The "I don't want to DIE(t). So I'll just eat all these tasty things instead, okay?" Non-Diet for People Who Like Food and Don't Hate Themselves

The word is a loaded one, and it's a word I hate.  I've gone into some detail why I won't do it, but the short version is I like my body, I like food, and I'm not willing to deprive myself.

Which is different than not wanting to eat better.  George the asshole is triggered by food sometimes, and I've been cheating more than is good for me.  So it's back to the basics for me, and cutting out trigger foods:  anything processed, anything white, and beef.

Obviously, this excludes Mt. Dew.  I've tried cutting it out entirely before, and the withdrawal symptoms are pretty terrible.  I've tried switching to diet soda, but the artificial sweetener made me lose time and caused some fairly serious cognitive dysfunction.  Not fun.  But the next 12-pack I'll buy will be the one with real sugar, not high fructose corn syrup.  Because I'm not giving anything up.

And when I want tacos, I'll make it with my accidentally vegetarian recipe instead of ground beef and salty seasoning.  Because tacos are delicious, and I actually like my recipe better.

This weekend, I had a cheeseburger--it was made with ground pork, which the Dude didn't even realize until after he'd inhaled his.  So I'm going to do some recipe-searching and see if I can't find what seasoning was used to make it taste so frigging good.  Because I like cheeseburgers, okay?!

And when I want some ice cream, and nothing but ice cream will do, I will eat some goddamned ice cream.  I could have a bit of food that is terrible for me, or I could feel homicidal.  You tell me what decision is better for my health.

I call it "I don't want to DIE(t).  So I'll just eat all these tasty things instead, okay?" non-diet for people who like food and don't hate themselves.



(True:  I did diet once, with my GP and rheumatologist's approval.  I followed the Lupus Recovery Diet, it helped me figure out what did and didn't work for me, and I have continued tailoring what I eat since then according to what I learned.  It was fucking hard--like the hardest thing I've ever done.  Ever.  And I once carried an air conditioning unit up three flights of stairs without assistance in 100 degree heat.  So have a support group on hand, have your mom on speed dial, and talk to your doctor before trying it or any other "real" diet.)

Take That, Pinterest! I Am, Too, Capable of Feeding Myself!

If you've ever been on Pinterest--or even Facebook--you know that some people can like, do stuff around the house.  Like cooking, or decorating.  And the photographs these people take make their homes look like magazine shoots.

And here I am, all, "Look!  I made mac and cheese from a box and finally washed two weeks' worth of dirty dishes!"

Unless people are coming over, in which case I clean like a mad person to convince them I'm not the derelict slob I really am.

But this week, I totally could have photographed the dinner that I made.  From real ingredients!  Except that instead of photographing it, I ate it.  Because that's how I usually treat my dinner.

I made Cornish pasties.  And it was super easy.  And not what I'd call a real recipe, since I didn't really follow a recipe.  Here's how I did it:

I called the Dude on my way home from work, and made him take 2 chicken breasts out of the freezer to thaw.

I stopped at the store at bought two refrigerated pie crusts, a bag of mixed frozen veggies, and a can of condensed cream of potato soup.

Upon getting home, I cut the chicken into smallish pieces.  (This is the hard part.)

Then I dumped the chicken and the veggies and some chicken bouillon and whatever other seasoning I felt like and a couple handfuls of frozen diced onion in a pot of water.  And I boiled it.

I unrolled the pie crusts and cut each in half.  (This made eight pasties.) 

And once the stuff was done boiling (I stopped just before the chicken was fully cooked), I strained it, dumped in the can of soup and a bit of the water I'd reserved, mixed that shit together, added some more seasoning, and scooped a little onto each piece of dough.  Folded the dough over, pinched the edges, and baked at 425 for half an hour.

Then I watched some TV.

Ten minutes in, I ran back to the oven and poked a hole in each so as to avoid a pasty-splosion.

And then I finished my show, and then I stuffed my face and burned my tongue.

