Seven years, eight months, and 27 days. That's how far I got in my goal for a Puke-Free Decade. So tantalizingly close.
It all started on Boxing Day 2002: my 17 and 1/2 birthday. I was working my high school job selling tickets at the Duluth Omnimax Theatre when I started feeling odd. I was desperate to go home, but I had promised my big brother that I would comp tickets for him and his friends to see Shackleton's Antarctic Adventure at our 8:00 show. Shortly before he arrived, I upchucked. They came walking through the door joking and demanding a behind-the-scenes tour. "I can't," I groaned. "Jake, please take me home. I might die soon."
He refused, dedicated to learning about Shackleton's frigid plight. Then I upchucked again about 10 minutes into the show. I dragged myself up the stairs to find him at the top of the theater so I could stage whisper, "Jake. I'm begging you. I really need to go home. Please, for the love of Shackleton, take me home." Finally, he acquiesced.
I celebrated a much happier half-birthday the next year, and realized that it had been a whole year since I had puked. Then it was two, and then three years, despite my introduction to college drinking in general and UV Blue in particular. In '06 I had a Four More Years party, wherein my brother's friends tried to make me take shots and ruin my streak.
But nothing could ruin my streak. I apparently had a stomach of steel. Sure, there were times when I went one past my three-drink-per-night quota when I felt awfully dizzy and nauseated, but I refused to give in. Once I hit the five-year mark I set myself on a new goal: The Puke-Free Decade.
It seemed so easy, so attainable... until I jolted awake at 1:26 last night with terrible pains in my tummy. I rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable position. This wasn't just a normal stomachache, though. I felt an urge my body hadn't experienced in the entire life of the average second grader. "Am I really going to vom?!?" I thought to myself as I raced to the porcelain telephone. "I'm really going to vom! Noooooooooooo!"
I won't describe what happened next, other than to say it wasn't pretty. I trudged back to bed and wept salty tears of disgust and defeat. I mentally cursed everything I'd eaten that day, especially the sausage rolls appetizer I'd wolfed down at Brit's Pub last evening. I won't say they're full of poison, but I'm pretty sure they're full of poison.
Now I feel worthless. My Puke-Free Decade was the one thing I had going for me, the one thing that made me special and interesting. I have no reason to celebrate my half-birthday anymore. The streak was the perfect reason to throw myself a party. Celebrating your half-birthday for its own sake is just weird.
Sigh. I guess I'm seven hours in to my new streak...
September 23, 2010
September 14, 2010
Weeks of 10,000 Checklists
It's been nearly three weeks since we landed back in The Land of 10,000,000,000 Mosquitoes and so much has happened. We've reunited with family. We've reconnected with beloved friends. We've eaten alligator at the MN State Fair. We've welcomed the Jewish New Year. We've planned the crap out of our wedding. And we've started readying ourselves for the four-month separation when we'll be on different sides of the Atlantic.
I can't help but feel so grateful and full of love for everyone we have in our lives.
OK. Enough mush. Let me break it down for you so you can get caught up:
FRANCE UPDATE
I can't help but feel so grateful and full of love for everyone we have in our lives.
OK. Enough mush. Let me break it down for you so you can get caught up:
FRANCE UPDATE
- I never told you about my visa experience, did I? After the agony of waiting until the very last minute for my paperwork to arrive so I could go on my planned trip to San Fran, it arrived the very next week and I was thus able to keep the 6 a.m. flight to Oakland I had booked. To make a long story short, I had set my alarm for 4:40 p.m. instead of a.m., and made it to the airport mere minutes too late to get on my flight. Woe! But then I sweet-talked an airline agent into getting me on the very next flight to San Francisco and all was well in the world again. Weeee! The next morning my cousins and I arrived in the city with an hour to spare before my appt. We spent that time browsing the racks at Zara, where time apparently stands still. Oh wait. No. My watch stopped. Woe! But I made it on time and all my paperwork was in order and they sent my passport to my rents' house the next week with a beautiful visa in its pages. Weeee! Emotional roller coaster: over.
- I received an email from my school saying they would provide me with free housing in the school itself! Aside from the fact that I've always wanted to sleep in a school (nerd alert!), this is awesome for several reasons, namely: I don't have to bring a gazillion dollars to cover my deposit and first two month's rent before I get paid. My contact said they even provide all my linens and dishes and EVERYTHING!
- I get in to France on a Saturday and I won't be able to get into the school till Monday. Which means: weekend in Paris! And my fabulous friends Nick and Kelly are willing to house me in their apartment! Double score!
- Exclamation point!
- My FMIL (future mother-in-law) and I went shopping for the materials to assemble the brooch bouquets. My ma is hosting a fete des bouquets next Sunday chez PP in Duluth. Let me know if you'd like to join in on the fun.
- I went bridesmaid dress shopping with my 'maids at Flutter in Uptown on Saturday. Each one has a completely different dress-- silhouette, designer, and color. They're going to look so hot that if I was a bridezilla I'd make them wear bags over their heads. But I'm not so it never even entered my mind... er... yeah. They were kind enough to join me afterward for my hair consultation, some OMG SHOEZ shopping, and my makeup consultation thereafter. They are champs of the highest order.
- Not only did the ladies find dresses, but the FMIL did too! Actually, she found four, and I don't envy her having to choose between them because they're all hot to trot.
- So now all I have left to do is the save the dates and the invitations and the wedding website and the menu selection and the music and the I need to go vom now.
September 3, 2010
These girls are pretty hot, but they're all butterfaces*
My favorite part of the Minnesota State Fair always has been and will be the Princess Kay of the Milky Way revolving, refrigerated chamber of butter heads. It's some sort of beauty pageant for women related to dairy farmers. Though there can be only one Princess Kay, everyone's a winner because all the finalists get their heads carved out of a giant block of butter.
