Consumables #52

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Thanksgiving 2011

Remember when I said I was going to do NaBloPoMo? And then I didn't post for two weeks? Ha ha, wasn't that a good one? I love that story.

Well, since then, Thanksgiving has come and gone. Food was eaten, movies were watched, asses were expanded. Pretty much what one might expect.

More than any other holiday, Thanksgiving makes me think about family. What family means and who in my life is in the circle. Lucky for me, I have quite a crowded circle. I am a loyal sort of person and so once you're in the circle, I am not leaving you no matter what. Ok, maybe not no matter what. If you turn into a jerk or leave me first, I let you go. But that's pretty much the only two reasons that I will stop paying attention to you. Otherwise you are in love lockdown, buster. And not in a Kanye way, in a good way, so don't be frightened. Unfortunately there have been many people that have succumbed to those two reasons, which is super sad. But there are many who haven't, year after year, through so many nutty times. They continue to love me, and be there for me, and stay present, and not let the lack of time, or the size of distance, or the changing of circumstance get in the way. Considering the craziness of all of our lives, that is quite a feat. And it's those people I think about and feel so full of thankful for on thanksfullness day. Some of these folks are related to me by blood, and most of them are not, but they are all my family.

Because everyone is so far-flung in my life, many of my peeps are not in enough proximity for us to stuff our faces while in the same room. Kind of sucks. On the bright side, I do have some most-favorite of peeps right here in the vicinity and we did get together for a full meal throwdown. At our little table this year, my relationships with these three folks adds up to 53 years of love and commitment. Come on. That's amazing.

I really have amazing people in my life. I aspire to be as awesome as they are, to not turn into a jerk, and to not leave anyone behind. With peeps like I got, they make the first one hard but the last two easy.

Sparkles

I've somehow found myself at a party wearing a tiara that says zero on the front all night. Because my Sunday nights make total sense.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Jack Frost Nosing at Your Nip

I have a feeling that it's going to be a cold winter. I have no facts to base this on, and I don't even have some sort of ache or pain that can forecast weather, as apparently some people do. What is with those weather-related aches and pains? "My goiter is telling me it's going to hail tomorrow!" The Weather Channel should totally have some sort of mascot related to this idea. Like a puppet hip-bone with googly eyes on it that says "I'm aching, so get hip to the fact that we'll have rain tonight, homies!" You know, to relate to today's youth.


I am a font of dumb ideas, you guys. That is just the tip of the iceberg, you have no idea. Or should I say the hip of the iceberg? Haaaaaa.

In other wintery news, this week we pretty much only ate squash. Our CSA box is trying to turn us squashitarian I am pretty sure. I am not complaining though, because it has been tasty times. We have had butternut squash soup, and roasted delicata, and Indian Sweet Meat (dirty!) squash curry. This could get old pretty soon but so far I am loving it. We have also been having a Martha Stewart versus Deborah Madison smackdown each night, since they are our two go-to recipe people these days. So far, Deborah is winning, but Martha is scrappy. She may take over at any moment.

I am not a person who prefers the winter, never have been. This was most unfortunate when I was growing up in Michigan. There is nothing, I am sure, quite like the whine of a child whose parents came from the sunniest awesomeness on earth and ended up in the frozen midwest. Although I am now living in a much milder climate than the one in which I was raised, I am still not a huge fan of the winter months. To combat this, I shall try and list some sweet things that have happened this week that were made all the better because it is butt cold out.

1. Did I mention the squash? Let's start with the squash.
2. I met my friend Crafty Jenny for tea and warm cookies the other night. Mmmm.
3. The moon was full this week and looked so icy and silvery. Beauteous!
4. Our new furnace is rocking my SOCKS, you guys. Apparently our old one was made of ass, because it is so much nicer in our house now.
5. Our new insulated cork bedroom floors are nice and toasty. Makes it so much easier to get up in the morning.