It was fucking awesome.

Order Matters

Not the Good Housekeeping/Martha Stewart-approved kind of order, obviously.  Anyone who has seen my apartment, or my car, or my purse can attest to that.  (Though I maintain that I'm visually organized--if I can see it, I can find it.  So it's not clutter.  It's visually available.)

No, what I mean is the sequential kind of order.  Specifically, the order in which one's thoughts leaves one's mouth.

So, when I was talking with a work friend about what a bummer is was that his band had missed the cut-off for entry in an industry battle of the bands event, I probably should have put my sentences in an orderly sequence, instead of blurting them out in the order I thought them.

Compare what I meant versus what I said:

True:  I am an accidental asshole.

The Worst Pies in London

I made sort-of-home-made chicken potpie the other night.  I take a lot of shortcuts, but some chopping is required.

Don't worry, I found a BandAid before we had a Sweeney Todd moment.

(And no, it wasn't the worst pie.  It was actually kind of good.  Go me!)



(True:  I tend to get burned out on the soundtracks from musicals pretty quickly, but Johnny Depp's version of "My Friends" never gets old.  Any other recommendations?)

I Love You This Much. Take It or Leave It.

I'm not big on Valentine's Day.  I suppose there is nothing inherently wrong with a day when couples are required to be nice to each other, but it really doesn't do anything for me.  Mostly, it just seems like a lot of work.

In grade school, I had to spend, like, minutes filling in the "To" and "From" bits on my valentines, and that was when no one expected anything more than a posterboard 2" by 3" card with some Disney character on it.  Now, judging by Pinterest alone since I don't have kids, it looks like the Martha Stewart industry has started a competition to see how over-the-top kids' valentines can be.  If it doesn't have candies, live animals, or lasers, it just doesn't make the cut and you suck as a parent.  So, you know, no pressure.

As an adult, there's the live-long conundrum of:  spend a lot of money on cliche crap, or feel like a loser because you have no awesome photos to make your Facebook friends jealous.

BUT, I do feel some pressure to do some "holiday" something, and I want to be proactive about it.

So instead of asking my friends to "be mine," I'm just going write "MINE" on their foreheads.  With a Sharpie.

Via

Though if I were to give out valentines, I'd probably choose one of these.

(True:  I never wear colors associated with a holiday, because I'm contrary that way.)

The First Person to Make a Sandwich Joke Is Going to Get a Knuckle Sandwich Instead.

I'm not the best in the kitchen, and sometimes it seems the world intends to keep it that way.  Even if you disregard the multiple kitchen fires I swear I didn't mean to set, there's the fact that when I had someone over for dinner this weekend, the wiring to my kitchen light went out.  Because nothing is as fun as cooking* in the dark.

And then, later, I slapped some sauce and shredded cheese on a store-bought crust and called it a home-made pizza and felt all proud of myself until I started catching up on Geekologie and saw this:

Via

It's an octopizza, and it's just not fair.


(True:  But I do make a mean chicken pot pie.)

But At Least I Ordered Great Pizza.

My parents came down for the weekend, which was awesome.  Unfortunately for them, they crashed at my place.

My building has the old fashioned cast iron radiators that occasionally make a rattling sound if there is air in the pipes.  On Saturday night, there was not air in the pipes.  There was an entire steel drum band made up of people with no rhythm on crack, and I thought we were all going to die.  (We didn't die, as it turned out.  We just didn't sleep.)

And Sunday, I locked myself out of my apartment while heading downstairs to let in my parents, who had locked themselves out of the building.

It's a really good thing that people aren't rated for their hosting skills on Yelp the way hotels are. 


(True:  My parents surprised me with bookshelves this weekend.  I officially have the coolest parents ever.)

Sometimes, I Think I'm the Only Pineapple in This Fruitbasket.