I like imagining this year's Thanksgiving dinner at these ladies' homes, where the turkey is not the piece de resistance. No, the most joyous moment of the meal is when Princess Kay's parents march in, holding their daughter's head immortalized in delicious Minnesota butter. They triumphantly plant her upon a pedestal in the middle of the table as Great Aunt Myrtle weeps and Grandpa Gilbert's chest puffs out with pride. At first people are hesitant to mar this masterpiece, but they soon get over their squeamishness as they smear a bit of her ear on their roll, the bridge of her nose on their corn. Cousin Jimmy will use a lock of her tresses to smother on his mashed potatoes, and make the inevitable joke about there being hair in his butter as everyone rolls their eyes.
*Joke courtesy of Chris Lund.
I like imagining this year's Thanksgiving dinner at these ladies' homes, where the turkey is not the piece de resistance. No, the most joyous moment of the meal is when Princess Kay's parents march in, holding their daughter's head immortalized in delicious Minnesota butter. They triumphantly plant her upon a pedestal in the middle of the table as Great Aunt Myrtle weeps and Grandpa Gilbert's chest puffs out with pride. At first people are hesitant to mar this masterpiece, but they soon get over their squeamishness as they smear a bit of her ear on their roll, the bridge of her nose on their corn. Cousin Jimmy will use a lock of her tresses to smother on his mashed potatoes, and make the inevitable joke about there being hair in his butter as everyone rolls their eyes.
*Joke courtesy of Chris Lund.
August 29, 2010
The subject of my bouquet has been brooched
You may remember my fleeting idea to carry a button bouquet in lieu of real flowers at my upcoming nups. My groom dissuaded me from that notion because it was "tacky," but no one has the power to divorce me from my more recent obsession: a bouquet made entirely of brooches. Sparkly, divine, hypoallergenic brooches, as seen here.
My mom and her crew of crafty buddies have taken this idea and run with it. Generous ladies from my temple and her office have procured baubles from estate and garage sales all over town. My future mother-in-law has also gotten in on the fun with her sisters-in-law, amassing some real finds. We recently decided that my bridesmaids will also be sporting some major broochiness, so we need all the help we can get.
Here's what we've gathered thus far:
And now a selection against a black backdrop for extra fanciness:
It's really a rather neat idea. I'll be able to keep this thing as a keepsake forever, and it has mementos in it from all the important women in my life.
My mom and her crew of crafty buddies have taken this idea and run with it. Generous ladies from my temple and her office have procured baubles from estate and garage sales all over town. My future mother-in-law has also gotten in on the fun with her sisters-in-law, amassing some real finds. We recently decided that my bridesmaids will also be sporting some major broochiness, so we need all the help we can get.
Here's what we've gathered thus far:
And now a selection against a black backdrop for extra fanciness:
It's really a rather neat idea. I'll be able to keep this thing as a keepsake forever, and it has mementos in it from all the important women in my life.
August 28, 2010
More taxidermied meese than you could shake a dead marmot at
I've been a bit off the grid lately, as I prepared to leave Portland and go eastward, ho! to Minnesota. The past weeks have been a blur of saying tearful goodbyes, gorging myself on as much Lovely's Fifty Fifty ice cream as my gut could contain, and discovering long-lost gloves. My ma flew in last Saturday and got right to work stuffing our woefully underpacked apartment into cardboard boxes, despite my frequent attempts to distract her with a cone of Lovely's salted caramel, which was, after all, only a twirl, leap, and a sashay away....
We somehow got everything packed and cleaned by Monday morning. After giving Fatty Fat Cat a final hiss we hit the road.
We spent an uneventful night in Missoula, and had a lovely breakfast that morning at Food For Thought. That was followed by a truly terrible meal at a Cracker Barrel somewhere in eastern Montana, and by nightfall we had almost reached our destination of Belfield, ND. On Sunday I had researched hotels in Dickinson, ND, our traditional post-second-leg-of-the-journey resting place, but they were all full. I looked at our options for Belfield, the next town over, and was delighted to see a vacancy at the family-owned Cowboy Inn. I immediately called and an 11-year-old-sounding lass took my reservation for Tuesday night.
Bleary-eyed and stumbling, we made it to the inn's main office minutes before their 9:00 closing time. We produced our surname and confirmation number to the proprietress, who found no record of our reservation for that night in her computer. We had been booked for Thursday night instead. And now they had no vacancies. "Zounds!" we exclaimed at each other, along with a few other choice words. We dragged ourselves to the only other prospect within miles, the Trapper's Inn.
An entire menagerie of taxidermied animals was pinned upon the lobby's walls. A bobcat sneered at us from behind the front desk. Rows of buck busts stared down upon us in betwixt a trio of gigantic moose. The back section of the gift shop was cordoned off to make room for a lifelike scene of beaver, grouse, and yet another deer.
These creatures were not for sale, but there was some particularly beautiful antler art that was. The piece below was an especial favorite of mine:
Thankfully our room did not include a single critter-- not even bedbugs, which my dear m'ma was quite concerned about. We took our breakfast in the inn's restaurant, which was populated by stuffed pheasant, grouse, and even a swan. Old iron traps were artfully strung along the wall like a garland. I asked our waitress where all this poor fauna came from, and she told me the entire lot had been shot and killed by the inn's owners and their family members.
We certainly weren't in Portland anymore...
We somehow got everything packed and cleaned by Monday morning. After giving Fatty Fat Cat a final hiss we hit the road.
