Merci Me!

New Chapter

2011-08-06T14:32:00.000-07:00

Thank you everyone for sharing your worlds with me! I'm starting a new adventure. Follow me to...

Click the image to get to my new website!

Outfit of the Week: Dahlia Day Dreamer

2010-12-05T13:17:00.000-08:00

Dahlia dreams with her eyes wide open. Her favorite possession is her antique globe. When she stares long enough at it, she swears she can see the oceans move, volcanoes erupt, polar ice caps break apart and national boundaries disintegrate. She spins it around, her hand skimming the cool shellacked surface. When it stops spinning, she sees what country is under her pinky finger, and she lies back on her floor. She stares at the white ceiling and starts to put together the place in her head. She starts to feel the dry heat of the desert on pressing on her cheeks, the cool tropical breezing dancing with the hairs on her arms. She hears foreign tongues that sound like silk. She tastes the salt of the ocean, the clay of ancient cities, the steel of skyscrapers. She dreams up stories of lovers, kingdoms and wild animals. At night, wrapped in her sheets and eyes closed, she sees vivid colors of other worlds, and dances with day dreams.

Snow Day!

2010-11-24T08:42:00.000-08:00

So I broke down and got the Internet installed in my apartment. Lucky for me I did when I did, because all week I've been working from home as my city is covered in a thick sugar icing. After conducting interviews and budgeting and whatnot, my friend and I ventured into the winter wonderland.

And then my friend and I warmed our frozen feet by the radiator. I think my sock is inside out.

I also broke down and got the Hipstamatic app for my iPhone. It is hard to resist.

So after defrosting, we decided to head out again and meet our friends at the Canterbury, a dive up the hill from us. We imbibed in hot toddies and hot chocolate with whisky and whipped cream, played footsie with a space heater, and listened to Iron Maiden's "Run to the Hills" twice.

The Creativity Thread

2010-11-07T15:27:00.000-08:00

I'm astonished and amazed at the turns my life has taken, and the speed at which it has flew. Since I last updated this blog, I have landed a stellar job that I love, moved into a my own little corner of the world and have begun recognize myself again. I wished to find beauty in the simple, pleasure in the everyday, and now I feel so full of gratitude it curls my toes and makes me smile until my cheeks hurt.

At the beginning of the year, I wrote:

For the new year, my word is "craft", which can be used in many different contexts. I wish to craft the person I want to be, I wish to craft my home and lifestyle, and to literally use my hands and craft things (namely storylines and blog posts). I'm very excited to enter this new year, this new decade, lessons in tow and hands and heart at the ready.

I feel like I am on my way. As I fall into the rhythm of my job, and as I continue to discover things and people around me, I want to keep the word "craft" in the back of my mind. I want a thread of creativity.

I will drink in the words of other writers, gaining inspiration from their art.

I will care for those around me.

I will let my creativity express itself outwardly.

I will nourish and feed myself and my soul with whole, nutritious foods.

And I will write. I will exercise that creative faculty, writing to myself, to friends, to lovers, to God. This is how I choose to express my gratitude. I will weave stories, capture my life, share it with others.

Outfit of the Week: -Valentine's Special- Betty Boudoir

2010-02-11T09:11:00.000-08:00

Nightgown: Lucky Vintage

Photo: Lady Leila

Betty Boudoir adores her bedroom. Her bed is a mattress on her hardwood floor, piled high with blue and cream comforters and down pillows. She drapes a gauzy mosquito net from her ceiling, and in the mornings emerges from her tent by trailing her fingertips along the hemmed opening, lightly gripping each edge with both hands and stretching her arms wide to take in the world. Along her walls she hangs her favorite slips and underpinnings, which act as her closet and from which she chooses her outfit for the day. She is a poet and works from home, and feels her most artistic when wearing next to nothing. When callers arrive, which they often do because of her wit, shine, and generosity with her Turkish coffee, she throws on a silk kimono or a quilted bed jacket, or sometimes a sheet when she did not feel inspired to dress that day. Her bed acts as her couch, her workspace, and her Tarot table. She is not lazy, and will protest at the mere mention of the word. She is relaxed and comfortable. Her bedroom is her sacred space, where dreams take her to other worlds but always bring her right back to the place she loves most. Why would she not want to share this with you?

Happy Valentine's Day! May your day, and many days after, be filled with love and light.

Outfit of the Week: Brigitte Bombshell

2010-02-04T10:43:00.000-08:00

Dress: Cheap Thrills

Photo: Lady Leila

Brigitte Bombshell is far from a movie star. She resides in a small town in the mountains, far from the grease-slicked streets of Hollywood. Her town has one movie house that shows a different classic movie every Thursday. Every Thursday she goes to swoon over James Dean's rebel, to giggle with Marilyn Monroe's upstairs girl, to try and outwit Robert Redford's grifter. The dress she wears, a gift from her artist aunt who saw it in a thrift store in the Village and immediately thought of her favorite niece, makes her feel a part of the movies. The beauty that is forever captured in celluloid and remains bright, glittering, hopeful, despite the pops and cracks in the film strip. Her hands caress the worn red velvet seats, fingers following the curve in the arm rest that has become so familiar to her. The smell of popcorn leaves the taste of salt and butter on her lips. Some would think she is unhappy with her sleepy, small town, her life spent working in a small convenience store, assisting people always "just passing through". But she is happy with the familiarity around her, the closeness of her neighbors, the dazzling clarity of the stars in the night sky. She can have the big city, the neon glow, and the drama on the screen. She has a whole host of real bright lights above her head.

Our Time Is Now

2010-02-01T08:26:00.000-08:00

The Patti Smith to my Robert Mapplethorpe sent me this song the other night. It is entirely too perfect and pertinent to my situation as of right now, although the "listen more to your friends" part is actually really helping me out. In fact, it is finding reflective elements in the people around me, striking chords and resonating tones that has lead me to solace and comfort. Over the weekend, I have experienced so much support and love that sometimes I felt like my ribcage was made of bird bone and people could see my heart beating much too fast through my thin skin.

And although I feel ragged and centuries old, my friend reminded me that I am, we are at the morning of our lives. But I'm not sure the dawn ever ends. There is always something new, something different, someone or some place waiting to be discovered. If I have learned anything from the women in my family (whose stories should be told, and perhaps will find their ways onto this blog), you never, ever stop growing and learning.

I'm excited for the adventure.

Note: The other morning, I woke to see my walls blushing. This photo was taken looking out my window.