Thoughts from the past week:

• It doesn't count if it doesn't set off the fire alarm.
• I've been drinking just one Mt. Dew for three days now, and I have yet to kill anyone.  Someone give me a ribbon.  Quick now, before I fall asleep.
• I indulged in a bit too much holiday cheer, and I'm going to Mexico this spring.  Crap.
• That's why I'm cutting back the Mt. Dew.
• This might be the worst diet ever.
• Stink the Cat keeps trying to eat all the expensive dog food.  Isn't it dogs that are supposed to eat everything?  One more example of how my life is totally upside down.
• Acai juice and my sleepy owl hat will cure just about anything.
• Bankers do not appreciate sleepy owl hats.
• Fictitious blue PVC corsets never stop being funny.

The meds the doctor's got me on for this supercold have got me up most of the night.  Like, all week.  I'd like to blame this post on that, but let's be honest, here...

This is my normal.


(True:  But seriously, why is that whenever I make a pizza, the fire alarm goes off, but it doesn't when I set an actual fire?  I feel that might be a design flaw.)

Easy DIY Gift Bag Upgrade

I use gift bags very rarely.  In general, I like wrapping gifts.  (Yeah, I'm weird.  Tell me something I don't know.)  This year, though, I'm just so tired.  So I'm taking some shortcuts--some gifts are getting the "shove it in a gift bag and forget about it" treatment.

Aaand since I like things to be pretty and inexpensive, I upgraded some inexpensive, plain bags.  And they actually don't look dumb!




Just remember, I am the world's worst photographer.

 You can stop here.  No really.  You can look at the photo and see how it's done.  See?  You can shortcut your wrapping and your blog-reading.

What you'll need:

Gift bags
Craft/wrapping paper in coordinating colors
Glue dots/tape
Raffia/ribbon
Bells/ornaments/something pretty (optional)


For the bag on the left, I cut strips of wrapping paper about two inches wide, cut fringe, and curled it up around my finger.  I taped the fringe strips on the bag, because I'm classy like that.  (And also because I couldn't find my glue dots.  Seriously.  What did I do before glue dots?)  And then I used a strip of paper to cover the tape on the top layer of fringe.  The bag I already had.  The paper I already had.  The raffia I already had.  Total cost:  $0.  Total time:  5 minutes.

For the bag on the right, I cut two triangles, the star shape, and the rectangle for the trunk out of wrapping paper.  (The paper I have is a heavier, paper-grocery bag texture, FYI.)  I made it purposely imperfect, since that seemed to fit the "down home" feel of the color combo with the checks.  As I said, I misplaced my glue dots, so I used the old tape loop trick--one in the middle of the smaller triangle, and one in each corner of the larger triangle.  The fact that the edges of the trees are not tight against the bag makes for an interesting texture, though it didn't translate well to photo.  (Blame it on the photographer.  Frankly, I'm surprised she managed to get the entirety of both bags in one shot.)  The bells are a cheapy ornament I got at Target to dress it up a bit more, since I don't have the energy to do fancy bows this year.  Five bags:  $3.  Bell ornaments from Target:  $1.  Total cost per bag:  $1.60.  And it actually looks cute enough to be reused next year.  (What, doesn't your family do that, too?)  Total time:  2 minutes.

(Bravo if you read this far.  Don't give me that look--I told you you didn't need to.)


(True:  Last chance to email me at danathebiped at gmx dot com about what nice thing you've done for homeless pets and even have the smallest hope of getting your Possum Pinups calendar by Christmas!)

This is My Obligatory Thanksgiving Post.

I really hate Thanksgiving sap.  And Christmas sap.  And Valentine's Day sap.  And rom-com sap.  And that Folger's commercial with the young man coming home for the holidays.  And tree sap.

Maybe I'm just an ungrateful bitch.  Or maybe contrived sentiment just makes me want to puke.