We spent an uneventful night in Missoula, and had a lovely breakfast that morning at Food For Thought. That was followed by a truly terrible meal at a Cracker Barrel somewhere in eastern Montana, and by nightfall we had almost reached our destination of Belfield, ND. On Sunday I had researched hotels in Dickinson, ND, our traditional post-second-leg-of-the-journey resting place, but they were all full. I looked at our options for Belfield, the next town over, and was delighted to see a vacancy at the family-owned Cowboy Inn. I immediately called and an 11-year-old-sounding lass took my reservation for Tuesday night.
Bleary-eyed and stumbling, we made it to the inn's main office minutes before their 9:00 closing time. We produced our surname and confirmation number to the proprietress, who found no record of our reservation for that night in her computer. We had been booked for Thursday night instead. And now they had no vacancies. "Zounds!" we exclaimed at each other, along with a few other choice words. We dragged ourselves to the only other prospect within miles, the Trapper's Inn.
An entire menagerie of taxidermied animals was pinned upon the lobby's walls. A bobcat sneered at us from behind the front desk. Rows of buck busts stared down upon us in betwixt a trio of gigantic moose. The back section of the gift shop was cordoned off to make room for a lifelike scene of beaver, grouse, and yet another deer.
These creatures were not for sale, but there was some particularly beautiful antler art that was. The piece below was an especial favorite of mine:
Thankfully our room did not include a single critter-- not even bedbugs, which my dear m'ma was quite concerned about. We took our breakfast in the inn's restaurant, which was populated by stuffed pheasant, grouse, and even a swan. Old iron traps were artfully strung along the wall like a garland. I asked our waitress where all this poor fauna came from, and she told me the entire lot had been shot and killed by the inn's owners and their family members.
We certainly weren't in Portland anymore...
August 1, 2010
Digoin, the tiny French town where dreams come true
On Monday morning, I finally got the call I've been waiting for since hatching this crazy plan to move to France.
"It came! It came!" my dear p'pa sang to me. "Your contract is here!" I asked him what city was listed on the forms. "Dijon!" he cried.
Oh, jubilation! It was my secret wish to end up in this city of 150,000 dear French souls. I would be a mere 1.5 hour train ride from Paris. I would make legions of amies at the Université de Bourgogne. Restaurants, cafés, and yarn stores would abound. I asked Pa to email me the address of the school listed on the form so I could start researching the crap out of it.
Oh, woe. The lycée was actually in Digoin, not Dijon. Digoin, population 8,500. Digoin, which barely even has a Wikipedia page.
But then I did a bit more research using French Wikipedia, and discovered that this fair city is known for having a cool-looking bridge with a canal running through it, a ceramic factory, and an old church, and for really, really loving escargots. In 2007 they broke the record for snail consumption by hoovering 100,800 of the slimy little guys. The more I learn about it the more I've come to like the idea of living in this charming hamlet.
My main concern for the past week was how to get there. The first site I used told me it would take me more than 13 hours and five connections to get from airport to Digoin. The thought of lugging all my possessions with me from bus to train to train to train to bus after a seven-hour flight was far less than appealing. I also tried looking on the national railway website and it came up with errors every time I punched in Digoin as my destination. (I realize now that I was using the fields for getting real time arrival/departure information, which is why it didn't work. Whoops.)
I was getting a little freaked about the whole situation and the idea of being so inaccessible from Paris, so I got my creep on and started searching Facebook for Digoinais who looked nice and might give me tips. I sent a message to a kind-looking dame and didn't really expect a response. But! She not only wrote back and was super helpful, but it turns out she used to teach English at my future place of employment! And! She wants me to hang out with the adults she teaches English to now! In no time at all I suspect she'll ask to be my honorary French grandma and she'll teach me the secret art of making escargots de bourgogne.
She also confirmed something I've been wishing for on every detached eyelash: my school will in all likelihood provide me with free housing in their dormitory. That's many hundreds of euros saved that I can now spend gallivanting across the continent.
It feels so good to know there will be at least one friendly face waiting for me when I arrive in less than two months. If I'm really lucky, she'll be a knitter juste comme moi. I'll save my next five eyelashes to ensure that comes to pass.
"It came! It came!" my dear p'pa sang to me. "Your contract is here!" I asked him what city was listed on the forms. "Dijon!" he cried.
Oh, jubilation! It was my secret wish to end up in this city of 150,000 dear French souls. I would be a mere 1.5 hour train ride from Paris. I would make legions of amies at the Université de Bourgogne. Restaurants, cafés, and yarn stores would abound. I asked Pa to email me the address of the school listed on the form so I could start researching the crap out of it.
Oh, woe. The lycée was actually in Digoin, not Dijon. Digoin, population 8,500. Digoin, which barely even has a Wikipedia page.
But then I did a bit more research using French Wikipedia, and discovered that this fair city is known for having a cool-looking bridge with a canal running through it, a ceramic factory, and an old church, and for really, really loving escargots. In 2007 they broke the record for snail consumption by hoovering 100,800 of the slimy little guys. The more I learn about it the more I've come to like the idea of living in this charming hamlet.
 | |||
| Photo from projetbabel.org |
I was getting a little freaked about the whole situation and the idea of being so inaccessible from Paris, so I got my creep on and started searching Facebook for Digoinais who looked nice and might give me tips. I sent a message to a kind-looking dame and didn't really expect a response. But! She not only wrote back and was super helpful, but it turns out she used to teach English at my future place of employment! And! She wants me to hang out with the adults she teaches English to now! In no time at all I suspect she'll ask to be my honorary French grandma and she'll teach me the secret art of making escargots de bourgogne.
