If you feel the need, fast forward to the 5 minute mark. If this two minutes doesn't give you the chills, you're probably dead.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Scent of a Woman
Unless you're the kind of guy who drinks "Flirtinis," wears thong underpants, or occasionally wears a little rouge "just for color," you can move on now. Really. There's nothing for you here.
I finally bought myself this extravagant present. Outside of consumables (foie gras, champagne, cheesey goo, etc.) I generally don't spend much money, mostly because I don't have any. Also, I was born without that female shopping gene. I'd much rather drink margaritas at the crappy mall bar, then buy whatever dress looks like it would fit me in the window of some cheap store. But lately, I've been trying to class it up a tiny bit. I'm a grown ass woman, after all, and ill- fitting jeans with an attitude T don't really cut it anymore. And when I'm trying to get all glammed up, I've noticed that I feel naked without a fragrance.
Most of my adult life, I've decided that natural scents are best, at least for me. However, I love how some people (usually it's a woman) have a signature scent. My grandmother and her friends knew about this. It seems feminine, classic, glamorous. My grandmother wore Chantilly, a fairly cheap brand you could buy at most drug stores, but on more special occasions she wore Chanel #5. Both of these are clean, classic, rather innocent. (My grandmother was a lot of things, but certainly not innocent.) A friend of my grandmother's that's still living wears the same fragrance she did thirty years ago. Whenever I bump into her at a wedding or a funeral and she comes in for a hug and my nose brushes her cheek, I'm five years old again. A scent is a very powerful thing, unlocking long sealed doors in the brain.
I wanted a signature scent. In my younger days, I loved vanilla. I walked around smelling like a chocolate chip cookie. I still like it. But I wanted something more sophisticated this time around. Marlene Dietrich wore this fragrance, as did a smattering of other screen sirens of the '40's and '50's. This was very expensive. At least for me. But I feel like I'm shrouded in my own personal veil of gardenia and mystery, and it makes me feel amazing. And so for that I think it's worth it.
I wish I could say this story is a coincidence, but I really have no idea how that could be:
Yesterday was the first day I wore my perfume, and I had recently applied it before heading to Target. On my way out of the store, I felt someone brush up against me. I turned around to find a cart corral guy (the ones with the yellow vests who collect the carts?) standing less than an inch from me. He was smelling my neck. When I looked at him like he had lost his fool mind, he just said, "I'm sorry," and then he walked away. I swear on the baby Jesbus, Allah, all the characters in Lord of the Rings including Frodo and Vishnu that this happened. He was close enough to kiss me. WTF? Is this even possible? And yes, it was creepy.
What would Marlene Dietrich have done?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Everything Old is New Again
It's true that everything around me is new. Or at least, different. New place, new job, new friends, new hangouts, new hobbies, new kitty. I'm even tinkering around with my haircut and the way I dress. Logically, I suppose I could feel a little discombobulated, but I'm a chameleon by nature, and really, this ain't shit. In fact, I'm feeling strangely static. Grounded. Still. It's a good feeling. Or, at least satisfied. Or, at least accepting. My core, my center is the same. My man, my home (city,) my cooking.
I've been spending a lot of time in the kitchen, which grounds me as much as anything, so I thought I'd give you a peek.
I love this kitchen because it's big. Roughly the size of an average bedroom. It's what sold me on the apartment. As you wander through the vestibule, the living room and the dining room, you finally end in the kitchen, and you sort of never leave. I spend most of my time here. The center island is priceless and I don't know how I'll ever do without one again. It's like the starship enterprise of the house. The floors are hideous (I mean like elephant man and carrot top had babies ugly) so I try to keep them covered with runners which I have to vaccum after every dinner. It's a battle and the floors are winning:
The kitchen is also a little (a lot) outdated. I'm thinking mid-to-late '80's is when it got remodeled. I had some reservations about this, but it's working out surprisingly well. I used to think I couldn't live with electric burners, but these get incredibly hot. In fact, that frittata on the stove? Burned. I kept thinking as I was cooking that it "kinda smells like burning." So, a little cooking 101: If something smells like burning ITS PROBABLY FUCKING BURNING. I was just so reluctant to believe it, because I'm not a burner. I'm so accustomed to controlling my heat. So, there. Even "professionals" like us fuck up. Keep plugging away. You want to eat, dontcha? Also, the indoor grill? Love.