There are, however, some things I am very happy to have:

• Caffeine, which gets me through most days murder-charge-free.
• My microwave, which is my second favorite enabler.
• My mother's pity for me and my lack of cooking skills. (I.e., leftovers.)
• Netflix, my first favorite enabler.
• My Sister the Lawyer not killing me when my phone's evil alter ego answered her calls seven consecutive times while simultaneously scrolling through every option and screen the phone has to offer--all while on key lock in my purse.
• This:

• And the fact that you read this blog even though I'm mental.

(True:  In the above poem, there really should be a semicolon, not a comma.)

Cheap and Easy, and You Can Still Show Your Mother! (DIY Lego Costume for Dogs)



Pardon my terrible photography skills.  Also, the top looks spotty because it was raining.


Last Sunday, I went to a fundraising event for some local animal shelters, and on the agenda was a pet costume contest.  I decided go go Friday night, when I was in a hurry and broke.  As I strolled the aisles of the local craft store, praying for inspiration, I remembered this image from Pinterest:

Via  (This might not be the original source.  If you know, let me know.)

Cardboard box and Solo cups?  Easy and cheap.  But not flexible for wigglesome dogs like Prada.

But have no fear, for I came up with a solution:  sheets of craft foam, the top of a shoe box, and foam can holders.  Everything but the shoe box (which I had because I have a shoe problem) was in the same aisle--the sheets were $.79 each (I bought two) and the can holders were a buck a piece (I bought two).

  I did not take photos as I went along, because I was in a hurry.  (And because my place is a mess.)

Step 1:  Cut a U-shape into one end of the shoe box (or whatever box is roughly as long as your dog, shoulder-to-tail.)  This gives room for their neck.  You will end up cutting off the head end side of the box lid entirely, but that's okay.  You just need something to give a little bit of firmness to the top and sides of the Lego to hold the craft foam in shape.

Step 2:  Cover the top of the box with craft foam.  I used glue dots because I was in a hurry, but I plan on going over it again with proper glue.  Aleene's (maker of the famous craft-glue-in-a-gold-bottle) makes an adhesive to use specifically on craft foam, though I understand hot glue and white glue also work.

Step 3:  Cut a small slit in both sides of the box lid, right about where your dog's "armpit" is.

Step 4:  Cut craft foam to cover the sides and back of the shoe box, extending down to cover your dog's side.  Don't glue around the slit you cut, though...  (I realized later I should have duct-taped the insides together, connecting the back panel the the side panels, fyi.)

Step 5:  Cut a U-shape into the back end to leave room for the butt/tail.

Step 6:  Trim the can holders down to Lego-peg-appropriate height.  I cut them basically in half to be in proportion with a Prada-sized Lego.

Step 7:  Cut circles in the craft foam sheet to cover the top of the Lego-pegs/bottom of the can holders.  There was a little hole.  And I'm finicky.

Step 8:  Glue the pegs onto the Lego box.

Step 9:  Pass a ribbon/string/whatever through the slits on either side of the box.  They shouldn't be visible under the craft foam.  I used velcro straps, which worked really well.  I just looped them around Prada's harness.

And that's it!  It's easier than it sounds, I promise--it took me around fifteen minutes, and turned out well enough that Prada won the contest.  Not bad for less than five bucks!

Best of all, Prada wore it for about three hours with no problems--the craft foam kept it lightweight and flexible.


(True:  Has anyone else seen that chia pet costume on Pinterest?  If I'd had more time...)

"Consummation" is not the act of consuming. Sadly.

In the last sixty hours or so, I have eaten:

• Two cartons of Bob Evans mashed potatoes topped with about half a pound of butter
• An entire bag of pita chips topped with roasted red pepper hummus
• A whole order of cheesy sticks from the local pizza place  (Theoretically, they are cheese-topped breadsticks, but that's not quite right.  They're really about two pounds of buttered cheese with just enough crust underneath to hold them together--if you eat fast.)
• Three big-as-your-head tacos
• A package of Godiva truffles
• A pomegranate
• A water buffalo

(One of the above is a lie.)