She also confirmed something I've been wishing for on every detached eyelash: my school will in all likelihood provide me with free housing in their dormitory. That's many hundreds of euros saved that I can now spend gallivanting across the continent.
It feels so good to know there will be at least one friendly face waiting for me when I arrive in less than two months. If I'm really lucky, she'll be a knitter juste comme moi. I'll save my next five eyelashes to ensure that comes to pass.
July 26, 2010
Indoors Girl meets Nature, doesn't die
I've never been ashamed of the fact that I'm an indoors kind of a girl. I like reading, knitting, and watching movies. I don't like getting dirty, being wet, or mosquitoes. So even though I live in what feels like the Camping Capital of the Universe, I never feel the urge to join in. You go carry all your provisions on your back and risk getting mauled by a bear and tempt malaria and squat to pee and sit around in your own filth for days. I'm going to make a strawberry meringue cake and watch a pithy French film.
But due to the whole not getting my contract situation last week (see previous post; update below), the gent had all sorts of time off and wanted to use it taking a trip to Crater Lake. A camping trip. Since Friday was our Negative One Anniversary, I decided, sigh, to be a good almost-wife and go with him.
Our friends Lrin and Erane were kind enough to lend us their tent and sleeping bags, and the gent purchased our provisions: marshmallows, chocolate, graham crackers, trail mix, bananas, beef jerky, peanut butter, jelly, and bread. I brought three changes of clothes, four pairs of socks, five books, and my neck support pillow.
We managed to snag the very last campsite-- there was a wuss family who left because they couldn't deal with the skeeters-- and we set to work building a fire so I could have what I came there for: an embarrassment of roasted marshmallows.
Some might say this didn't really count as camping, because our car was about 10 feet from our tent, and there were flush toilets a two-minute walk away. But I slept on the ground, dammit. I got really dirty foraging for wood and waited a whole half-hour before running to the bathroom to wash my hands. And when I woke up, I didn't shower. No sir. I splashed some water on my face and called it clean... eventhoughIknewIhadbugsprayinmyhairanditwasdrivingmecrazyandIfeltlikeIhadcreepycrawliesalloverme.
But it was all worth it, because I got to see stuff like this:
Contract update: Still nothing. I swallowed my fear of speaking French over the telephone and called there during my early morning/ their late afternoon. I'm pretty sure she said that everyone who could help me was on vacay for the rest of time so I was SOL. I do keep having dreams that I'll be placed in Auxerre, so there's that.
But due to the whole not getting my contract situation last week (see previous post; update below), the gent had all sorts of time off and wanted to use it taking a trip to Crater Lake. A camping trip. Since Friday was our Negative One Anniversary, I decided, sigh, to be a good almost-wife and go with him.
Our friends Lrin and Erane were kind enough to lend us their tent and sleeping bags, and the gent purchased our provisions: marshmallows, chocolate, graham crackers, trail mix, bananas, beef jerky, peanut butter, jelly, and bread. I brought three changes of clothes, four pairs of socks, five books, and my neck support pillow.
We managed to snag the very last campsite-- there was a wuss family who left because they couldn't deal with the skeeters-- and we set to work building a fire so I could have what I came there for: an embarrassment of roasted marshmallows.
Some might say this didn't really count as camping, because our car was about 10 feet from our tent, and there were flush toilets a two-minute walk away. But I slept on the ground, dammit. I got really dirty foraging for wood and waited a whole half-hour before running to the bathroom to wash my hands. And when I woke up, I didn't shower. No sir. I splashed some water on my face and called it clean... eventhoughIknewIhadbugsprayinmyhairanditwasdrivingmecrazyandIfeltlikeIhadcreepycrawliesalloverme.
But it was all worth it, because I got to see stuff like this:
Contract update: Still nothing. I swallowed my fear of speaking French over the telephone and called there during my early morning/ their late afternoon. I'm pretty sure she said that everyone who could help me was on vacay for the rest of time so I was SOL. I do keep having dreams that I'll be placed in Auxerre, so there's that.
July 21, 2010
The Story of How Ice Cream Made Everything Much More Better
I had a terrible day. A rotten, no good, horrible, all-wrong day. Let me whine to you about it for a little while. You'll like it.
A couple of months ago, upon the advice of the smarties running my program in France, I made an appointment to talk to the folks at the French Consulate in San Francisco for this Friday. The way the process works is that the school where I'll be teaching is supposed to send me an official contract (arrêté in Frenchy) saying that I'm legit to be in Franceland for an extended period of time. The contract will also finally make me privy to such apparently insignificant facts as what city I'm going to be in and how long I'm going to be there. You know, stupid stuff.
I need the contract before I can get my visa, and I need to go in person to SF to get said visa. So back in May I made that all-important appointment for this Friday, thinking I was giving myself legions of buffer time. That Guy I Live With took Thursday thru Sunday off so we could drive down there and make it a real adventure. It was all so perfectly planned. Except: I have received exactly bubkiss from France.
Thus I couldn't keep my Friday appointment. Thus I had to make a new appointment for the last week I'm in Portlandia. Thus I had to buy a plane ticket that will take me to the Mecca of Awesome (Oakland). Thus I was very upset and may or may not have shed numerous tears in my office-cave.
In an effort to cheer me up, my buddies Do and Janielle insisted that I join them for lunch. I had a lovely time with my lovely friends until it was time to pay. I rooted through my Nina Toten Bag and could not seem to find my wallet in betwixt various other flotsam. I figured it had to be in the vicinity of my desk, because I had just used my card to buy a ticket to the Mecca of Awesome. We got back to the office and it was exactly nowhere. My already fragile nerves got so bo-jangly that I was pretty sure I was going to simultaneously vomit everywhere and scream in a pitch only alpacas can hear. I retraced my steps with Janielle, all the while thinking about all the irreplaceable things i had in my wallet, like my high school library card, and trying so so hard not to cry.