You can also spy my beloved 'puter-- the island is where I "work," my speakers I plug her into to get my daily Pandora groove on, my sexy peppermill which happens one of my prized posessions, courtesy of my amazing auntie Deb, and my vintage Pabst cocktail tray, also courtesy of Deb (think of a shorter, much funnier Martha Stewart with a thick, high pitched midwestern accent who also swears a lot but who still believes in Jesus and you're about 1/10th of the way there). Odds and ends live in that tray: paper towels, a kosher salt pot, stray fortune cookies, a sharpie for labeling food, condoms, toenail clippings, vials of meth, you know, the usual. I haven't put up curtains yet, hence the glare. When I get up in the night for a glug of agua I have to creep in with my boobies and lady parts strategically covered because the neighbors are often out having late night cigs. I'm sure by now they know more about me than they might like. Ah, city livin':
Yet more of the outdated glory. I love having an oven at eye level, but she's little. Like, too small for a 12 pound turkey little, and definitely too small for a Hansel & Gretel moment. But, surprise again, it works like a champ. In this case, it's the little thing that good things come out of. It gets hot, hot, hot, like Gloria Estefan hot, and shit gets done in a jiffy. She's just fine for the two of us. Above the fridge you'll find a beloved pizza oven, compliments of, you guessed it, aunt Deb, and on top of that, my knife roll which has been on hiatus lately. My Global goes wherever I go, but the rest of the collection seems rather superfluous right now. Maybe it will come in handy when I get my invite to Iron Chef. Heh.
The dish pit. Some of my most beloved treasures hang to the right inside of a sideturned vintage wooden soda bottle crate, and mabye I'll write a seperate post about it, but suffice to say every little tchotchke you see there has sentimental value and it makes the daily dishin' just a little more enjoyable. I actually don't mind doing dishes by hand and I tend to wash as I go when I'm cooking (it actually makes me nuts when people don't clean as they go). However, that don't make me above no dishwasher, which I negotiated with the landlord to have put in. I get what I want.
Left to right:
a: Ruby the mixer whom I almost never use but she'll be coming with me when I pack up my car with things I simply can't live without and run away.
b: The Krups, which ditto, can't live without-- this one was a gift from the in-laws and I start my each and every day with him. I think his name is Miles. Black, sexy, essential. The coffee tray has all the other basics: beans, grinder (I always grind from bean because I'm a junkie like that,) and two varieties of sugar.
c: That drawing of my grams and a basket full of dish towels and rags. I like rags, not sponges. Sponges are for smelly people. I'm anal about clean rags and dishtowels and switch them out almost daily. However, they're nothing fancy-- I pilfer plain white ones from my restaurant jobs and the others are usually gifts. I'll use them 'til they're in tatters.
d: A little cheese cutting board that's perfect for small jobs, a gift from my BIL who's also an avid cook. Love that guy.
e: A fancy new convection toaster oven that I'm still getting accustomed to. I miss my $10 toaster with the "pop tarts" setting.
f: The Microwave that Will Not Quit. B had this microwave when I met him (10+ years ago,) and he had it for I don't know how long before that. It still works as well as it did that first day I warmed my first frozen dinner in it. See? They don't make things the way they used to. Keep yer newfangled gadgets, kids! My stuff is OLD, and I like it!
I've been spending a lot of time in the kitchen, which grounds me as much as anything, so I thought I'd give you a peek.
