photo friday: shminter

photo friday: shminter.

photo friday: shminter

To say that this winter has been mild would be an understatement. The past couple weeks we’ve been in DC have been especially warm, though that hasn’t ended sightings of commuters bundled up in scarves, gloves and hats as they bustle to and fro. Which means that hasn’t ended me rolling my eyes at said commuters and yelling, “It is 50 degrees outside! This is not Antarctica! It’s not even Alaska! Their mountains are much bigger!”

Okay, I didn’t really yell that. Except that one time, at that one girl. But it was in my head, so I don’t think it really counts.

And so now, at the risk of bringing another snowpacolypse down on our heads, I’m just going to go ahead and say it: Happy Spring, everyone!

And I swear to God if I see you walking through McPherson Square bundled up like Nanook of the goddamned North I will crack you upside the head.

the debate

Today is Ash Wednesday, which is the national Catholic day of grief as we prepare to give up the things we love for forty days and forty nights because you guys, for real, me giving up Cheetos is completely akin to Jesus dying on the cross for our sins.

Tit for tat.

Catholics across the world last night took their last sip of gin, their last bite of pizza, gave an Edward R. Murrow-esque signoff to Facebook, clicked off of the ShopBop website or dusted off their rosary beads and brushed up on the Apostles’ Creed* with a promise to return to church for the next month of Sundays.

The discussions of what to give up for Lent are always interesting ones to me mostly because they largely take place in my head, where I’ll have you know I am a scintillating conversationalist. There is a push-pull feeling to these debates, what do I want to give up, what SHOULD I give up, but should I really give X, Y or Z up? Because I know I cannot live for forty days without it, and I’ll just end up breaking my Lenten promise and feel bad about myself and that doesn’t really do Jesus any good, now does it?

Ergo, giving up pizza is out of the question.

Plus, what else am I supposed to eat on Lenten Fridays, when I can’t eat meat?

In the past, I’ve given up alcohol, sweets, potato chips, French fries, clothes shopping, and for a brief two weeks in high school, pop. But that last one was only until my best girlfriends convinced me that really, Jesus would not mind if I started drinking pop again, because me without my Pepsi products is simply a cruel boil on the world at large. Better to remain a delicate, if over-caffeinated, flower bringing peace and aspartame to the masses than cuss out Sister Mary Lightacandle every day because she walks too slowly down the hall. (Under my breath, of course.)

And before you question the giving up of sweets from the self-proclaimed salty/savory lover, know this: As soon as you tell me I can’t have something, I immediately want it/crave it. Which is how I found myself gulping huge quantities of root beer floats for breakfast a couple of years ago on Mardi Gras morning, followed by an éclair cake binge later in the day.

No judging.

This year the debate has loomed large in my head. Maybe clothes shopping again? No, I’ve been on a shopping hiatus anyway, so it would be more just an extension of my normal life, which seems like cheating to me. Try for another forty days of no sweets? Maybe, but I just got a bounty of flour from my friend Turner (another story for another post), and I don’t want to wait to use it. Pasta, or maybe carbs in general might be a good one, but that bears too much of a whiff of being akin to Atkins, or like a diet, and in my head while Lent might essentially be a test of willpower, using it as a God-approved time to diet seems, well, it just doesn’t seem right.

So I’ve made the executive decision: No booze. During the week.

Weekends, though. Different story.

BOOZE CROOZE USA, BITCHES!

(Kidding.)

(Maybe.)

What, if anything, are you giving up for Lent?

*At which point they will be in for a shock, because they changed the words. All that work Miss Traman did in second grade, making us memorize the creed for our first reconciliation? DOWN THE DRAIN. Thanks a lot, Pope.

conversations, part 1

Swede and I have been spending some time in DC, partaking in the joys of the Walnut House’s front porch, swigging cocktails, thinking deep thoughts, creating a ruckus, and in general annoying the shit out of his cats.

What the-- Are you f-ing with me? Dammit, why didn’t anyone TELL me you were coming back? Shit.