That's all I got for now. But five is a good start right?

Wise Words

I one hundred percent stoled this from my friend over at Pixel and Post. I love it.

Found at YeeHaw on Etsy.

Extreme Not-a-makeover Home Edition

First of all, a couple of people called me out on naming anything that is required in the urban Seattle area "winter boots" in my last post. And yes, we seldom need snow gear to tromp around the puddles here, it is true. Maybe I should have called them rain boots. Consider me correcting this, lest you all think that Nordic Boy was sporting a pair of full on mukluks or what have you.
Now that we have gotten that out of the way, let's talk about two things that are basically the same but yet somehow I manage to love one of them and have a strong dislike for the other. The two things? Makeovers and "Before and After" photos.

For some reason, I am not a fan of calling something a makeover. I have no idea why. I must have had a really, really bad makeover in a past life or something. Like, maybe I was me in ancient Egypt and some ancient Egyptian spa person redid my whole look and gave me those Egyptian straight-across bangs and I was all "my forehead is too short for bangs, yo!" Because my forehead really is too short for those kind of bangs. And I assume that forehead dimensions are something that one carries from life to life. If I do really terribly in this life and come back as a dung beetle or something next time around, I assume my beetle cranium will still be equipped with a threehead.

On the other hand, I adore a set of two photos with the title "Before and After" to describe them. Same concept right? You take a picture, you change something up, you take another one. LOVE IT. I love a before and after in fashion, in interior design, in construction, in anything. I love those articles where they show you a photo of how a street looked a hundred years ago and then put the current same street view beside it. It doesn't have to be a before and after of improvement. I just like to see change over time, or circumstance, or effort. I am sure my feelings about the word makeover have something to do with commercialism, in that Charlie-Brown-Christmas sort of way. And the fact that people who do makeovers, especially on tv, seem like condescending buttholes a lot of the time. But let's not get into that, because it's tiresome.

Ever since we moved into our house, I have been in Before and After hog heaven. Nordic Boy is not the greatest at documenting his efforts, so it fell to me, and omg I LOVE IT. I have reams of photos of things that no earthly person besides me and him would ever care to see. Before the new wiring! After the new wiring! Before the caulking! After the caulking! I am not kidding. It is ba-nuts.

I take these photos, and then download them, and sometimes he and I look at them, especially when we look at our list of things still left to do and feel overwhelmed (that's mostly me, not him). It helps to look back and see, wow, actually a lot has happened already.

I feel, about these photos, like I would never subject them to other people. No one cares about our new light fixtures, I think. But then, I see how hard I salivate over other people's befores and afters, and it makes me think: maybe some of these might be fun to share? Ok, not the caulking ones (ha ha, I love saying "caulking"), but some of the other ones?

All this is to preface (SHUT UP AND SHOW THE PHOTOS ALREADY) that I might start putting some befores and afters on the bloggy. Shall I? Yes, I shall.

Let's start with a big one. When we bought our house, let's just say that we had to have a lot of Vision. It had good bones (ha ha, caulking and bones) but the other stuff was super janky. Nordic Boy knew this was our house the moment he laid eyes on it, but me? I sort of knew it, but really, I had to trust Nordic Boy's Vision. I can be Vision-impaired on things like this, especially when there is disrepair and disgusting cat pee carpet and smoke-stained yellow walls and a Jumanji yard.

One of the things that I hated about our house was the fireplace. At that point in time, we had much bigger fish to fry but I complained about that fireplace until Nordic Boy wanted to pitch a fit I am sure. Finally, he asked me what I would like the fireplace to look like. I replied that I didn't think it possible that I could EVER love that thing, no matter what happened. Nordic Boy took serious umbrage to that statement and dropped what he was doing and spent a weekend putting the fireplace problem right. Usually he will draw a picture/plan of what he is thinking so I can see it (due to my lack of Vision) but this time he didn't, and that was ok because I trust his aesthetic, and I trust that he knows mine, and actually those two things have a lot of overlap. Can I just tell you that I can't imagine being with someone who didn't understand my aesthetic? Like, if he all of a sudden wanted all white wicker furniture or something? That would be grounds for dismissal.