Another note: Pardon all of the Patti Smith references as of late. I had the incredible opportunity to see her talk about her latest book, Just Kids, at Seattle Arts and Lectures last week. From our $10 seats, she looked like she was about twenty years old, wearing worn jeans stuffed into Doc Martens and gray men's t-shirt. Her voice was like worn leather, and she swallowed her "g's" and kept saying, "When I writ this book...". She ended the night with an acapella version of "Because the Night", with which the audience sang along to the chorus. To hear her voice fill a symphony hall was nothing short of astounding, crazy, and cool.

Outfit of the Week: Starla Student

2010-01-26T09:16:00.000-08:00

Dress: Red Light Vintage

Photos: Lady Leila

Starla Student wishes there was a perfume that smelled like a worn book (she often rubs old pages on her wrist, trying to soak up the heavenly scent of the words of Baudelaire and May Alcott through osmosis). She is quiet, hiding behind her stoic, majestic ivy-covered walls. Her favorite sound is the peck DING schweep THWACK of her typewriter. The buzz of coffee whirs the back of her eyes, but she drinks it black and strong anyway. The poetry of Patti Smith and Robert Frost slide down her throat like liquid gold. She thumbs through Sol LeWitt's autobiography until she dreams of inanimate objects and ghosts of family members. She gets lost in papers, book reviews, lecture notes, and stress sometimes builds in a knot at the base of her neck. She'll go about her routine, her scurry from class to class, and hearing her worn leather boots click on the red brick sidewalks, and holding close her books like a protective shield and a marker of her identity.

Merci From Me to You!

2010-01-21T10:35:00.000-08:00

So I received this award from Sara Lynn over at She is Sara! Thank you, you sweet thing! I feel very special, and now have a chance to show other bloggers how much I like their blogs!

The rules of this award are as follows:

1. To accept the award, you must post it on your blog with the name of the person who has granted you the award, and a link to their blog.

2. Pass the award on to approximately 15 other blogs that you recently discovered, and think are great!

3. Contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award

Seeing as this is an award for new and/or recently discovered bloggers, I don't know if I can cite 15 others! But here's my list of lovelies:

Lucie at A Taste of Vogue. She was one of the first unsolicited commenters on my blog, and she made me feel very welcome in the blogging world.
Alexa at Pop Elegantarium. She was one of the first I noticed that put me on her blogroll! I love love love the film and music-inspired art she finds and shares!
Jessica at Aspen Tree. I liker her mix of inspiring images, etsy buyables, and life stories.
Elena Lu at Elena Lu. The photos she takes of herself are gentle and beautiful. I hope to take pictures like that someday!
Sofie Marie at One Too Many Wishes. I really enjoy her wishes, her dreamy writing and poetic pictures. You can never have too many wishes, girl!
Heather at Heat Storm. The eternal summer girl who makes me miss the sun!
Amanda Rose at Loretteville. A very recent discovery! She has such a sweet blog about the ups and downs of parenting and her life in Washington (home girl!). I knew I would like her blog when I saw the Wendell Berry poem in her "About Me" section.
The girls at À La Mode by G&M. I am continually impressed by their DIY skills, and my goodness these girls are pretty!

Below is an image I found via We Heart It some time ago. I find it particularly resonant lately. I've been really enjoying the new year, and have consider myself incredibly lucky to have the job that I have and to be surrounded by the people in my life. I'm allowing myself to be young, for once. I know this feeling won't last forever, but I'm grateful for the time of my life that I'm having right now.

Outfit of the Week: Gwendolyn Gold

2010-01-18T12:01:00.000-08:00

Dress: Red Light Vintage

Photographs: Lady Leila

Gwendolyn Gold dreams in metallics. Her voice tastes like pennies in your mouth, her skin is cold to the touch. She builds a strong exterior around her, a sterling silver fortress where she dwells alone, laying cold crystals over her eyes to help her sleep. But the heat of bodies makes her melt. When she is in love, she bends and twists and becomes malleable. She emerges from the fire something shiny, beautiful and new.

My Walk to Work

2010-01-15T08:38:00.000-08:00

I am very lucky to be able to walk to work every day. Here are some of the beautiful images and scenes I get to pass by.

Yes, that says, "Fuck Work", a sentiment I'm not partial to.

Outfit of the Week: Bella Bride

2010-01-11T09:46:00.000-08:00

Dress: Red Light Vintage

Photos: Lady Leila

Bella Bride does not celebrate wedding days, she celebrates wedding years. She celebrates the union of the light and the dark on the Solstice, the marriage of the honeybee and the flower, the coupling of the fallen leaf to the ground. She herself is married to the world, to the roaring waves and the stoic mountains. Every day is a celebration, a toast to the happy couple, a first dance, a toss of the bouquet, a promise made and a promise kept.

Note: Should I ever choose to get married, this will be my actual wedding dress. I have no qualms about purchasing a wedding dress without a wedding date. When I saw it, I fell in love, and knew I wouldn't come across another one like it. However, paired with belt, hat, and kitten heels, it would make for a nice tea dress, don't you think?

Another note: I was featured on the blog Fashion Stuff! A girl approached me while at work, saying she was working on a project for school about Seattle street fashion. I love that she features high fashion as well as the fashion around her on her blog, and she was so very sweet and flattering!

Gifts of the New Year

2010-01-02T16:46:00.000-08:00

I decided to have a low-key New Year's Eve this year, prepare my space and my body for 2010. So I cleaned my apartment, did my laundry, flipped my mattress, and made myself

A pink bath

And golden soup.

I am really and truly blessed and grateful for all the gifts in my life, not just physical objects, but people and places that are around me. Sometimes, however, a small little something really touches me in an unexpected way, and my first impulse is to cry. Happy tears, of course.

The above is the ring my late grandmother used to wear. Each stone is the birthstone for her four grandchildren. I am the eldest, and the first aquamarine stone on the left is mine. My grandmother passed at the age of 59, and her last grandchild's stone was never set in. My parents presented it to me as a birthday present.

This was an unexpected present I received in a very public place. I was thus moved to tears in public, which I'm used to, but the public hasn't quite become comfortable with it yet.

My roommate presented me with tickets to Sasquatch Festival 2010! We went last year for the first time, and now swear by it. Three days of no showering, dust coating the roof of your mouth, random midnight soccer games and music, music, music. We are more prepared this year, to say the least, and hopefully will be bringing friends!