We made it to the restaurant where we had just dined and the proprietor proffered my wallet the moment we entered the premises.
"Bless you!" I exclaimed. "Seriously. Bless you! Bless you! I mean it. Bless you!" (I don't know. It seemed like the most appropriate response.)
I forced another friend to join me for happy hour so she could tell me happy things that would distract from Woe Day. Afterward, we went to Lovely's Fifty Fifty, which has the most superior ice cream in my neighborhood. It's much nobler than that at another new scoop shop I shall not name, whose caramel salted chocolate ice cream was so saltily inedible I feel the need to defame it at every opportunity. But at Lovely's I had a dish of their coffee toffee ice cream with candied almonds and hazelnuts.
And that made my day much more better. The end.
Postscript: I was relating the day's woes whilst cuddling with That Guy and the right shoulder strap on my prettiest, pinkest summer dress snapped. Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow will be a better day. Amen.
A couple of months ago, upon the advice of the smarties running my program in France, I made an appointment to talk to the folks at the French Consulate in San Francisco for this Friday. The way the process works is that the school where I'll be teaching is supposed to send me an official contract (arrêté in Frenchy) saying that I'm legit to be in Franceland for an extended period of time. The contract will also finally make me privy to such apparently insignificant facts as what city I'm going to be in and how long I'm going to be there. You know, stupid stuff.
I need the contract before I can get my visa, and I need to go in person to SF to get said visa. So back in May I made that all-important appointment for this Friday, thinking I was giving myself legions of buffer time. That Guy I Live With took Thursday thru Sunday off so we could drive down there and make it a real adventure. It was all so perfectly planned. Except: I have received exactly bubkiss from France.
Thus I couldn't keep my Friday appointment. Thus I had to make a new appointment for the last week I'm in Portlandia. Thus I had to buy a plane ticket that will take me to the Mecca of Awesome (Oakland). Thus I was very upset and may or may not have shed numerous tears in my office-cave.
In an effort to cheer me up, my buddies Do and Janielle insisted that I join them for lunch. I had a lovely time with my lovely friends until it was time to pay. I rooted through my Nina Toten Bag and could not seem to find my wallet in betwixt various other flotsam. I figured it had to be in the vicinity of my desk, because I had just used my card to buy a ticket to the Mecca of Awesome. We got back to the office and it was exactly nowhere. My already fragile nerves got so bo-jangly that I was pretty sure I was going to simultaneously vomit everywhere and scream in a pitch only alpacas can hear. I retraced my steps with Janielle, all the while thinking about all the irreplaceable things i had in my wallet, like my high school library card, and trying so so hard not to cry.
We made it to the restaurant where we had just dined and the proprietor proffered my wallet the moment we entered the premises.
"Bless you!" I exclaimed. "Seriously. Bless you! Bless you! I mean it. Bless you!" (I don't know. It seemed like the most appropriate response.)
I forced another friend to join me for happy hour so she could tell me happy things that would distract from Woe Day. Afterward, we went to Lovely's Fifty Fifty, which has the most superior ice cream in my neighborhood. It's much nobler than that at another new scoop shop I shall not name, whose caramel salted chocolate ice cream was so saltily inedible I feel the need to defame it at every opportunity. But at Lovely's I had a dish of their coffee toffee ice cream with candied almonds and hazelnuts.
And that made my day much more better. The end.
Postscript: I was relating the day's woes whilst cuddling with That Guy and the right shoulder strap on my prettiest, pinkest summer dress snapped. Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow will be a better day. Amen.
July 19, 2010
Monsieur Fatty Fat Cat
This cat has been stalking our apartment for a good month now. He's enormously fat and whiny and wobbly. His favorite things include: sitting outside our windows/doors and meowing incessantly, scratching at our front door at all hours of the night until we open it and hiss at him, and lounging on the concrete walkway directly in front of our home. He's so fat that his stomach almost brushes the ground when he waddles from window to window to torture us. We thought he might be pregnant, but a Cat-pert took a closer gander and saw that he'd been fixed.
He's obviously never looked at my Facebook profile, because if he had he'd know that one my favorite activities is Insulting Cats Right to Their Faces. And boy, do I.
July 6, 2010
Robo wants to wish TP a happy third birthday
On our birthdays my mom always likes to tell her spawn their birth stories. (Mine goes a little something like, "They put me in a terribly cold and sterile room and my doctor was MEAN!" Explains a lot, oui?)
TP, here's yours:
Recent graduates Anna and Neenuh had just spent their very first month apart whilst slaving away at their respective West Coast internships. They wanted a way to share their adventures with the world, and they thought with their powers combined they could make it so, so good. While they Gchatted away on that fateful July 5, a blog was born.
Anna: ok I need a new blog name because wonk is apparently close to a famous blogger name
what's a good one? also, we need a blog name
I was thinking, like, "the *something truth"
or something
me: truth pirates
Anna: perfThroughout our various outposts in California, DC, Minnesota and Oregon, we've kept her alive against (sob!) ALL THE ODDS! And when I venture to Francey in two short months, Tyranamas Pyrgmates will remind me to give TP all my amour on the reg.
June 30, 2010
Conversations from my French class, translated for your entertainment
I started taking a once-weekly intermediate French class last week in hopes of improving my dastardly speaking skills. It turns out "intermediate" can mean anything from a 15-year-old who just finished her first year of high school French, to her father, who had one year of high-school French 30 years ago, to a guy who lived in Quebec for 10 years, to a charming 20-something who has a BA in the language and is looking to dust off her skills before going to France for a year. Oh, wait. That's me!