I love this kitchen because it's big. Roughly the size of an average bedroom. It's what sold me on the apartment. As you wander through the vestibule, the living room and the dining room, you finally end in the kitchen, and you sort of never leave. I spend most of my time here. The center island is priceless and I don't know how I'll ever do without one again. It's like the starship enterprise of the house. The floors are hideous (I mean like elephant man and carrot top had babies ugly) so I try to keep them covered with runners which I have to vaccum after every dinner. It's a battle and the floors are winning:
The kitchen is also a little (a lot) outdated. I'm thinking mid-to-late '80's is when it got remodeled. I had some reservations about this, but it's working out surprisingly well. I used to think I couldn't live with electric burners, but these get incredibly hot. In fact, that frittata on the stove? Burned. I kept thinking as I was cooking that it "kinda smells like burning." So, a little cooking 101: If something smells like burning ITS PROBABLY FUCKING BURNING. I was just so reluctant to believe it, because I'm not a burner. I'm so accustomed to controlling my heat. So, there. Even "professionals" like us fuck up. Keep plugging away. You want to eat, dontcha? Also, the indoor grill? Love.You can also spy my beloved 'puter-- the island is where I "work," my speakers I plug her into to get my daily Pandora groove on, my sexy peppermill which happens one of my prized posessions, courtesy of my amazing auntie Deb, and my vintage Pabst cocktail tray, also courtesy of Deb (think of a shorter, much funnier Martha Stewart with a thick, high pitched midwestern accent who also swears a lot but who still believes in Jesus and you're about 1/10th of the way there). Odds and ends live in that tray: paper towels, a kosher salt pot, stray fortune cookies, a sharpie for labeling food, condoms, toenail clippings, vials of meth, you know, the usual. I haven't put up curtains yet, hence the glare. When I get up in the night for a glug of agua I have to creep in with my boobies and lady parts strategically covered because the neighbors are often out having late night cigs. I'm sure by now they know more about me than they might like. Ah, city livin':
Yet more of the outdated glory. I love having an oven at eye level, but she's little. Like, too small for a 12 pound turkey little, and definitely too small for a Hansel & Gretel moment. But, surprise again, it works like a champ. In this case, it's the little thing that good things come out of. It gets hot, hot, hot, like Gloria Estefan hot, and shit gets done in a jiffy. She's just fine for the two of us. Above the fridge you'll find a beloved pizza oven, compliments of, you guessed it, aunt Deb, and on top of that, my knife roll which has been on hiatus lately. My Global goes wherever I go, but the rest of the collection seems rather superfluous right now. Maybe it will come in handy when I get my invite to Iron Chef. Heh.
The dish pit. Some of my most beloved treasures hang to the right inside of a sideturned vintage wooden soda bottle crate, and mabye I'll write a seperate post about it, but suffice to say every little tchotchke you see there has sentimental value and it makes the daily dishin' just a little more enjoyable. I actually don't mind doing dishes by hand and I tend to wash as I go when I'm cooking (it actually makes me nuts when people don't clean as they go). However, that don't make me above no dishwasher, which I negotiated with the landlord to have put in. I get what I want.
Left to right:
a: Ruby the mixer whom I almost never use but she'll be coming with me when I pack up my car with things I simply can't live without and run away.
b: The Krups, which ditto, can't live without-- this one was a gift from the in-laws and I start my each and every day with him. I think his name is Miles. Black, sexy, essential. The coffee tray has all the other basics: beans, grinder (I always grind from bean because I'm a junkie like that,) and two varieties of sugar.
c: That drawing of my grams and a basket full of dish towels and rags. I like rags, not sponges. Sponges are for smelly people. I'm anal about clean rags and dishtowels and switch them out almost daily. However, they're nothing fancy-- I pilfer plain white ones from my restaurant jobs and the others are usually gifts. I'll use them 'til they're in tatters.
d: A little cheese cutting board that's perfect for small jobs, a gift from my BIL who's also an avid cook. Love that guy.
e: A fancy new convection toaster oven that I'm still getting accustomed to. I miss my $10 toaster with the "pop tarts" setting.
f: The Microwave that Will Not Quit. B had this microwave when I met him (10+ years ago,) and he had it for I don't know how long before that. It still works as well as it did that first day I warmed my first frozen dinner in it. See? They don't make things the way they used to. Keep yer newfangled gadgets, kids! My stuff is OLD, and I like it!
Monday, July 13, 2009
My Week in Revue
So, the staycation. It kinda, sorta happened. The first three days I spent in a sort of anxiety ridden distracted kind of funk, even though there was no real reason for it. I'm a freak like that. I come by it honestly. All my people (mothers and grandparents and the like) all had some sort of emotional "tilt" and my brand stays relatively stable. Relatively. I have my little bouts. I deal. The final two days were perfect though, and I slumped nicely into a lazy little summertime reverie, complete with all the things I love. You should know what they are by now, but if not, a quick review: wine/ whiskey, cheese, music, bikes, sleeping late, staring into the ether, friends, food, food, food, food, baths, noodles, cheese, yeah.