This is what happens when I'm over-tired, over-stressed, and too busy marathoning "Supernatural" to bother cooking.  I feel like a cow.  On the plus side, I'm mostly sort of don't feel homicidal.  And that's an improvement.


(True:  I actually lost a pound.  You hate me now, don't you?)

A Handy Guide to Halloween Costumes and Life

(Humming...)  It's the most wonderful time of the year...

No, I don't mean Christmas, although presents are pretty damn wonderful.  I'm talking about Halloween, the one day of the year that responsible adults are still allowed to play dress-up.  By this point of the year, I usually have a detailed plan for what I'm going to dress up as and how to make that happen.  (I never buy pre-fab costumes.)  This fall, however, I'm running behind.  As I consider my options, there are several questions I keep in mind to keep myself on track.

And you should, too.

Question 1:  Could this costume be called "Naughty (Blank)" or "Sexy (Blank)?"
Because when it comes to costumes, both of these words are interchangeable with "whore."  One part of the costume can be of the come-hither variety without overdoing it.  (I flatter myself that I managed to pull off a Puss in Boots costume with red thigh-high boots.  But then, I paired them with a full cape and a modest top.  And, of course, pants.  Which leads me to Question 2...)

Via

Via

There is a happy medium...

Question 2:  Are there pants?

A banded top does not count.  Nor does any skirt short enough that you might get herpes from sitting on a bar stool.  Leggings might be okay with a tunic-length top, as long as they are opaque.  If they aren't, they are tights.  And tights are not pants.  Basically, keep your butt out of sight, please.

Question 3:  Will there be visible belly button?

This is not the 90s.  Start over.

Question 4:  Is this costume seasonally appropriate?

Seriously.  If you're running around in a tube top/mini skirt/high heeled sandals and it's snowing, you're not doing it right.

Question 5:  Is it lazy?

 Look, if you want to grab a pair of cat ears to wear with your everyday clothes, more power to you.  But don't blame me if people think you're more boring than watching other people watch paint dry.

Question 6:  Is it recognizable?

Don't get me wrong, I totally do obscure characters from literature all the time.  (That didn't come out quite right, but whatever.)  Even semi-sort-of-not-obscure characters, like the March Hare from Alice in Wonderland is probably going to get some questions.  But if you're going to dress up as a Jessie Drummond from Super What?, don't go crying into your beer when nobody gets it.  This is especially important with gender-bending costumes.

Question 7:  Can you sit/move in the costume?

If your costume is a pimento olive made out of chicken wire, consider this:  you may not fit into a car.  And you definitely won't fit through a bus door.  Your ass is walking.

A summary:

• Be creative.
• Wear clothes.
• Use your noggin, just a little.

All points that will serve you well in life--I promise.

(True:  Less than six weeks to the big day, and I'm still undecided?!  Seriously starting to panic...  Also, I have to say I do actually really like the crazy cat lady costume above.)

The End of Days is Nigh. And Someone Needs to Come Over and Kill a Bug for Me.

(Note:  This was partly written Saturday afternoon, so please excuse some no-longer correct verb tenses.)

There have been some seriously cool bugs.

Jiminy Cricket is a pretty neat fellow, if perhaps a bit preachy.

Chester, the very talented headliner in A Cricket in Times Square.

Charlotte and her fantastic web.

The cockroach in WALL-E.

Buzz, the Cheerios mascot, if you're stretching.

This is not one of those bugs.

A truly enormous beetle has taken up residence on the suspension chain of my ceiling light.  It looks a bit like an elongated beetle that flies.  Or the First Horseman of the Apocalypse, Pestilence.  I haven't made up my mind yet.  Whatever.

It is taunting my dog.  No, seriously.  It's been here a few hours now, and I definitely see its pattern.

It reposes on the chain, standing upright on its hindmost legs, for long stretches of time while Prada growls at it.  (Prada is very brave, you know.)  Then just when her growls die out, the bug thrusts its thorax at us like an enthusiastic Elvis impersonator.  When the thorax wagging is no longer driving Prada quite mad enough, the bug flies down to the glass shade--always on the side facing us.  Bastard.  Eventually, it crawls back up onto the chain to start the process over again.