For the past two Mondays, I have been paired with a fellow I'll call "Guy" for our designated conversation practice time. I think Guy took a few years of Spanish way back when, and he feels like those language skills were immediately applicable to French. That would at least explain why he pronounces the "s" in "dans" and pronounces the "e" at the end of words like "banane" as "ay" (/buh-NAHN-ay/).
This week we had to devise our own situations where one person is a salesperson and the other is a customer. I did my best to translate literally, for your maximum enjoyment. Our exchange went a little like this:
Guy: Hello, ma'am. What do you desire?
Me: I desire a hat for my dog.
Guy: A what?
Me: A hat for my dog, so he doesn't gain a sunburn.
Guy: Sunburn? What is this?
Me: It is when the sun makes the skin blush.
Guy: Oh. OK. We have a hat on the third floor.
Me: Where is it made? I do not support hats that are not made in France.
Guy: There is a factory in England.
Me: Oh. Can I wash this hat at my house or do I need to bring it to a dry cleaner?
Guy: A dry cleaner? What is this?
Me: The place where the professional men wash clothes.
Guy: Shampoo?
Me: No. It is a store. It is a store where people take the clothes that are delicate and say goodbye to the brown things. They wash it very gently.
Guy: I do not understand.
Me: When you wear a tuxedo, you can not wash the earth off it at your house. You must take it to a dry cleaner.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: Um. I buy it. Thank you. Goodbye.
Guy: Goodbye, ma'am.
Next we were in a restaurant, where I decided to try being funny. I'm not sure why, since I've learned time and again that my humor doesn't translate.
Guy: Hello m'am. Welcome to the restaurant. What would you desire?
Me: I desire a sandwich.
Guy: Which meat do you desire?
Me: I desire a sandwich of pigeons.
Guy: Pigeons? I do not understand.
Me: It is a bird. It is similar to a dove. It is gray. It is a rat that flies.
Guy: Dove? I do not understand.
Me: The dove symbolizes peace. It is white.
Guy: Oh. OK. But pigeon?
Me: It is almost the same word in English. (Enunciating really hard and jutting neck forward) Peed-zjon.
Guy: Oh. Oh! This is bizarre. We do not have pigeons.
Me: I saw some on the street. You could kill them for me.
Guy: In five minutes, I do this.What would you like to drink?
Me: I would like the juice of socks.
Guy: Socks? What is this?
Me: It is the clothing you put on before you put on the shoe.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: (Pointing at other students) Those people are wearing socks. We are not wearing socks.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: (Pantomiming putting a sock on) One puts it on the feet. It can be made with the hair of a sheep.
Guy: Oh. Oh! This is bizarre.
Me: Yes. I have desires that are bizarre.
Guy: Good appetite!
For the past two Mondays, I have been paired with a fellow I'll call "Guy" for our designated conversation practice time. I think Guy took a few years of Spanish way back when, and he feels like those language skills were immediately applicable to French. That would at least explain why he pronounces the "s" in "dans" and pronounces the "e" at the end of words like "banane" as "ay" (/buh-NAHN-ay/).
This week we had to devise our own situations where one person is a salesperson and the other is a customer. I did my best to translate literally, for your maximum enjoyment. Our exchange went a little like this:
Guy: Hello, ma'am. What do you desire?
Me: I desire a hat for my dog.
Guy: A what?
Me: A hat for my dog, so he doesn't gain a sunburn.
Guy: Sunburn? What is this?
Me: It is when the sun makes the skin blush.
Guy: Oh. OK. We have a hat on the third floor.
Me: Where is it made? I do not support hats that are not made in France.
Guy: There is a factory in England.
Me: Oh. Can I wash this hat at my house or do I need to bring it to a dry cleaner?
Guy: A dry cleaner? What is this?
Me: The place where the professional men wash clothes.
Guy: Shampoo?
Me: No. It is a store. It is a store where people take the clothes that are delicate and say goodbye to the brown things. They wash it very gently.
Guy: I do not understand.
Me: When you wear a tuxedo, you can not wash the earth off it at your house. You must take it to a dry cleaner.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: Um. I buy it. Thank you. Goodbye.
Guy: Goodbye, ma'am.
Next we were in a restaurant, where I decided to try being funny. I'm not sure why, since I've learned time and again that my humor doesn't translate.
Guy: Hello m'am. Welcome to the restaurant. What would you desire?
Me: I desire a sandwich.
Guy: Which meat do you desire?
Me: I desire a sandwich of pigeons.
Guy: Pigeons? I do not understand.
Me: It is a bird. It is similar to a dove. It is gray. It is a rat that flies.
Guy: Dove? I do not understand.
Me: The dove symbolizes peace. It is white.
Guy: Oh. OK. But pigeon?
Me: It is almost the same word in English. (Enunciating really hard and jutting neck forward) Peed-zjon.
Guy: Oh. Oh! This is bizarre. We do not have pigeons.
Me: I saw some on the street. You could kill them for me.
Guy: In five minutes, I do this.What would you like to drink?
Me: I would like the juice of socks.
Guy: Socks? What is this?
Me: It is the clothing you put on before you put on the shoe.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: (Pointing at other students) Those people are wearing socks. We are not wearing socks.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: (Pantomiming putting a sock on) One puts it on the feet. It can be made with the hair of a sheep.
Guy: Oh. Oh! This is bizarre.
Me: Yes. I have desires that are bizarre.
Guy: Good appetite!