I’m not joking you guys. We showed up at midnight, right after the Super Bowl, tired and vaguely sore from sitting in a car for 12 hours and eyes strained from reading road signs along the Penna Turnpike because unless you suddenly decide to take up arms and go on a sno-ball binge at every rest stop you come across, there is not a damn thing that makes driving through Pennsylvania interesting. And we walked in to two cats who were, in a word, Pissed.

And since then, they’ve continued to be Pissed. This is not abnormal, of course. Since Swede and I started dating they’ve been irritated. The one doesn’t get why I don’t love him, and the other one is angry that I’ve stolen her man. A) I’m allergic and 2) OPPOSABLE THUMBS.

But now, they’re mostly pissed at Swede for leaving them for two months, though it’s just silliness, if you ask me, because let’s face it—they were left in the care of Swede’s very capable and fabulous roommate, who loves these furballs tremendously and does not ever throw them in Kitty Jail for being annoying like Swede does.

As of late, I’ve tried my best to make peace with the cats. The one, whom I like to call Lady Gaga because she’s freaky and kind of a diva, and I have reinstated our long-standing agreement that we will not bother each other and stay out of each others’ way, and she can continue to be irritated with me and I will continue to sneeze whenever she’s around.

But the other one. Well. We’ve been having a lot of conversations lately that are not unlike negotiating with a mute toddler.

Me: Seriously, dude, stop meowing. You have food in your bowl. Oh. I see you barfed in your bowl. Awesome. Well done you.

Him: * blink *  * blink  *

 

Me: Stop eating the flowers.

Him: Meow?

Me: Yes, now.

Him: Mrrrw.

 

Me: No, you can’t go outside. The last time you jumped out the back window all you did was walk around to the front of the house and show up on the front porch looking confused.

Him: Mrow.

Me: Well it’s not my fault you’re not adventurous.

Him: * blink *  * blink *

 

Me: I know you like the roommate better than me. YOU MAKE ME ALLERGIC. It’s all I can do to stay in the room with you sometimes. Not because of the allergies, though. Just because you’re you. Why can’t you be like the other one, and skitter away when I walk in the room? WHY DON’T YOU FEAR ME?

Him: * blink *  * blink *

 

Me: Listen, dude, I know you wish Swede would dump me and date a chick who likes cats and who is not made allergic by them. But the heart wants what it wants. And his heart wants me. And I want you declawed.

Him: Mrow?

Me: That’s what you get for scratching up my shit while I’m gone. And you can warn the other one, too, when you have your next catnap, i.e. when I know you two are acting like you’re napping but are really plotting how to kill us in our sleep. I’ve got my eye on you, you know. OPPOSABLE THUMBS, BITCHES.

Him: * blink *

I’ve got my eye on YOU, woman. Be afraid, be very afr-- Wait, is that new food?

photo friday: delectable

Last weekend was Swede’s birthday, and I set my alarm for early o’clock. I crept out the front door, not that I really needed to A) Because Swede isn’t what you would often describe as a ‘light sleeper’ and 2) Because the day before I’d turned to him and said, “Listen, I have to do something tomorrow morning so if you wake up and I’m not in bed JUST STAY THERE.” Because I am subtle.

Anyway, the reason I was up with the sun was so that I could get to Heller’s Bakery before they sold out of Boston Crème donuts, which are Swede’s favorite. Despite a directional snafu (shakes fist at Google Maps), I got over there quickly, and here’s where I say how awesome Sunday mornings are driving in DC, because not only is there very little traffic there is also ample parking.

THANK YOU, HAIL MARY, FULL OF GRACE, FOR HELPING ME FIND A PARKING SPACE.

I tottered into Heller’s and inhaled the dreamy smells of freshly made donuts and sugary glazes and buttercream frostings. As I’ve said before, I’m not the biggest fan of sweets, but the smells, oh, the smells. Is there anything as heavenly smelling as a bakery? I’m not sure the girl behind the counter would agree, frankly. She seemed a bit surly, but maybe that was because it wasn’t even 8 a.m. Or maybe she was just sick of the smell of donuts. Or maybe she was just having a bad day. Or maybe, maybe she was just an asshole. Hard to say, but either way, with an irritated and sour expression she informed me that they had no Boston Crème donuts that day.