For about twenty minutes, Prada, Stink, and I all watched the bastard bug, transfixed.  I finally started a movie.  Between the bug and Prada's strong reaction to it, I was starting to (ear)wig.  Unfortunately, I chose a movie with dinosaurs.  When they started roaring, Prada almost fell off the bed, convinced the vile beast was on the attack.  Poor girl couldn't decide if she was cowering on my lap or valiantly defending me.

When the movie finished, I turned off the overhead light, foolishly thinking my bedside lamp wasn't bright enough to attract the monster's attention.  I was wrong.  It dive-bombed my face, at which point Prada and I both squealed like the little girls we are.

So I turned on the bathroom light, turned off the lights everywhere else, and hid under the covers till morning.

I am so badass.


(True:  The bug turned up the next morning in my bathtub.  And then I killed it, because I totally am badass.)

Pinterest Makes Me Hate Everybody

WRONG.  Let's try this again:

• Goodmorning = Good morning.  You clearly are not going for a concise, 140 space text here.  Get it right.
• i = I.  We humans are ego-centric, and the first-person subjective pronoun is capitalized, which I learned in first grade.  I'm so sorry you didn't.
• Makeup = Cosmetics.  Making up is what you do naked after an argument.
• inseperable = incorrect.  Spell shit correctly.
• bestfriend = best friend.  You are still two separate (See what I did there) people.  You can be close, but your cells are not physically bound together.  The term "best friend" works the same way.
• your = you're not intelligent enough to use second-person pronouns correctly.
• people are like "your stillll together = fuck you in so many ways.  If someone is saying something, and you are using a tag such as "they say" or, less-intelligently, "people are like," then use use a comma to separate (See what I did there?) the tag and what is being said.  Just putting in quotation marks implies irony or a lack of truth.  Apparently, people are implying that you as a couple are not, in fact, "stillll together," or are only "stillll together" in a technical (but not a practical) sense.  Also, I don't know of a single word in the English language that uses four consecutive Ls.

The moral:  If you are trying to impress someone, do try not to look illiterate.

These are gift boxes--made from toilet paper rolls.  Because nothing says, "I'm a shitty friend," like giving a gift in a box that's been hanging next to your toilet for a week.  (Except maybe using a tampon box instead.  But that says more, "I'm a bloody awful friend," to me, and less, "I'm a shitty friend."

Yeah.  Fuck you, too.

I'm sure she'll love that when she grows up and becomes the man she always felt she was meant to be and gets married in a tux.  Also, who the hell is supposed to do that much planning? 

Ah, yes, the ubiquitous hipster version of the "Hang in there!" kitten motivational poster.  Shoot me now.



And finally:

• Braids and other hair styles that are touted to be "easy."
• Reasons to be fit.
• Recipes with six ingredients I've never even heard of requiring a kitchen mixer technical know-how equivalent to running the International Space Station.
• Bridal boards.
• Outfits.
• Anything DIY.

Are you on Pinterest?  Do you also have a love/hate relationship?


(True:  You can find me on Pinterest here.)

Sources:
http://pinterest.com/pin/74098356340133965/
http://pinterest.com/pin/18084835974700895/
http://pinterest.com/pin/125749014566546699/
http://pinterest.com/pin/246431410831140505/
http://pinterest.com/pin/66991113178229741/

Making your neighbors think you're batshit crazy and/or stupid? Priceless.

Someone in the building next to me is moving out.  And apparently, they will be travelling light, as it seems they are leaving all their furniture by the dumpsters behind the building.  So far they've abandoned a bed, a dresser, a desk, a papasan chair, and several end tables.  All of these have disappeared in several hours, bacause, hello?  Perfectly good furniture, and it's the kind that comes from real furniture stores, not Kmart.

I think these people haven't heard of Craigslist.