June 26, 2010
Please don't get us the Wii
Like most things having to do with wedding planning, registering for gifts is not as fun as I thought it would be. I imagined myself frolicking through the stores, scanner in hand, delightedly blipping upon anything and everything I never knew I always wanted but couldn't afford.
Instead, we had a two-hour slog through gargantuan floor of home goods at Macy's in the Clackamas Town Center. I guess I kind of forgot I wouldn't be doing it all by myselfsies, with only my own particular whims to satisfy. Our exchanges went a little something like this:
Me: "Standing mixer! Squee! I want a color that will pop. How about apple?"
Him: "I like red better."
Me: "I feel like red will clash with too many things."
Him: "And apple green won't?"
Me: "OK... why don't we just get silver then?"
Him: "I thought you wanted something that would pop. I like the red"
Me: "Thisismydreamapplianceandifyoudon'tletmegetitinthecolorIwantIwillscream."*
The sales guy had the attitude that since we weren't buying any of this stuff for ourselves, we should register for the highest quality (and thus most insanely expensive) stuff they had. I almost let myself be persuaded to get the $599 tri-ply cookware set, but Matt made the excellent point that I wouldn't notice the difference between that and the $279 bonded set. It's weird putting the really expensive stuff on there. I feel like I should put a caveat on them that says, "Um...this is kind of a pipe dream. Feel free to get us the ice cream scoop instead. I swear we're not greedy."
We still can't agree on bedding-- I like bright, fun patterns and he likes...taupe-- but we had a major coup yesterday when we finally agreed on a china pattern we could both stand to stare at for the next 70 years. It's called Noritake Platinum Wave, which sounds in equal parts exotic, luxe, and fun. Our sales dude said it was made of bone china, which you could stand on and it wouldn't break. I should have made him prove it. Next time.
Matt was pretty registered-out by the time we were done, so I created our Target registry online while he took a nap. When he woke up, he snatched my laptop off my lap and registered for his version of the standing mixer: a Wii. I grew up in a video game-free house, and the idea of having one--relatively innocuous though the Wii may be--is slightly vomitous.
*This is a dramatization. What really happened is I registered for the red and then when we got home I snuggled up to him, batted my eyelashes, and asked very sweetly if I could change it to apple online. So that's how it's gonna be...
Instead, we had a two-hour slog through gargantuan floor of home goods at Macy's in the Clackamas Town Center. I guess I kind of forgot I wouldn't be doing it all by myselfsies, with only my own particular whims to satisfy. Our exchanges went a little something like this:
Me: "Standing mixer! Squee! I want a color that will pop. How about apple?"
Him: "I like red better."
Me: "I feel like red will clash with too many things."
Him: "And apple green won't?"
Me: "OK... why don't we just get silver then?"
Him: "I thought you wanted something that would pop. I like the red"
Me: "Thisismydreamapplianceandifyoudon'tletmegetitinthecolorIwantIwillscream."*
The sales guy had the attitude that since we weren't buying any of this stuff for ourselves, we should register for the highest quality (and thus most insanely expensive) stuff they had. I almost let myself be persuaded to get the $599 tri-ply cookware set, but Matt made the excellent point that I wouldn't notice the difference between that and the $279 bonded set. It's weird putting the really expensive stuff on there. I feel like I should put a caveat on them that says, "Um...this is kind of a pipe dream. Feel free to get us the ice cream scoop instead. I swear we're not greedy."
We still can't agree on bedding-- I like bright, fun patterns and he likes...taupe-- but we had a major coup yesterday when we finally agreed on a china pattern we could both stand to stare at for the next 70 years. It's called Noritake Platinum Wave, which sounds in equal parts exotic, luxe, and fun. Our sales dude said it was made of bone china, which you could stand on and it wouldn't break. I should have made him prove it. Next time.
Matt was pretty registered-out by the time we were done, so I created our Target registry online while he took a nap. When he woke up, he snatched my laptop off my lap and registered for his version of the standing mixer: a Wii. I grew up in a video game-free house, and the idea of having one--relatively innocuous though the Wii may be--is slightly vomitous.
*This is a dramatization. What really happened is I registered for the red and then when we got home I snuggled up to him, batted my eyelashes, and asked very sweetly if I could change it to apple online. So that's how it's gonna be...
June 23, 2010
Skylines of the Pac N-Dubs
A couple of weekends ago we were treated to a brief reprieve in the unusual soggy sogfest the past three months have been. Matt and I decided to walk downtown from our apartment and we were treated to some lovely views of this fair city from the Broadway Bridge.
The very next day I took the train up to Seattle for my cousin's graduation. It was the most beautiful day in all the woyld, and it just so happens that we had reservations at the top of the Space Needle. The restaurant makes a verrrrrrrrrrry slooooooooooooow revolution (so you don't ralph), and we got to see the whole entire city before it got dark out.
Today was another long-anticipated gift from the heavens. Portland looks a whole lot better when the sun is shining...there's really nothing that compares. It made me a little sad, because we have about two months left here before I blow this popsicle stand, and I don't know if we'll be coming back. At this point it seems most likely that we'd land back in the Minne Apple post-nuptials. While being in closer proximity to many of my favorite people would be great, I'm going to miss it out here so much.
The very next day I took the train up to Seattle for my cousin's graduation. It was the most beautiful day in all the woyld, and it just so happens that we had reservations at the top of the Space Needle. The restaurant makes a verrrrrrrrrrry slooooooooooooow revolution (so you don't ralph), and we got to see the whole entire city before it got dark out.
Today was another long-anticipated gift from the heavens. Portland looks a whole lot better when the sun is shining...there's really nothing that compares. It made me a little sad, because we have about two months left here before I blow this popsicle stand, and I don't know if we'll be coming back. At this point it seems most likely that we'd land back in the Minne Apple post-nuptials. While being in closer proximity to many of my favorite people would be great, I'm going to miss it out here so much.