Please do not hate me, white wicker lovers. It is just not my thing, but it's ok that it is yours. Go forth and wicker yourself to your heart's content, by all means.

Anyway. Here's what it looked like when we moved in. It was a Pa Ingalls hot mess.

Here it is today.

That is my first before and after. More to come? I think? Maybe next time I shall show you some damn fine caulk.

After the boots of summer have gone

Monday. Blah. Here's my list of what's in my brain today.


1. I kind of want to do NaBloPoMoBloJoHo (I just like to add that last part on there because I am juvenile), and started to do it last week, but that didn't last very long. I guess I am still trying, if it even makes sense to do that. Just set your expectations way way low on that one though. Dial it all the way down.

2. The weather has turned. The best we can hope for is some blue sky every once in a while, but we know those days are numbered as well. This weekend, Nordic Boy started wearing his winter work boots while doing up his carpentry rigamarole in his shop. "The days for summer boots are gone," he said. Then we sang the chorus of Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" with the words "boots of summer" inserted, because that's how we do around here.

3. I have a new phone. I now need a new phone holder thing. I am having trouble finding one that meets my own personal design specifications. I came back from a shopping trip and Nordic Boy asked me if I found a phone case, and I said I didn't see any that I liked, and he said "I think we're starting up another pencil cup situation here." Because I spent three years looking for a pencil cup that met my aesthetic needs. And I never found one. So I just decided that I didn't need a pencil cup. And Nordic Boy never once said to me "IT IS JUST A PENCIL CUP GET OVER IT." Because he knows a battle that can't be won, plus he is nice to me like, all the time. Anyway, maybe I can just be really careful with my new phone?

4. I spent part of my weekend browsing some stores for wintery clothes. I have trouble with wintery clothes, mainly because I am not a fan of bulk, but I am also not a fan of being cold. My solution to this problem has been to just wear summer/spring/fall clothes which solves the bulk issue but doesn't solve the being cold issue. Between this and the pencil cup thing and the phone case thing I really find myself unbearable sometimes. It does save me money though, since impulse buying is sort of out.

5. Biogirl and I had a full on therapy session over the weekend about the remakes of Dirty Dancing and Footloose. In the conversation the following phrase was said: "YOU SIR, are no Kevin Bacon!" I think we can all adopt that phrase in a multitude of situations.

6. Biogirl, who has been coveting the Norm-in-Cheers status of "regular" for many years, finally got her wish at the brunch joint we frequent. We go there almost weekly, so it's about bloody time they recognize us. They knew her name! And what she wanted to order! It was a grand day in her life. I was glad to be there to witness.

7. We had dinner with our friends HVDM and her husband J. Afterward, we came over to my house and played Outburst. I was seriously off my game and this was evidenced by the following. I could not name all ten Robert Redford movies on the dang card, and I couldn't name off ten Shakespeare plays. What the eff, me? I might as well have forgotten the alphabet as far as I am concerned.

8. I finally signed up for pinterest. Let me know if you're on it too and I'll follow you.

9. It was Alli's birthday yesterday. There are a few things that make me feel melancholy around this time of year, and not being there for Alli's birthday is always one of them. We always did birthday shenanigans when we were kids! How dare she grow up and move away! Wait, that was me that moved away. I hate it when I have to blame myself for my own whining.

10. YOU SIR are no Kevin Bacon! I just wanted to say that again.

The Ultimate Reminder

I was sitting at my desk at work, juggling too many things. Too many windows open on my desk top, too many lists going on at once. An IM pops up on my screen. As I chat with my co-worker, I realize I have forgotten to do something for her that I said I would do.


"Poop!" I think to myself.