For the new year, my word is "craft", which can be used in many different contexts. I wish to craft the person I want to be, I wish to craft my home and lifestyle, and to literally use my hands and craft things (namely storylines and blog posts). I'm very excited to enter this new year, this new decade, lessons in tow and hands and heart at the ready.

EDIT: As I was walking home from work last night, a man in a long brown trench coat with a dark chocolate voice said "Blessed new year to you," as he passed me by. I think it will be a blessed new year.

Nature's Jewels

2009-12-31T09:33:00.000-08:00

While visiting my family in California, my mother and father and I took a tour around the Academy of Sciences, where my brother works. For the first time in a long while, I felt curious and wide-eyed. Despite the post-Christmas crowds, everything seemed beautiful and wonderous. I found jewels throughout the museum, like...

Pearl

Emerald

Coral

Gold

Opal

I also met Missa from Thrift Candy in person! I swallowed my thudding heart and approached her (I always get nervous approaching people, even those I know personally), and she was very sweet! While I as living in London, I saw Susie Bubble at my Tube stop, and I didn't say anything. I vowed to never let another opportunity like that pass me again. And I'm glad I didn't!

Molasses In My Veins

2009-12-28T17:14:00.000-08:00

During my visit to my parent's house, my brother introduced me to the band mewithoutyou. I love the playfulness music is taking these days, and mewithoutyou indulges like none other. Baroque pop bands are great at making beauty out of simple tales, weaving stories of darkness and the macabre. I feel with bands such as these (The Decemberists, Neutral Milk Hotel), that you could find them playing on a street corner for change, and not losing an ounce of their appeal.

The video below is especially enchanting and charming (the literal "string" of expletives is hilarious). Please enjoy!

mewithoutYou - The Fox, the Crow, and the Cookie from David Bell on Vimeo.

Holiday Tradition

2009-12-24T09:03:00.000-08:00

My family and I have never been big on traditions around the holidays. Scavenger hunts, Chinese food, and doing away with Christmas all together and celebrating the Solstice have all appeared as acceptable holiday activities on multiple occasions, but certainly not repeatedly, every year.

Lacking on the tradition front, my friend Richard and I started our own tradition. Every year, we make a holiday card, posing as a couple from a play or movie. The first year, we were George and Martha from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?.

The next year, we took another serious turn with Harper and Prior from Angels in America.

We went a little bit more lighthearted the next year and featured Holly and Fred from Breakfast at Tiffany's.

This year we decided to spin the tradition and be ourselves, kind of.

Happy holidays! Any ideas on what we should do next year?

Outfit of the Week: Uma Umbrella

2009-12-15T10:19:00.000-08:00

Umbrella: Red Light Vintage

Photos: Lady Leila

Uma Umbrella goes nowhere without her trusty parasol, Prescilla. In the summery, sunny months, the umbrella's red plaid casts a rosy glow on her skin, making her look wildly in love with the world. Her umbrella protects her from the rain, and she loves the sound of droplets hitting the taut cloth, creating a tilted rhythm. Uma loves to use Prescilla in her tap routines, twirling and posing with her as she spins on the stage. While Uma adores dressing in cabaret garb, feather headdresses and discarded bridesmaid dresses, Prescilla is always the center of attention, the piece that pulls the outfit together, and functional accessory, protector, and stage prop.

I'd Have Him Teach Me Any Day

2009-11-26T10:12:00.001-08:00

I had a friend visiting from out of town, and one night we went to the picture show at the Egyptian, a grand old movie house complete with a balcony, ornate gold walls, and a red curtain that pulls back when the picture is about to start. We saw An Education, which I've been anticipating for months. Despite the predictable story line, I was enchanted. Peter Sarsgaard's seamless transition from charismatic to creepy and Cary Mulligan's amazing performance were enough to keep my toes all curled and biting my lip, but I couldn't help but sigh whistfully at the clothes.

Should you have the chance, see this movie. The opening credits are worth the price of admission!

Twistin' The Night Away

2009-11-16T09:31:00.000-08:00

Every second Saturday of every month, there is a very special night at the Lo-Fi Performance Gallery in Seattle. Soul Night, hosted by Emerald City Soul Club, is my absolute favorite night of dancing. It's hard to describe the exhilaration that is Northern Soul dancing. The music moves you the way it wants. Shrugging shoulders, stomping heels, half-closed fists and twisting hips. It's the sweetest to see couples wrapped in each other, hands clasping waists, guys twirling gals. My common law camrade once got flipped upside down by a guy in a bow tie!

This past Soul Night was Rare Soul Weekender. That afternoon, Lady Leila and I went to a Northern Soul record swap. We met one of the founders of Soul Night, who gave us a deal on the 45s we were clutching. Some of our favorites: Aretha Franklin "Soulville", The Vibrations "And I Love Her" cover, Jennell Hawkins "Money", and Etta James "Lay Back Daddy".

Because we've going for over a year now, we've garnered a small group of regulars we see once a month. We wanted to let people know how much we love their company, how rad their dancing is, and just how cool they are! So we made little gifts to pass out.

Here's a better view of the dress I chose to wear last time, and below is one of my favorite Sam Cooke songs. Should you be in the Seattle area, check out Soul Night at the Lo-Fi, hosted by Emeral City Soul Club!

You Are What You Love

2009-11-11T08:52:00.000-08:00

I have been absent from blogging too long. I've been bottling up what I need to say. While my blog and other blogs out there, which I look to for inspiration and have come to adore, offered me respite, I feel now that this may offer relief.

During the last month, I saw glimmers of what was my former life returning to me. I had two high-profile job interviews, had gotten on a semi-regular schedule and starting cooking and exercising again, and the trees were blushing and the air tasted of woodsmoke. When the two jobs fell through and the clouds literally began rolling in, I took it all to heart and my toes were clutching the edge. I felt something was fundamentally wrong. This was not what I had worked four hard years for. My honors degree was a waste of time. When further blows were delivered, I felt myself sink to the bottom of an icy chasm. My breath was frozen and ragged, and when I closed my eyes I saw everything distilled by watery blue depths.

But then I woke up. I took a breath. I realized that a lot of what I had, what I coveted, was based on some fabrication of whether I was greater than, less than, or equal to others. Did I work harder than so and so? Did I dress better than her? Was I more articulate that he? While this rhythm had become a central part of my person, I saw for the toxic habit that it was. So I swallowed myself whole, and started to piece together who I wanted to be. A person I could love.