June 10, 2010
Neenuh's Rules of Matrimony
1. No gifts required. If you receive an invitation to our nuptials, it's because we want you there, not because we want to milk your bank account dry. Different rules apply to rich relatives and parental friends, of course, but only until I receive the coveted KitchenAid Standing Mixer. Once that has been checked off the registry everything else is just gravy.
2. Down with the one gift per event rule! If you decide to give me a lovely toilet brush for a bridal shower, consider your gift obligation fulfilled. You most certainly do not need to purchase a matching toilet brush holder for the wedding itself.
3. The bachelorette party will be phallus-free. I do not need to be reminded of male genitalia everywhere I look. I want a tame tea party where we play Truth or Truth and then we're safely tucked in bed by 9:30. Anna, as one of my bridesbitches, I want you to make that happen.
4. Anyone that we made out with in former lives is not invited. Sorry Prince; that means you.
5. Do not mock my creative touches. I'm going to have a brooch bouquet. Deal with it. And if I decide to paint my face like a bunny, it's because that's my power animal. And if my brothers duet on Mary Poppin's "Feed the Birds," it's because that's my favorite song. Get over it. In return, I won't mock the silver spray-painted and glittered animal pelts you had as your centerpieces.
6. Tribe it up. There will be glass breaking, chair dancing, hava nagilah-ing, and mazel tov-ing. L'chaim!
7. Go easy on the open bar. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Every drink you swizzle means one less diaper for my future progeny.
2. Down with the one gift per event rule! If you decide to give me a lovely toilet brush for a bridal shower, consider your gift obligation fulfilled. You most certainly do not need to purchase a matching toilet brush holder for the wedding itself.
3. The bachelorette party will be phallus-free. I do not need to be reminded of male genitalia everywhere I look. I want a tame tea party where we play Truth or Truth and then we're safely tucked in bed by 9:30. Anna, as one of my bridesbitches, I want you to make that happen.
4. Anyone that we made out with in former lives is not invited. Sorry Prince; that means you.
5. Do not mock my creative touches. I'm going to have a brooch bouquet. Deal with it. And if I decide to paint my face like a bunny, it's because that's my power animal. And if my brothers duet on Mary Poppin's "Feed the Birds," it's because that's my favorite song. Get over it. In return, I won't mock the silver spray-painted and glittered animal pelts you had as your centerpieces.
6. Tribe it up. There will be glass breaking, chair dancing, hava nagilah-ing, and mazel tov-ing. L'chaim!
7. Go easy on the open bar. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Every drink you swizzle means one less diaper for my future progeny.
May 10, 2010
Weirdify Your Wedding
Etsy is the eclectic bride's best friend. You can find all sorts of bizarre and random things to make your special day that much more special-er-- and unique. Heaven help you if your wedding is not unique, for then no one will remember it. If no one remembers it, there's no way you're going to get that automatic paper towel dispenser you registered for. That's just the rules.
Following are a few items I found whilst browsing this weekend:
1. Button Bouquet
There are lots of things I like about buttons. Buttons never die. Buttons don't make my eyes itch or my nose run. Post-wedding, I could use the buttons to fasten things. When's the last time you used a dying flower to do ANYTHING except teach you about the process of withering?
2. Tricked-out baby hats
I don't want any bare-headed babies at my wedding. Just like men 50 years their senior, they should be embarrassed by their lack of locks. Thankfully an Etsy vendor has recognized the need and created a whole line of fancy headbands and caps to slap on sleeping but pensive babies at weddings everywhere.
3. A cartoonish cake-topper
I'm not planning on having a wedding cake (I'll take a tower of French macarons, thankyouverymuch/ mercibeaucoup), but if I did have one this is what I would want to top it. The cartoonish vibe of the piece will tell my guests that I'm not quite ready to grow up, while the tortoise bride and grooms will act as a symbolic apology for how long our ceremony was.
4. Flask Favors
What better memento of how drunk you got on our wedding night than a flask that's artfully decorated with a souvenir bottle cap from the libation that re-introduced you to your dinner? These suckers go for $11.99 a pop (the cap adds an extra $4--hey! it was crafted!), so you better treasure it. When I come over in three years I want to see it featured prominently in your curio cabinet.
Following are a few items I found whilst browsing this weekend:
1. Button Bouquet
There are lots of things I like about buttons. Buttons never die. Buttons don't make my eyes itch or my nose run. Post-wedding, I could use the buttons to fasten things. When's the last time you used a dying flower to do ANYTHING except teach you about the process of withering?
2. Tricked-out baby hats
I don't want any bare-headed babies at my wedding. Just like men 50 years their senior, they should be embarrassed by their lack of locks. Thankfully an Etsy vendor has recognized the need and created a whole line of fancy headbands and caps to slap on sleeping but pensive babies at weddings everywhere.
3. A cartoonish cake-topper
I'm not planning on having a wedding cake (I'll take a tower of French macarons, thankyouverymuch/ mercibeaucoup), but if I did have one this is what I would want to top it. The cartoonish vibe of the piece will tell my guests that I'm not quite ready to grow up, while the tortoise bride and grooms will act as a symbolic apology for how long our ceremony was.
4. Flask Favors
What better memento of how drunk you got on our wedding night than a flask that's artfully decorated with a souvenir bottle cap from the libation that re-introduced you to your dinner? These suckers go for $11.99 a pop (the cap adds an extra $4--hey! it was crafted!), so you better treasure it. When I come over in three years I want to see it featured prominently in your curio cabinet.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)