's a silly name.
I tried other names. They were taken. Did someone else really want to be known as "sociallyinept?" How was that name already taken? Seriously! The option I was given was "sociallyinept-sara," and, though I know it's true, I just couldn't do it.
So, here I am. crackersandsoda.
Enjoy!
Yes, it's crackersandsoda.blogspot.com. I suppose that's a pretty silly name. No. Change that. I know it's a silly name.
I tried other names. They were taken. Did someone else really want to be known as "sociallyinept?" How was that name already taken? Seriously! The option I was given was "sociallyinept-sara," and, though I know it's true, I just couldn't do it.
So, here I am. crackersandsoda.
Enjoy!
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