And so I'm working. The people I pushed away have welcomed me back with open arms. New people have swung into my life and shed light on the important things, like living in the moment and the perfect pair of zebra-printed shoes. I found out earlier in the week that the vintage store where I was working as a seasonal employee has hired me on permanently. My manager is even letting me take time off for interviews and will understand if I get another job (with the freedom I have now, I can apply for jobs I actually want, instead of everything that crosses my desk). I am wrapping myself in my own arms, taking pleasure in early morning running and stretching, and surrounding myself with images of love.

Thank you, everyone and everything. Thank you thank you thank you.

Outfit of the Week: Sally Sailor

2009-09-25T13:56:00.000-07:00

Dress: Atlas Clothing
Photos: Leila Lovely

Sally Sailor learned how to swim without water wings. She sails around on her little boat named the Anastasia, going from port to port along the coast, selling trinkets from her boat. Thin, ghost lace dresses; delicate pearl necklaces that look like they will melt in your hand; old doo-wop records with snappy-finger rhythms; spices said to conjure love and curse enemies. She trades stories of her pirate father for wine and bread. She laughs and smiles and waves frantically as her boat pulls from the harbor, and she promises she will return soon!

Table for One: The Rose Garden and Miranda July

2009-09-21T12:42:00.000-07:00

I suppose this edition of Table for One is a bit out of step. There is no eating involved, but rather an absorption of surroundings and an exercise in using other senses.

I visited Portland with some friends this weekend. Being the collective of Humanities majors that we were, we spent three hours in Powell's Books, each scoping our own little corner of the world to thumb through McLuhan, Stein, Card, and Huxley, as well as collections of Henry Darger's unreal realms and step-by-step instructions on the art of striptease.

I picked up a copy of No One Belongs Here More Than You by Miranda July. I have been inspired by July before, and this book turned out to be the perfect companion for a Sunday afternoon in Portland's Rose Garden.

I wandered through the rows of wine reds and blushing peaches, past petals that looked like velvet. I expected the groove of my thumb to stay imprinted on the petal as I swept it across. The smell of roses stuck to the back of my throat, a heavy, waxy perfume. I crept up to certain blooms, inhaling their scent. Some smelled like bright, citrusy market lemons, while others radiated high-fructose corn syrup. One, a friend said, smelled like Pez candies.

I sat on the steps of the ampitheatre and opened July's volume of short stories. I chose "It Was Romance", a story of a woman at a romance workshop. It was fitting for my surroundings. I grew up next to a rose garden in Sacramento, and drove past countless weddings taking place among the drooping heads of both heavy blossoms and heat-exhausted guests. Given the statistics, I can only assume that half of the couples I drove past are still together.

The tiny world in front of your face is an illusion, and romance itself is an illusion!
We gasped. But it was a delayed gasp, we were a slow group.

Theresa had begun to cry. I stopped patting and hugged her, and she hugged me back. I had made everything just horrible enough to bring Theresa's sadness down to the next level, and I joined her there. It was a place of overflowing collaborative misery, and we cried together...The snaps on our jeans pressed into each other and our breasts exchanged their tired histories, tales of being over- and underutilized, floods and famines and never mind, just go. We wetted each other's blouses and pushed our crying ahead of us like a lantern, searching out new and forgotten sadnesses, ones that died politely years ago but in fact had not died, and came to life with a little water.

The rose garden seemed too much, too perfect, too cliche. It made sense that one would find/make/declare love in a rose garden. But July countered this cliche. She balances the mundane and the poetic with such ease, I feel as though she had written this on a Post-It note and left it on the jamb of my door. July reminds me that romance, love, hate, basic animal instincts don't have to be peppered with poetry. Things can be beautiful just as they are. And in the recognition of the everyday, the routine, there is the potential for moments of elevation, where it seems appropriate to carry a lantern and declare that lantern as a metaphor, your piece of poetry to help the cathartic crying make sense.

Ode to the Bath

2009-09-13T09:46:00.000-07:00

photos by me

Everything is a miracle. It is a miracle one does not dissolve in one's bath like a lump of sugar. -Pablo Picasso

There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them. -Sylvia Plath

Sorrow can be alleviated by good sleep, a bath, and a glass of wine. -St. Thomas Aquinas

One of the simple pleasures and leisures I am most grateful for is bath time. When I was nine years old, and the family was looking for a new house, what sold my mother on the 1920's bungalow we eventually would call home was the clawfoot bathtub. And, like mother like daughter, while looking for my first "real" apartment, what sold me was the beautiful, white, deep clawfoot bathtub.

Thus, it was at a young age that bath time for me was revered as a sacred space for the bather, not unlike meditation for prayer. I draw my bath, pouring the suds by the capful under the running water, and closes the door to allow for the scented steam to fill the room (for me, the chosen scent is EO's Rose and Chamomile). I light candles, slip in, and listen to the sounds of bubbles whisper pops. I like to gather the foam around me, like a sudsy shawl or watery wrap, and feel the bubbles kiss my skin. Silence seeps and thoughts vanish, dissolving like lumps of sugar, and everything seems a simple miracle.

Table for One: Ratatouille and Henry David Thoreau

2009-09-10T09:16:00.000-07:00

My grandmother knows ratatouille. When I came back from Paris, she describing to me how the air in the city around seven o'clock in the evening is "like cotton...silent", and taking me through, step by step, how to make ratatouille. Her hands would fly from vegetable to spice to pot to pot holder, only to pause in the air to describe the lights of the discotheque. I forgot the ratatouille instructions, I was transported to her Paris.

So with white eggplant and squash sitting in the fridge, I decided to venture ratatouille. Having forgotten my grandmother's instructions, I nabbed the recipe from Allrecipes.com:

INGREDIENTS
2 tablespoons olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 teaspoons dried parsley
1 eggplant, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
salt to taste
1 cup grated Parmesan cheese
2 zucchini (or squash), sliced
1 large onion, sliced into rings
2 cups sliced fresh mushrooms
1 green bell pepper, sliced
2 large tomatoes, chopped

DIRECTIONS

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Coat bottom and sides of a 1 1/2 quart casserole dish with 1 tablespoon olive oil.

2. Heat remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil in a medium skillet over medium heat. Saute garlic until lightly browned. Mix in parsley and eggplant. Saute until eggplant is soft, about 10 minutes. Season with salt to taste.

3. Spread eggplant mixture evenly across bottom of prepared casserole dish. Sprinkle with a few tablespoons of Parmesan cheese. Spread zucchini in an even layer over top. Lightly salt and sprinkle with a little more cheese. Continue layering in this fashion, with onion, mushrooms, bell pepper, and tomatoes, covering each layer with a sprinkling of salt and cheese.