That was a bummer. I was going to ask if they were going to make any later, but thought better of it, for fear of her pitching a donut at my face.

So I hemmed, but did not haw, and picked out a half-dozen other donut delights, paid my bill and wandered out. I went home put two on a plate with a candle in each, and woke up Swede singing happy birthday. Because nothing says, “Yay! You’re 33!” like warbling and open flames.

And, of course, extra sprinkles.

photo friday: traditions, part 1

Interwebers, I have to tell you something that might make you either love me (more than you already do) or dislike me greatly (more than you already do).

I’m a Notre Dame fan.

(In case you didn’t know.)

I come from one big Irish/Polish Notre Dame-loving family.

So I would very much be telling you the truth when I say I’ve been to my fair share of Notre Dame athletic events. Since when? Age 3? Age 4? In utero? Hard to say.

And we continue this tradition of starting the fandom early with the Chicken Nugget.

But due to his young age, Chicken Nugget isn’t allowed to tailgate as heartily as he would like.

That’s okay, Chicken Nugget. Grandpa wouldn’t let me tailgate as heartily as I would have liked until I was actually 21, either.

The Chicken Nugget has a very good attitude about all of this, though. Instead of pouting, he just decides that if he can’t tailgate, neither can Grandpa.

And so he will take Grandpa for a walk.

Chicken Nugget, if you play your cards right, I bet Grandpa will buy you a box of popcorn.

 

singing, couponing, and taxes: the life of the unemployed

I’ve recently found myself on the short end of the employment stick, and while there is much to dislike about unemployment, there is much to rejoice in. Here, a top 12 list of Good Things, re: Unemployment:

1. More time to research the actual words of songs, rather than what I think they are and have been singing for some time now. For example, the correct lyrics to the Four Tops’ song are actually, “ain’t no woman like the one I got,” NOT “ain’t no woman like a one-eyed slut.” Tell your friends.
2. When I go to the public library, I don’t feel so greedy when I check out seven books at once; now I can actually make a valiant attempt—and succeed—at reading all of them in the allotted two-week checkout time, instead of pretending like I have such exceptional time management that I can work, cook, eat, clean, exercise and read multiple books in as many weeks and don’t actually need to sleep.
3. I’ve always wanted to take up knitting.
4. No I haven’t.
5. More time to become the extreme couponer I’ve always wanted to be, even though those people terrify me.
6. Particularly because now that I ain’t got no job, saving money is more important than ever.
7. Except that, even in lean times, do I really need 1,247 packages of ramen noodles that I bought for -$5.22?
8. Finally a chance to dedicate more time to my passion: writing the next Great American Haiku.
9. Well, it is tax time….
10.   One word for you: Pinterest.
11.   I can finally go through the boxes I stashed in Swede’s basement a year ago and hopefully find my snowpants, even though apparently Old Man Winter is on vacation and was last seen slathering on SPF 75 and making a run for the beach.  Also, maybe I can find my salad spinner and bring it back to Chicago with me. I miss my salad spinner. Do you need your salad spun? I could do that for you. First spin is free, but after that, I’m charging. Gal’s got to make a living somehow, you know.
12.   More time for prayer. Because Holy Jesus I need a job if for no other reason than it’s been a week and a half and I’m already bored.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have some very important things to handle, such as making a nuisance of myself at the public library and manically pinning more things to my “Stuff to Wear” and “Wall Hangings” boards. For serious, people, it’s my busy season.

photo friday: bird of paradise

 

Her name is Rio and she dances on the saaaaaannnd! Just like that river twisting through the dusty land! 

Despite my beautiful singing voice, sometimes I’m really lucky The Swede doesn’t throw me overboard. Whatever. My sister thought it was funny.