Anyway, none of this stuff interested me because, while I don't have a bed (just a bed frame, not like, a pallet on the floor--it's not quite that bad), I just don't need any of it.

Until yesterday.

Last night, they dumped a bookshelf.

As a savvy thrift shopper, I can assure you that bookshelves are resale gold.  You almost never see them in thrift stores at all, and when you do, they are hardly less expensive than they would be new.  Supply and demand, right there.  I can also assure you that I am in constant need of shelves.  As it turns out, I'm too possesive for libraries.  They expect you to give the books back, and I have a real problem with that.  Basically, I'd give my left, er, foot for more bookshelves.  Because, you know, I don't have a left one of the other thing.  Or a right one, for that matter.  (I know you were wondering.)

So, after a long day of tramping up and down all three flights of stairs to my apartment (I'm spring cleaning a bit late), I saw this bookshelf, in perfect condition except for a divet in the side that a bit of spackle and a fresh coat of paint should take care of, and I jumped on it.  If it weren't weird to make love to a piece of furniture in an alley, I'd have done that.  I hauled it over to my building, no problem.  It wasn't very heavy, after all, and I'm both stronger than my stick arms imply and stubborn.  I did carry my air conditioner up by myself a couple years prior, and that was way heavier.

I got it about halfway up the first flight of stairs when my arms and legs turned to noodles.  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get the shelves up even one more step.  Going back down wasn't happening, either.

It was in the mid-nineties.  I was sweating.  I was cursing.  I was mortified.  And I was well and truly stuck.

I did mention I'm stubborn, right?  Well, I'm also really proud.  So I'd been stuck there almost fifteen minutes (or possibly eons) when I finally started thinking about calling for help.  Phil on the first floor (which is actually the second) is a helpful, friendly guy.  Of course, he usually has at least two guests at his place, which meant his guests would get not just dinner, but also a show.  So instead of calling out, I just dithered a while longer, until even just balancing the shelves on the stair they were resting on was hard, wobbly work.

And then my neighbors from the second floor came in, wanting to go up, and my choice was made for me. 

"Er, I'm stuck," I said.

"Are you coming down?" Second Floor Guy asked.

"No?  I'm just a victim of my own harebrained idea to haul this up by myself."

"Don't you live on the third floor?"

"Well, yeah.  Yeah, I do."

"But you're not even to the first floor," Second Floor Girl said.

"I did mention the harebrained part, right?"

And then Second Floor Guy helped me carry the bookshelf all the way up to the third floor, and we all lived happily ever after if you just ignore the part where they think I'm special and I'm so embarrassed I'd happily throw the shelves and myself over the damn stair bannister--if only I had some help with the heavy lifting.

Via

(True:  In my previous apartment, I wrestled my monster desk into my bedroom all by my damn self.  It took three people to get it back out.  So it's not like I don't know my own [lack of] strength.

Shut up.)

I Am Not Dead. Yet.

Unless, of course, I am dead and this is a a dead-dream or maybe the afterlife, in which case, this is not the Kool-Aid I thought I was drinking.

Busy.  I've have been it.  Even now, I am semi-covertly blogging at work.  (Shhh, don't tell!)

Over the weekend, my friend Jes visited from Iowegialand, or maybe Nebraska.  Is there a difference?  Anyway, Jes is awesome.  I have been so busy that "cleaning" my apartment for her arrival consisted of me throwing a sheet over the four foot tall mountain of laundry and shoving the dirty dishes in the oven.  Our conversation on the way from the airport went like this.

Me:  Don't look in the oven.
Jes:  Okay.
Me:  Or the refrigerator.
Jes:  Okay.
Me:  And close your eyes when you go into the bathroom.
Jes:  All right.
Me:  And just ignore all of the boxes with crap spilling out.  I never really finished moving in.
Jes:  No problem.
Me:  I mean, I know that was two years ago, but I'm usually at The Squeezes' place anyway.
Jes:  Okay.
Me:  I have nothing for you to eat or drink.
Jes:  That's what take-out is for.
Me:  I'm sorry!  I'm the worst host ever!
Jes:  Yeah, but I love you anyway.