I also sorta kinda turned off the computer, which gave me time to read TWO! whole. books. One of which I enjoyed much more than the other.
My sister flew off to Mexico City to be with her man. I'm very happy that the two of them can be reunited, but she also took the small human, so needless to say, it's been emotional. Chela had just entered the stage where she's like a big pot of smiles for no reason at all, all the time. Like this:
(Sniff.) But evidently, she and her daddy are deeply in love with one another, so how can you begrudge that? You can't. Gotta get my passport renewed.
I cooked this. Local greens and broccoli over pasta with tomatoes, cream and parm. It was fine. Kinda meh. It could have used something. It was better the next day with a fried egg over it, my new favorite breakfast of all time. Pasta & eggs. Does it get any better? Oh yeah, with truffle oil. Gahhhhhhh (Homer Simpson Style).
Music continues to turn my crank. We inherited an old turntable (she ain't sexy but she can still work it) and a bunch of records, many of which used to be mine, but also the amassed collections of my mom and grandma (both avid music lovers as well, something else I come by honestly). I'll put up a seperate post about all the sweet fucking treasures I have, but here's a nugget. Jealous?:
Speaking of music, wait for it. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I took an upright bass lesson. And I SUCK! But it was fun. I'm no natural, but it's nice to wrestle my brain into the practice of trying to learn something new, difficult and awesome. I decided to nix the lessons, I'm toooooo green, but B has been schooling me on the electric bass, and even though I SUCK (did I mention I suck???) he's been patient, and I can almost get my way through a basic blues pattern. I also have a cute little red callous on my middle finger that I'm pretty proud of.
This is how we do it on a Saturday night at the Bos-Williams household. This? This did not suck. Homemade guac, salsa, black beans & rice, and grilled pork. Oh, lord:
And last but certainly not least, meet Mochi. (Object not to scale.) She's actually much littler than she appears here (only 4 months). We've been planning that kitty adoption for awhile, and it finally happened about two hours ago. We're getting acquainted now. I actually had it bad for a charming 10-week-old solid white guy with blue eyes, but as these things tend to go, Mochi chose me. She just wouldn't take no for an answer. She's crashed on the window sill as I write this as though she's lived here all her life. She loves me. Anyway, it's nice to have some estrogen back in the house, as much as I love the fellas: 
Otherwise, I did a bunch of procrastinating around my writing "career" (ha!), went to see my pretend boyfriend twice, bought four new outfits, two of which I fear were very bad decisions, stalked & coveted a rare, precious bottle of this, which will be mine someday very soon (mark my words,) and I'm gonna get a tattoo.
That's it.
I also sorta kinda turned off the computer, which gave me time to read TWO! whole. books. One of which I enjoyed much more than the other.
My sister flew off to Mexico City to be with her man. I'm very happy that the two of them can be reunited, but she also took the small human, so needless to say, it's been emotional. Chela had just entered the stage where she's like a big pot of smiles for no reason at all, all the time. Like this:
(Sniff.) But evidently, she and her daddy are deeply in love with one another, so how can you begrudge that? You can't. Gotta get my passport renewed.I cooked this. Local greens and broccoli over pasta with tomatoes, cream and parm. It was fine. Kinda meh. It could have used something. It was better the next day with a fried egg over it, my new favorite breakfast of all time. Pasta & eggs. Does it get any better? Oh yeah, with truffle oil. Gahhhhhhh (Homer Simpson Style).
Music continues to turn my crank. We inherited an old turntable (she ain't sexy but she can still work it) and a bunch of records, many of which used to be mine, but also the amassed collections of my mom and grandma (both avid music lovers as well, something else I come by honestly). I'll put up a seperate post about all the sweet fucking treasures I have, but here's a nugget. Jealous?:
Speaking of music, wait for it. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I took an upright bass lesson. And I SUCK! But it was fun. I'm no natural, but it's nice to wrestle my brain into the practice of trying to learn something new, difficult and awesome. I decided to nix the lessons, I'm toooooo green, but B has been schooling me on the electric bass, and even though I SUCK (did I mention I suck???) he's been patient, and I can almost get my way through a basic blues pattern. I also have a cute little red callous on my middle finger that I'm pretty proud of.
