Happy cats make for happy homes

 
adolescence Alabama beliefs blogging calm change Chicago crisis crushes dreams family fear flint hills food friends happiness health being a hippie holiday home internship kids loss love magic memories money music parties perfection plants projects relationships relaxation reminiscing ritual school social work issues spirits sports stress style the South violence weather weather worries writing

CURRENT MOON

 

Go now. Go.


There’s something about Sunday night
that really makes you want to kill yourself
Subscribe to this blog
for e-mail updates
 

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Party spread

The menu


Peach pie


Carrot cupcakes


Chocolate cheesecakes



The table


I like grown-up presents! They include things like lots of bottles of wine, exotic dark lilies, and candy bars like the Black Pearl:



It was a good, small-ish party, filled with good conversation with people I love, who braved the terrible storms to come celebrate with me. Altogether perfect.

Labels: , ,

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Party

I'm in the middle of preparing for my birthday party tonight, a dessert extravaganza. It just stopped lightning-ing and thundering, and the air is now cool and drizzling. It reminds me of late-summer Kansas.

Preparing for the party reminds me of Alabama. My main social outlet for a while there was having parties. I'd spend the afternoon planning the menu, shopping, and preparing. I'm like pathologically organized, so there usually weren't any last-minute scrambles. The party almost wasn't the point; the preparation was.

When I've told people about this party, their usual response is, "but it's your birthday! You shouldn't be the one making everything." They don't realize that it's the best present to myself--getting to daydream about what deliciousness I'm going to cook, poring over my overstuffed recipe collectiong, preparing the food, and hosting the party.

The party starts in two and a half hours, and everything is mostly ready. Pictures to follow.

Labels:

Monday, August 13, 2007

Getting to know you

When I was a freshman in college, I was hanging out a lot with a guy named Tony who got a new roommate halfway through the first semester, Gene. Tony spent a lot of time away from the room, because he didn't know the guy--thought he was weird. One night I went over there when both of them were home, and instead of going out, I had both of them settle in, and I gave Gene the third degree. For the next few hours, he talked about himself and answered every question I could think to ask. (It was fairly easy; I quickly discovered Gene really liked to talk about himself.) By the end of the evening, Tony knew Gene inside and out, and Gene was my new best friend.

College was conducive to getting to know people. Everyone seemed eager to throw everything they were at everyone they met, "this is me, this is me!". I remember hours and hours of bad poetry (most of it mine), shared in cramped dorm rooms. For a long time, that's how I began relationships (what did I know? Then I was a novice.)--by reading all my tortured poetry, and listening to theirs. Once an entire (albeit shortlived) relationship revolved around sharing Jim Morrison lyrics.

I felt I'd miss out on friendship and relationship opportunities if I didn't spill everything. Or that there couldn't be any secrets; someone couldn't really get to know me unless they knew everything.

The older I get, the less comfortable I am with that. Who I really am is a protective layer, and I feel too exposed to share it all too soon. Thus, I am somewhat taken aback by people who share (what I think is) too much, who become friends too quickly. Sometimes I find people with whom I am immediately comfortable. I talk and talk, and while I should take that as a sign that I've met a compatible soul, later, I'm still a little embarrassed, to realize how much I've revealed.

I'm drawn to the quieter, more reticent people. (It's a trap I fell into all too easily when dating, believing it was the shy boys who held the real mystery. My friend Bob said, "maybe they're just boring," but I always believed I was the one to whom they'd open up.) It does seem more exciting, finding things out slowly, and infinitely more satisfying. It's getting to gradually form an entire picture bit by bit in your mind yourself, rather than being presented at once with the entire thing.

But sometimes it makes for surprises. I have a friend from school whom I adore. It's taken a while to get to know her, but now we are fairly close. The only thing about her that I can't reconcile is that she hates cats and dogs. The idea I have in my head of her, the one that's been constructed by slowly getting to know her (and other friends agree) is that she most definitely would be a cat lover. It baffles me that my assessment was wrong. But I suppose that's the interesting part of it, too, reconfiguring who I believe she is.

Labels: , ,

Monday, August 06, 2007

Appeasing the vanity

Though I usually forget about it, seeing a picture of myself reminds me of it like a smack in the face. My nose has been spotted for the past ten years, marked by my third nose ring, an ill-advised silver stud that tattooed its tarnish into my right nostril. I am paralyzingly self-conscious about it when I think of it. I believe it looks like rot on my skin.

And for years, my dad has supported me (yet solidifying the insecurity) by saying he'll pay for me to have it removed. For some reason, I finally took the steps this summer to have it done.

It's appallingly expensive, how much laser procedures cost. I finally found a place that is less pricey than others I researched, but still run by doctors. It's located on the Gold Coast in downtown Chicago, a swank clinic led by the most bosomy, golden-skinned receptionists I've ever seen. The whole office is posh, and I felt a smidge out of place there in my cut-off jean shorts and dirty tennis shoes.

Mostly, though, I didn't care. I was paying for my own procedures, just like the glossy, manicured ladies who sat next to me, waiting, on the velvet couches. I don't have time anymore, to feel self-conscious. If I really cared about what others think of my appearance, I would have to spend more time applying makeup and deciding what uncomfortable shoes to wear.

That might not appear true, however, considering I'm getting a sort of cosmetic surgery. However, a big grey spot seems different than sun spots on my cheeks, or even a pimple. It just looks unnatural. And I'm getting sick of people saying, "um . . . you have something on your nose," or even (and I'm not even lying, this has actually happened multiple times) licking their finger and trying to rub the spot off themselves. (Obviously, those people were strangers, who did not know what the spot was--which is even more disturbing.)

So I was photographed in a "pre" shot, by an employee who cheerfully told me about her own breast implants, done eleven years ago, then ushered to a cubicle with the machinery. The door opened, and I thought another patient was passing by, but it was actually the nurse. She was a blonde goddess, with flawless skin and fabulous, indubitably silicone, cleavage. She bent over me with the laser gun, sting, sting, sting, my right eye emptied a waterfall onto my cheek, and less than five minutes later, she put away her tool and dispensed some skin care advice. For that whole experience, I paid $150. (And there's even no guarantee the laser will break up the spot and make it disappear, since the doctor who consulted on me has only ever done ink tattoos. There's no precedent for silver tarnish tattoos.)

I know, I know, I know about the dangers of sun damage, but I just can't get myself all worked up over her words of doom about "age spots." I kind of don't care. I have more angst over my eye wrinkles right now. I'm not going to wrap myself up like a mummy every summer. I don't mind the aging process (in some ways!). I feel like it's a slippery slope to start worrying about those kinds of things, anyway. Millions of dollars later, and hours spent in close examination at the mirror, I'm still going to continue to get older, and my body will show that off. It's nice to realize I'm not kowtowing any longer to society's pressure to maintain youthful perfection. So much less to worry about.

Labels: ,

Sunday, August 05, 2007

Anniversary

I was in Door County last week, celebrating our third anniversary. While Tim was in rehearsal, I got a picnic from the bakery who catered the wedding, and we went to the theatre garden and relaxed.



Potato salad, turkey salad, thai pasta, blueberry muffin, the yummiest fruit on the planet, and Baumeister's rootbeer.


During the picnic, this little guy came up to our blanket. We gave him a few blueberries, until he got greedy and wanted to climb all over our food.








The next day, Tim showed off the reason for his unfortunately orange-bleached hair, and yeah, he was right. It was perfect for his costume as Ariel in The Tempest.


Labels:

 
This page is powered by Blogger.
Get awesome blog templates like this one from BlogSkins.com