I turn to write down, on my to-do list, this thing that I should do for my co-worker. I write it down, only I don't write down what the task is. Instead I write down what I had said to myself in my head. Which was, let us reiterate: "Poop!"

I wrote Poop on my to-do list.

A few minutes later, I looked at my to-do list and realized what I did. It totally looks as though I had to make a note to myself to remind myself to do a deuce.

The classiness just blows you away, don't it?

Merce-y Me

Last week, Nordic Boy and I went to see the Merce Cunningham Legacy Tour. How to describe Merce Cunningham to non-dancey folks? That's a tough one. Let's just say that he was super prolific, his work was super brilliant, and to probably most people out there, his stuff is very, very deeply weird.


If you know something about ballet, and modern, and how they started to mush all together in the mid-twentieth centrury, Merce is totally fascinating. Where he took ideas about collaboration and autonomy of form and musicality (or lack thereof) can boggle a mind for sure. I happen to enjoy his work on its face, but I also enjoy it almost more for the ideas he's executing. I feel, when I watch his work, the same way that I feel reading a really dense piece of literature. It makes my brain hurt with everything that is going on- so many levels, it's just OUCH. I want a rewind button so I can go over parts of it again and again to figure it out, much like re-reading a passage in a book because the first time it's just WUT. In a good way.

I have a thing I do when I see dance in person, on tv, wherever. If I am engaged in what's happening, I sit on the edge of my seat, literally. I lean forward and stare. It's annoying I am quite sure. But I don't think there is anything on earth that makes me pay more attention than watching a kick ass dance. And Merce has me in that state.

That said, if you don't know what you're looking at, or even if you do, his shit is wacko looking. I would fully expect people to watch it and roll their eyes and giggle. I don't blame you, really. It looks strange. The music is strange. If I didn't know what I know, I would think it was coo coo for cocoa puffs.

When we were at the show last week, there were these two ladies that were sitting behind us, and I don't know what they thought they were there to see, but clearly they weren't expecting the nutty cha cha that was in process in front of their faces. After each piece, there would be a short pause, maybe of about 5 minutes. During this five minutes, these two ladies, who were apparently raised in the school of If You Can't Say Something Nice Don't Say a Goddamn Thing, tried to find something nice to say. The first pause went like this.

Lady #1: Well.
Lady #2: Yes. Well.
Lady #1: I, um. That was interesting.
Lady #2: Yes. Yes it was.
Lady #1: I thought the costumes were cute.
Lady #2: Me too! Definitely.

The costumes, let me point out, were plain off-white unitards. That is it. Pause #2?

Lady #1: Wow, that was just... great.
Lady #2: Sure. It really was.
Lady #1: They really must have to train a lot, huh?
Lady #2: I'm sure they do. Did you see their calves?

Calves. And costumes. You could just hear the strain in their voices. They wanted to yell out WHAT THE EFF AM I LOOKING AT, THESE PEOPLE LOOK LIKE THEY ARE HAVING FITS, but they were too refined for that. It was adorbs. I sort of loved those ladies.

During the show, there were a couple of points where I too reached my limit of weird. I can sustain a lot of weird, but Merce got me twice. Here's how.

First of all, there was a soprano who accompanied the first piece, and she was singing some crazy shit. It was like free jazz, only more free. No melody, no words. There was high, low, gutteral, and everything in between. She even had sound effects with her- she held up a jack in the box to her microphone at one point, and honked a horn at another point. It was kooky, but I was into the dance, it didn't matter. Go crazy, kooky lady, I can handle this. Until a really weird sound came over the mic, and I was like oh no she isn't, and I looked over and people! She was straight up GARGLING into the microphone. Holding a cup of water, head tipped back, holding a gargly note.

My weirdometer broke on that one. To paraphrase Meatloaf: I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR DANCE, BUT I CAN'T DO THAT.

I could not go with the gargling.