This is how we do it on a Saturday night at the Bos-Williams household. This? This did not suck. Homemade guac, salsa, black beans & rice, and grilled pork. Oh, lord:
And last but certainly not least, meet Mochi. (Object not to scale.) She's actually much littler than she appears here (only 4 months). We've been planning that kitty adoption for awhile, and it finally happened about two hours ago. We're getting acquainted now. I actually had it bad for a charming 10-week-old solid white guy with blue eyes, but as these things tend to go, Mochi chose me. She just wouldn't take no for an answer. She's crashed on the window sill as I write this as though she's lived here all her life. She loves me. Anyway, it's nice to have some estrogen back in the house, as much as I love the fellas: 
Otherwise, I did a bunch of procrastinating around my writing "career" (ha!), went to see my pretend boyfriend twice, bought four new outfits, two of which I fear were very bad decisions, stalked & coveted a rare, precious bottle of this, which will be mine someday very soon (mark my words,) and I'm gonna get a tattoo.
That's it.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Procrastination/ Staycation
It's been a strange week. I spent one entire day drunk, one hungover, and two dealing with a wretched kink in my neck. I've got two big deadlines hanging over my head, and if there's one thing I know how to do, its procrastinate. My apartment needs a wicked unleashing of about a hundred thousand cans of Comet, and I've been stuck in the house with cat whose neck I'd like to wring. (Our cat Baci is one of the cutest living animals, but we call him Adventure Cat. He was a stray before we adopted him, and it's pretty clear he'd really rather be an outdoor cat. He paces the house like a caged animal, whining, looking for trouble around every corner. I actually feel kind of guilty about it, rather than the sense of well-being you're supposed to get from your pets. I'm planning on adopting another kitten next week. I'm going to look for the wildest-eyed one they have, and I'm hoping she'll open a big old can of whoopass on Baci.)
Yeah, a post about my cat. So, I've been stuck in a bit of a rut. Not a big one, but a shallow, meddling one that I need to acknowledge. With any luck, I'm going to take four whole days to myself next week to do whatever I like. Yes, a Staycation (stupid fucking word.) I had considered trying to skip town, but it was starting to feel like another thing for the to-do list, and that ain't a vacation at all.
In addition to getting the new kitty kat, I have a few plans:
1. Turn off the computer. I plan on sticking to this. One of the major things I adore about being away is ridding myself of the electronic tit. I never seem to miss it, and I find it astonishing how big a part of my life it is when I get back. I think I need to reconcile these two facts.
2. Avoid restaurants. I'm yearning for the days when eating out marked a special occasion or at least a giddy splurge on an expensive steak. I'm feeling jaded about all this damn food, which means I need a break and probably a system flush. (I know, poor me.)
3. Tackle Project Memory Lane. This might be an emotional look back, but hopefully I'll find some gems which I'll scan and post here (after I attach myself back on the tit) for your perusal. It will be a nice sense of a accomplishment to get all those damn boxes out of our house too.
4. See some live music every night. Music has been the one salve these days that hits me in all the right spots every time. I haven't been kind enough to myself when it comes to this great love of mine, and I need to indulge it far more often.
5. Get outside and bike, bike, bike. I wanna get saddle sore, yes I do.
That's it. Maybe something else will come along. If not, it's a vacation after all. And yes, I'm writing this out of sheer procrastination, so that's all for today. Sheesh.
Totally unrelated sidenote: My sister and I hit the MOA yesterday. I hate the mall, but it was a cloudy day and I needed me some baby fix. My sister decided she needed a beer. It's slim pickins for watering holes at the mall these days, so we decided on. . . . wait for it. . . Hooters. Where my sister proceeded to lift her shirt and feed the baby, right at the bar. Hooters at Hooters. The businessman type seated next to us got a big hoot out of it. The end.
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