4. Bake in preheated oven for 45 minutes.

The best part of the recipe was the eggplant, cooked in garlic and left to swelter in spices and oil. This may be what my grandmother did, sautee the entire thing in spices and oil.

I decided to pair the ratatouille with Henry David Thoreau's A Year in Thoreaus's Journal: 1851. Thoreau's essayist tendencies, including his diatribe on the transcendent properties of walking in the aptly named, Walking, are more enjoyable that his novels. Again, his journals reflect him writing for the sake of writing, something I admire and enjoy.

As I take my first bites into the ratatouille, I am taken aback by the squash's sweetness. How appropriate that something so naturally bright and candy-colored tastes of mellow honey. The spices (I used oregano and basil) are blinded by the kick of garlic and the bleed of tomato.

Thoreau says,

How to make the getting of our life poetic! For if it is not poetic, it is not life but death we get.

And thus my meal is saved. The different ingredients are harmonies, the different textures, correspondent rhythms and for a moment my ratatouille is not a soup but a SONG. Or at least, this makes me feel better about not entirely achieving the full potential of ratatouille.

Thoreau is obsessed with the "wild." Often he waxes on about said "wild", making wishes and wants:

I wish my neighbors were wilder.

Wild as if we lived on the marrow of antelopes devoured raw.

Take away their names and you leave men a wild herd distinguished only by their individual qualities.

It is the earthiness, the potential for "wild", of the ratatouille that inspired me to reach for Thoreau. The vegetables came from our CSA box from Full Circle Farm, and still had the soil dusting them. I can imagine the farmers reaching for the vegetable, plucking it up or digging it out, hands calloused , the dirt gathering under fingernails. I wanted to connect to the earth with this meal, but ended up connected to the transparent, the illusive, the ephemeral: poetry. Perhaps ratatouille is some kind of muse potion, what inspired my grandmother to reach out her hands as if she were touching the lights of Paris. Or perhaps I should have written down her instructions.

Outfit Of The Week: Carrie Cocktail

2009-09-07T12:11:00.000-07:00

Dress: Lucky Vintage

Carrie Cocktail has perfected the art of the bar giggle. The slightly demure laugh that resonates against the glasses and can be heard ringing if one puts his ear to his drink. She'll request songs from the bartender and dance on her tippy toes. Hers is neon light, the twist of lime, feet like champagne.

Edit

I apologize for what looks like over-exposure of the photos. The sun made a brief appearance in town today, and said hello right through my window!

Toosdai and the Dream of Horses

2009-09-04T12:26:00.000-07:00

I went to sleep last night in a fit. I dug half-moons into my palms and cried crocodile tears. I was frustrated with my current unemployment, and the seemingly endless stream of resumes that have been sent out into the ether, never to return. My ladylove Leila comforted me, my best friend Richard talked me down, and my mother diluted my worries. But what I needed was sleep.

This morning, I had a dream that I was riding a light brown horse with a red bridle. I jumped on, bareback, and took off. I gripped the reins and eventually the horse's sandy mane, for fear of being thrown off. We trotted past other horses and riders, and eventually past a cowboy-hatted woman who I assumed was the owner of the ranch. She stroked the horse's face, and fed him raspberries with powdered sugar from a glass goblet. I remember thinking, "What does it matter, how my life is at this moment? I can always ride a horse."

I woke to a boy wanting English muffins much to early in the morning. As he whispered in my ear, I wrapped my hand around his fingers and could feel his pulse. It felt like his heart was in my palm.

Leila's sister made graham cracker blueberry pancakes, and Leila made home-made whipped cream. Take a look at Leila's blog, Foodie Festivus, for her account of the mountain of whipped cream dream (coming soon!).

The Story of Bridge 58

2009-09-04T11:44:00.000-07:00

There are moments in my life that have been deemed "serendipitous" in the retelling of said moments. I wrote an entry for my mother's blog about one such moment, involving random pairings, future roommates, and art. The vignette can be found at my mother's blog, Dianne Poinski Hand-Colored Photography Studio Journal.

New Project: Table for One

2009-09-03T14:34:00.000-07:00

While wiling away the hours, I have come up with a new project that combines my two loves: reading and cooking. The following is the start of a weekly project, in which I pair books with food. I am making an attempt in the direction of wine pairing, without the pretension (or perhaps with heaps more, dependent on your view).

Ocean 1212-W by Sylvia Plath, with Black and Blue Tea by Remedy Teas

Remedy Teas is a small tea shop boasting over 150 organic, fair trade teas in blends that echo magic potions (some even promising aphrodisiatic properties and hangover cures). I perused the selection for some time, and knowing that I would be reading an essay about the sea, chose a tea that reminded me of the waves, the swells, the sand, and the foam.

Black and Blue tea swirls black tea, hibiscus, elderberries, currants, and cornflowers. As I let the tea steep for three minutes, I opened Sylvia Plath's Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams and began the essay, "Ocean 1212-W".

I sometimes think my vision of the sea is the clearest thing I own. I pick it up, exile that I am,like the purple "lucky stones" I used to collect with a white ring all the way round, or the shell of a blue mussel with its rainbowy angel's fingernail interior, and in one wash of memory the colors deepen and gleam, the early world draws breath.

Plath reminds me to breath. The tea has finished steeping and I move the cup nearer to me. I inhale. The berries infuse the steam, and for a moment I think, "Where is the salt sting?" But the sweetness of the tea dissolves once it hits my tongue, and the bite of black takes over.

Like a deep woman, it hid a good deal; it had many faces, many delicate, terrible veils. It spoke of miracles and distances; if it could court, it could also kill.

Plath's sentiment about the power of the ocean may be the reason I chose the Black and Blue tea. The magnitude of the sea, the awesomeness, the crash of waves, lead to blossoming bruises. I wanted escape, calm, seaside with gulls and the pearlescence of shells. What I got was Plath's account of the beauty, the life-giving breath and the life-taking reach of the sea. She even spoke of treasure, in the form of abandoned tea sets, perfect for my choice of location.

I think the sea swallowed dozens of tea sets-tossed in abandon off liners, or consigned to the tide by jilted brides. I collected a shiver of china bits, with borders of larkspur and birds or braids of daisies. No two patterns ever matched.

I recommend Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams for the essays like "Ocean 1212-W", but also for Plath's diary entries. I find it illuminating that a writer wrote the way she did, in private and for herself, when she thought no one would read it. Its almost like peeking over Plath's shoulder for a glimpse into her world.