The second time my concentration was breached was during a point where a bunch of dancers were out on stage, jumping in a disjointed manner, all separate and deceptively random. The music was also dissonant and random, with sounds that included car horns and doorbells. Nordic Boy leaned up to me, in all my seated-at-the-edge-of-my-chair seriousness, and whispered: "Oh we are so doing this dance when we get home." Dudes, it was FUNNY. It was like when Jerry Seinfeld put his Pez dispenser on his knee at the piano show and Elaine got the giggles. I was Elaine. I am sure all the fancy dance people were appalled.

Anyway, despite these things, I loved the show. RIP, Merce. Thanks for the intellectually, artistically challenging wackness.

Consumables #51

I have never really understood it when people have told me that they lose touch with someone close to them, and then they just keep putting off and putting off calling them or sending them an email because it's been so long that they feel all this pressure to explain where they have been and to catch them up on every last thing that has happened in the interim, which will take a long time, and so then they put it off some more, and on and on. So much pressure we put on ourselves, people! There is enough pressure out there. Don't pile more on. Just get in touch with that person and say hey, what's up? I miss you. Also, lots of stuff has happened, but we'll get to that eventually. How are you?

 

If you promise to work on that one, I promise to work on one of my neuroses. Like how I sometimes think I talk too much. (Let's not all point to this bloggy as evidence that my powers of motor-mouthing might not be an unwarranted fear).

 

All of that is to say that I feel like I haven't done a Consumable in a while (like a whole month, egads) and rather than try to do a laundry list of all of the totality of the sum of everything for the past month, I'll just give you some greatest hits.

 

Bookth!

 

Nanjing Requiem, by Ha Jin

Hey, want to know what a horrifying time and place is? Nanjing, China in 1937, that's when. Ha Jin tells the fictionalized story of the for-real person named Minnie Vautrin, an American woman who worked as the dean of a college in Nanjing who ends up running a refugee shelter for more than 10,000 women and children during the town's invasion and afterwards. Jin's writing is his usual spare, straightforward language- no stylizing it up. To some this might seem like he's treating the subject too clinically- showing us what happened, period. To others, this style may hit the right chord of documentary-like candor. I felt both ways about it, which is so typical and tiresome of me, I know.

 

Hark! A Vagrant!, by Kate Beaton

Kate Beaton rocks it with her comics, for sure. She does funny commentary on everything from Jane Austen to Disraeli to Wonder Woman. She does make me feel terribly guilty that I don't understand the comics that have to do with Canadian politics. How is it that I know so little about Canadian politics? I feel like I know about politics. I even feel like I know about world politics. But yet, I realize with the Canucks, I have been remiss. I know NOTHING, it seems. I am that horrible neighbor who doesn't know what is going on right next door. So my reading her book went like this: ha ha! Funny! What does that one mean GUILT GUILT. Ha ha! Good one! Is that a Canadian politician? I have no idea who that is GUILT GUILT. So you should totally read it, just don't be like me, meaning (a) don't be a dumbass about Canada, and (b) if you are, don't sit there and feel bad about it the whole time.

 

In the TeeVee!

 

The Walking Dead

I really want the storyline to move faster. Too slow, zombies! I think I would enjoy this more if I waited for them on Netflix or whatever and just watched them all in a row.

 

Movies!

The Sorceror's Apprentice was on tv the other day, and I didn't even watch it but it brought me joy as any reference to this movie always does, because it reminds me of the time that Alli's husband Chris called it "The Wizard's Intern." Hee!

Fuel

Documentary about energy production, and hey, it ain't depressing. I know this deviates from my usual diet of depressing documentaries, but everyone's got to break out of the mold sometimes.

 

The Thin Man

I watched this one again and it's still awesome. Nick was such a boozehound, wasn't he? And Nora with her ridiculously fancy dressing gowns. And the repartee, so loverly.

 

Could that really be it for anything that I want to say about my month? I guess so.

 

Laters, my pretties!