I love her right back.


(True:  We saw dead people and then we met a famous person.  The famous person was still alive, though.)

Bud doesn't care what your place looks like, either.  He's cool like that.

Home Decorating is a Lie.

I like the idea of decorating my place and living in a space that is beautiful and functional.

This space is a myth.

Browsing apartmenttherapy.com, a site I very much enjoy and admire, with its gorgeous photos and hope-inspring tips, I have stumbled across some photos that make me realize that perhaps, there is a solution, and a beautiful living environment can be mine.

Found here.

Look at how pretty that is, and everything you need to leave the house is right there for you.  Now I just need to pick a color, buy a new outdoor wardrobe in that monochromatic theme, and never wear anything else.  Also, the cat will totally pee in that plant, and the dirty Chicago snow is going to smear all over those pretty tiles without a serious heavy duty rug there.  The bench?  It's going to be heaped with junk mail and whatever I happen to have gotten sick of holding as I walk past.  And be prepared for the fact that there is going to be at the very least ten pairs of shoes laying haphazardly on the floor, waiting to trip the unsuspecting.

Oh, what about this kitchen? 

Found here.

This might work.  After all, I too, have a lot of shelves.  However, I'm going to need dishes that actually match, and for those dishes to actually make it to their homes before before being used again.  That will probably be a shock for them, having never left the dish drainer before.  Also, I don't know if boxes of mac and cheese and Hamburger Helper and cans of condenced cream of chicken soup are going to look as elegant in those jars.  Although those top shelves do look like an amazing places to store things I want to forget I own until I need to move again and then have to deduct what it is that might be living under the three inches of dust up there.
No, really.  Does anyone really live this way, with their homes looking like department store tableaus?  Because frankly, if I'm not going to be seriously depressed, I need to believe in homes like this the same way I believe in the tooth fairy--if I'm not getting paid to keep it up, it's just not worth it.


(True:  I once bought a book on organizing your home, the friend I was with laughed at me.)

Coco doesn't mind clutter, as long as there is space on your lap.

My Job Here is Done

The Squeeze and I have been dating for a while now, going on four years, I guess.  And that's just this time!  Over the years, I've told him repeatedly that I don't cook, I don't like to cook, I can't cook.

Confession:  I can cook just fine.  I just didn't want him--or anyone--expecting me to cook all the time.  Or ever, really.  Sometimes (usually) I'm cool with having a bowl of cereal and letting anyone else fend for themselves.

But, now that I'm living so far from my parents that I can't visit them regularly just for comfort food, I've been cooking a bit more regularly.  I've cooked like, three times in the last two weeks, and he hasn't tried a single bite. 

First, it was bean soup, and I thought, okay, maybe he doesn't like bean soup.  Then it was home-made mini pizzas, which I was sure would be a hit.  They were pretty darn tasty.  Nope.  But then, they did have whole-wheat crusts, so maybe that scared him away.  Spaghetti.  Everybody likes spaghetti, right?  I even cooked meat for it.  (I'm not a vegetarian, meat is just expensive and takes a whole 'nother step to prepare and one more dish to wash.)  So the spaghetti was, you know, manly.

It was also a no-go.

Want to know what I think?  Well, you're here, so I'm going to take that as a yes.

I think I did my job too well.  I have convinced him that I don't cook, I don't like to cook, I can't cook.

The Squeeze is absolutely terrified of eating anything I've had a hand in preparing.  And he really doesn't even have any reason, if you overlook the fact that that's what I've told him a whole bunch of times, and that one time I made pancakes and he puked for hours.

That could have just been a bug, you know.


(True:  My specialties are Kraft Mac'n'Cheese and frozen pizza.  I should totally have a contract with Food Network.  (That's a thing, right?  Food Network?))

Coco isn't a picky eater.