Things Around Me

2009-08-31T10:59:00.000-07:00

Greek yogurt with boysenberry jam

Swimming fishy oven mitts.

A face on the house next door.

Voila Le Portrait Sans Retouche

2009-08-28T11:05:00.000-07:00

Recently, an icon of mine passed away. She permeated my identity, unwittingly and unknowingly. I had an image of her in my head, and when I met her for the first and last time, it was as if she had known exactly how to act and speak to make everything I had imagined come true. My grandmother's cousin Claudine was Paris for me. She was my tie to that world, that part of my lineage and lifestyle that made me make a French flag placemat for a project in the 2nd grade.

Below is an account of my afternoon with her, written for London Loverly.

A Whim Deserving of a Longer Entry
I decided to visit my grandmother's cousin in Paris on a whim. This, I reasoned, was better than planning a visit. First, because had I arranged a meeting, I would probably have gotten too nervous and backed out. Second, I would have brought a translator, making the whole meeting entirely too formal. But while preparing to go the Louvre that morning, something told me to grab Claudine's address out of my bag, so I did.

In between Italian, Spanish and French 16th-18th Century Paintings and Greek and Roman Antiquities, I decided to look up her address on the map of Paris I had in my bag. I discovered that her apartment was in the same arrondissement that I was staying in. Not only that, but I had walked by her apartment while exploring the area two days before. I decided it was too coincidental, too serendipitous to pass up. So I took two Metro lines to her apartment building.

I had no plan whatsoever when I got there. The apartments in Paris don't have numbers, and I had no idea which apartment was hers, much less how to even get into the building. I thought maybe I would stand outside the building and wait for someone to go in or out and I would ask them, "Connaissez-vous Claudine?" But then I didn't know what I would do with the answer I got, or even if I would understand the answer. I stood outside for a good two minutes, staring up at the balconies with their perfect potted pansies and feeling a little like my on-a-whim adventure may have been a fruitless idea.

I then noticed her last name on the callbox. Now, this is lucky. I have yet to see another apartment building with last names written on the callbox. The people inside must be important enough and receive visitors on a regular basis in order to warrant a callbox, as not to continually run up and down the stairs to open the door.

I wrote myself a little script of what I wanted to say, and stood in front of the callbox thinking, "Okay, should I press the button? Would I regret it if I didn't? Is this the right button? I shouldn't press the button. I don't know who is behind this button. I should press this button. No, I shouldn't-oh, I guess I pressed the button!"

Silence. And then, "Oui?"

"Uh, bonjourjem'appelleNicholejesuislapetitefilledeMicheline."
"Pardon?"
"Je m'appelle Nichole? Poinski? Je suis la petite-fille de Micheline? Poinski?"
"Ah, oui! Nichole! Second floor!"

The woman I met at the top of the stairs looked stunningly like my grandmother. She welcomed me into her beautiful apartment, inviting me to sit on the couch. We spoke stilted Franglish, working together to convey what the other meant. She started telling me how she met me when I was six years old, and I started to cry. She looked worried, like she had offended me, but I said, "Non, je suis désolée, je suis..." But I couldn't find the word I was looking for in either English or French. It was a combination of fulfillment, missing my family, Stendahl syndrome, happiness, and possibly caffeine withdrawal. It was then the language barrier didn't matter anymore. She said, "Emotive?" I nodded. She handed me a tissue and smiled.

We talked about the family in the States. She showed me pictures of her time in Morocco. I spoke to her daughter on the phone. She gave me a tour of her apartment. We talked about her late husband the professor. I gazed longingly at the bookshelves. She showed me her map of Paris, pre-Revolution, that took up an entire wall.

When I took my leave, she said, "Thank you so much for visiting me. Je suis très contente." I said, "Non, merci beaucoup, je suis très contente". Several merci beaucoup's, au revoir's, and cheek-to-cheek kisses were exchanged.

When I left, I was reeling. Something had told me to look her up, and it was lucky I did, because she was leaving for Bretagne the next day.

Upon reflection, the whole exchange doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but I cannot properly describe what I was feeling before and after meeting Claudine. All my life, I have been told of my grandmother's life in Paris, my distant relatives in Paris, my father's adventures in that one club with the band in Paris. But to be in Paris, this pseudo-mythical city where all of this stuff happened before I was born but that defined who I am as a person, was wild. I don't mean to border on maudlin, but it was like a dream come true. I've been dreaming of Paris, creating it in my head for years, and to experience the city for itself, with Parisians and friends who knew the city, was amazing.

C'est tout.

The Blackbird Must Have Kissed You Last Night

2009-08-22T23:46:00.000-07:00

The above is a saying in the South, used when talking about insomnia and the resulting black circles under your eyes.

Today was the Low Impact Vehicle show down at Seward Park.

I went down to visit Lucas and his paper mache truck, which turns the "truck's impact on the environment" on its head and showcases the "environment's impact on the truck." Rain, pollution, and high-mile freeway gulleys have soiled the pristine of the paper mache, to where now there is visible wear and tear.

We had a picnic of barbeque chicken, grilled zucchini, apricot kolaches, and a peach, goat cheese, and basil salad, which I highly recommend and have copied the recipe below:

Peach Salad with Wild Arugula, Goat Cheese, Almonds, and Basil

(Serves 2)

1 large bunch wild arugula (or use the regular supermarket arugula), stemmed
1 perfectly (not excessively) ripe peach, cut into thin wedges
A handful of blanched whole almonds, lightly toasted
A few very thin slices of red onion
About a half a small log of fresh goat cheese
A dozen basil leaves, left whole
1 teaspoon Spanish sherry vinegar
A few drops of balsamic vinegar
Salt
Black pepper
A pinch of grated nutmeg
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Place the arugula in a medium-size salad bowl. Add the peach slices, the almonds, and the red onion. Crumble on the goat cheese, and add the basil leaves.

In a small bowl, whisk together the sherry and balsamic vinegar with the olive oil, and season it with salt, black pepper, and the nutmeg. Pour it over the salad, and toss gently. Serve right away.

Lucas won a beautiful trophy for his entry!

Next, Leila and Blaire joined us for a walk around Seward Park.

Blaire made a delicious salmon and creme fraiche dish for dinner, while Leila made a dangerous chocolate pudding cake for dessert. Lucas and Blaire taught us to play Hearts. The cake made for a giggly game.

One Of My Favorite Things

2009-08-14T14:45:00.000-07:00

One my of my absolute favorite past times is listening to my friend Richard play his songs on the piano. He has a Red Vines voice and writes witty, Wildesque lyrics. I tend to giggle and curl my toes inside my shoes when I listen to his rag-time inspired songs about Borne-orne-o.

As right now, his music can be found on his Myspace page, but hopefully soon he will have recordings of his latest work. Currently, he is writing a musical based on Dr. Walter Freeman, the man who "performed nearly 3500 lobotomies in 23 states, mostly based on scanty and flimsy evidence for its scientific basis." Sometimes Richard performs at Cornish shows. One of these times, he's going to help me to fulfill my dream of playing tambourine and singing backup.

If You Don't Know Where You're Going, Any Road Will Take You There

2009-08-07T09:32:00.000-07:00

Saturday night, some of the Lady Loves and I went to the Through The Looking Glass: The Burlesque Alice in Wonderland. To say it was "amazing" is an understatement. It was a rollicking, rocking, rolling, gyrating, floating, graceful, hilarious, beautiful, bawdy, bright night.

The production was not put on by any one company, but all the dancers were of Seattle's burlesque elite, and almost all teach at Miss Indigo Blue's Academy of Burlesque. Below are some photos from the night, taken by the lovely Briana Taylor.

The caterpillar!

The Jabberwocky! At which point, being the nerds we are, Leila and I recited the opening of the poem along with the emcee.

And representing the talking flowers, Tiger Lily!

The Mad Hatter's tea party. The waitress Eat Me was an uninvited guest.

The White Rabbit as the emcee.

The only boylesque performer, The Cheshire Cat, whose performance consisted of scratching at the arm of the chair and putting clothes on.

The caterpillar transformed into a butterfly!

And was drop-dead gorgeous!

Alice and the Queen of Hearts played strip poker.

The Queen lost.

The two halves of Alice in the say goodbye to each other through the looking glass.

Jasol's Show

2009-08-04T09:35:00.000-07:00

Friday night was Jason Hirata and Sol Hashemi's show at The Dirty Shed. I enjoyed reuniting with old friends, twinkle lights, discussions on the transcendent properties of Rumi, and being told my outfit was reminiscent of a "constant deep tissue massage."

Below are glimpses of the Jason and Sol's work. For more, read Jen Graves' write-up in the The Stranger.

Southern Belles

2009-07-30T07:51:00.000-07:00

Tomato and avocado chilled soup, mojitos, and Interview with the Vampire.

Sixteen Miles To The Promise Land

2009-07-27T15:52:00.000-07:00

I randomly ~~stole~~ borrowed my roommate's car and went out to the peninsula this weekend. It was one of the most beautiful weekends. I wish I could bottle the tang of salty seas and honey sunsets.

Favorite Places

2009-07-20T06:51:00.000-07:00

Hands-down, my favorite places in Europe have always been museums. I love the (mostly) silent contemplation of pieces, the way the museums arrange exhibitions (this is an art in itself), the way my heels click on the floors. Two notable visits were made to the Pompidou Center and the Dali Museum.

The Pompidou had an exhibit on women artists.

Joe made a friend outside the Pompidou, and they had a game of kick-the-globe.

We also visited the Dali Museum in Montmartre

My brother and I visited the Tate Modern while in London. I've been four times. I think it might just be my favorite place on earth.

Retroactive Blogging: Paris

2009-07-19T08:45:00.000-07:00

I often have trouble moving myself from one element to another. I am a homebody. I worship routine. Ripping myself out of my own orbit has been a challenge. So upon arriving in Paris, I felt immediately homesick. It took a couple days to adjust. I would walk the streets with my dear family and feel gratitude for this amazing opportunity, but something wasn't clicking.

At one point, I ventured out by myself. I went to a cafe to write some postcards and read from Kerouac's The Subterreaneans (maybe this brief affair with Kerouac is the closest I want to get to that fantasy bohemian lifestyle). I was sitting on the upper level and ordered a coffee, a glass of water, and a raspberry tart. While trying to escape into the slums of San Francisco, my elbow hit the glass of water and it went tumbling down onto the waiter. I gasped and apologized profusely. He just looked at me as if I did it on purpose, as if I went, "And THAT'S what I think of your berets, your cheese, and your unitary semi-presidential republic!!"

The other waiter approached me softly and said, in English, "Ueh, can you pay now?"

After that episode, my time in Paris was splendid. My family and I walked around Paris. My dad would read aloud from Rick Steve's. We absorbed, side-stepped, got lost, and ate sandwiches. I was very grateful for the time spent with my family.

And a little glimpse of home.

To Be Free, One Must Give Up A Part Of Oneself

2009-06-29T10:44:00.000-07:00

Last night I saw Hedwig and the Angry Inch at Club Motor in Sodo. I had only ever seen the movie. The live performance was exactly what I wanted it to be. Gritty, writhing, beautiful. Everyone was singing along.

The little ball of fire on the stage is Hedwig herself.

It's a car wash, ladies and gentlemen!

And here's my favorite number:

Cramped Quarters

2009-06-26T11:24:00.000-07:00

Our kitchen is very small.

But I somehow managed to make this really colorful breakfast.

I haven't been doing much of anything lately. I work on my thesis a little bit, take bike rides (weather permitting), and procrastinate on laundry. Leila and I have been having *movies and smoothies* nights. Thus far we have watched Lucia Y El Sexo, What The Bleep Do We Know, Penelope, Velvet Goldmine, and MST3K. Oh, that looks like a lot of movie watching when I list them all.

A little more than a week until Paris!

'These Books Were Made for Walking' by Hottie and the Blowfish

2009-06-17T16:11:00.000-07:00

Last night was Brittan's 21st birthday (finally)!

We all went out to Bush Garden in the International District for karaoke! Some of my favorite people were there.

I get knocked down!

But I get up again!

You're never gonna keep me down!

Beautiful.

The night was actually really lovely. I didn't get a chance to sing, and someone had already taken my song of choice ("These Boots Were Made for Walking" by Nancy Sinatra). But the place was small, and the crowd was large, and the drinks cheap. This was probably one of the better 21st birthday parties I have been to. No ridiculous 21 run, crawling up the Ave. Just good friends and horrible songs.

June, July and August said, "It's probably hard to plan ahead."

2009-06-16T19:07:00.000-07:00

I feel like a horrid waste of space today. I had a phone interview this morning, and have since then left my apartment once to pick up cheese, spinach, bread and dark chocolate at Trader's. I took a nap, read a little of The Dharma Bums (I'm trying to make it last as long as I can. It's one of my favorites), and have discovered my new favorite blog, Left Hand Endeavor.

I am in a very weird limbo right now. I need to prepare my presentation for Computers and Writing 2009 by this Sunday, as well as the latter half of my thesis by the 25th. I'm trying to look for jobs, but leaving for two weeks in July (for PARIS!!!) makes me an unlikely candidate for anything available right now. I'm really stuck and running out of money. I know everything happens for a reason, and whatever happens is supposed to happen, but right now I'm not sure what to do.

So, instead of worrying, I've gotten lost in these Ellen Von Unwerth for Erin Fetherston films. I like my alternative.

Show Me Sunsets

2009-06-15T15:51:00.000-07:00

I "graduated" this weekend. The department ceremony was small and my name was mispronounced, but my family was able to come to Seattle to see a little of what my life is like now. They finally saw my quirkycute apartment and neighborhood that I've been raving about and am incredibly lucky to live in.

We spent the weekend bike riding, eating strawberries and playing with dogs in the park, and walking. On Sunday, we went to the Olympic Sculpture Park, one of my favorite spots in Seattle.

I don't know how I feel now. I don't think I can swallow the graduation rhetoric. I'm not done by any means (I still have to write the latter half of my thesis), and I will be attending graduate school and working towards my Ph. D in a couple of years. So what am I to do with my time now? I feel maybe this is the time to see how I operate outside of academia. I'm still entrenched and devoted, but I know there is more beyond, beyond.

A boy is on his way to work on the peninsula. He gave a beautiful parting gift, which is perhaps quite perfect for this time in my life:

I Believe It

2009-04-14T07:15:00.001-07:00

I Want Summer

2009-04-10T08:20:00.000-07:00

Summer brought to you by Bruce Davidson.

Rhyme and Meter Among the Cutlery

2009-04-01T20:55:00.000-07:00

I think the kitchen has been too-long neglected as a creative space. Yes, this is where the cooking is done and artistic liberties are taken with that all the time (goddess dressing+mahi mahi+oven=awesome). But words are limited to the cookbook.

My roommate played with our magnetic poetry. This is what the muse came up with.

Others who have indulged in creative composition in the kitchen:
Miranda July-No One Belongs Here More Than You
Alice B. Toklas-The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook

Morning Time

2009-02-10T07:40:00.000-08:00

is quite possibly my favorite time

A Message

2009-02-06T16:43:00.000-08:00

Proper Due

If The Artful Dodger Had A Guitar

2009-01-28T07:44:00.001-08:00

Snow, It's Fury

2009-01-25T15:28:00.000-08:00

Today I walked with my roommate to pick up her refurbished vintage bike from the bike shop. As we walked, snow began to fall. At first, the snow was light. We caught flakes on our coats and mittens and tongues. The white flakes on our dark coats were perfect crystals, each of course different from the other, like little brilliant melting diamonds.

The snow started to fall heavier on the way back. As she pedaled ahead, completely exhilarated with the new love of her life, the snow started to collect on her hair, creating for a split second a frozen halo before it melted.

I've always wanted to hear the silence of snowfall. I never have before.

Soundtrack

2009-01-20T17:29:00.000-08:00

My memories are scored. Cooking in the kitchen is soundtracked by the Moody Blues (the ridiculous synthesized opening to "In Your Wildest Dreams" reminds me chopping onions) . Janis Joplin's "Summertime" plays on repeat starting June 20th every year. "Superman" by the Crash Test Dummies brings the taste of perfume and dirt to my mouth and makes me think of Los Angeles.

My political consciousness has been scored as well. While any song that had the word "America" in it played after 9/11, it was, no joke, Don Henley's "The End of Innocence" that made me cry. When the bombs were first dropped on Baghdad, my favorite radio station played The Clash's "London Calling". Subsequently, Goldfinger's version of "99 Red Balloons" blasted from my Honda Accord as I drove to school.

So now what? Now what song will define this new era?

THIS ONE.

And if you're looking for the perfect soundtrack to start this administration, this new era, off right, listen to the KEXP's Afternoon Show archive for January 20th starting at 2 pm. It is like every songwriter knew this day was coming.

I love that Barack Obama's name rocks like a reggae lyric. Well hey, what do you know?

I Need To Learn This

2009-01-14T07:40:00.000-08:00

Less Than Two Weeks

2009-01-07T07:56:00.000-08:00

I was flipping through one of the many mini moleskine notebooks of mine, and I came across theses notes written the day after Obama was elected:

I offered my table to a trio of Golden Girls today in Parnassus. As they settled in, their conversation moved from reminiscing about knitting during their college Russian classes to the magnanimity of last night's election. They had decided that out of everything they had experienced in their lives, last night was the zenith. "We've seen history," one of them chimed.

Later, this dialogue occured:

"I was scrapbooking and watching an 'E' True Hollywood Story about Clinton and all of his women."
"Who cares?!"

I'm sure she meant, "Who cares about Clinton and his women?" and not "Screw you and your scrapbooking!"

Thirteen days until Obama is officially in office, although it feels like Bush hasn't been our president for a good two years now. It will be an odd adjustment, knowing that there is someone in office who not only demands respect (and doesn't whine or make up words when he's frustrated by the lack of it), but has earned it. America is captivated, and waiting, and willing. I sincerely hope the enthusiasm felt on election night and the subsequent days of euphoria shortly thereafter translate into some kind of New American Mindset, one that looks a little like the America I was told existed but have never actually seen.

Note: I use "America" to mean "The United States of America". I understand the USA does not constitute the whole of the Americas, but for some reason you cannot be "United States of American", but you can be "American".

Honey Heart

2009-01-06T07:48:00.000-08:00

In a pot of curried apple soup.

Tea Vase

2009-01-05T09:28:00.000-08:00

The newest addition to the Novotny-Poinski household:

An beautiful teapot I wasn't using for it's original purpose became a flower vase! Flowers purchased at Trader Joe's.

A Lady Or A Tramp?

2009-01-03T07:43:00.000-08:00

Which am I if I echo her sentiments exactly?

EDIT
I forgot the lyrics "with anyone but you", so I guess that negates any inkling towards tramp status.

Because Famous People Say It Better

2009-01-01T11:57:00.000-08:00

This year, I handmade cards for my friends and family. Here are three of my favorites:

The rest of the quote for the last card is as follows:

You have every right to just stop thinking, worrying, looking over your shoulder, wondering, doubting, fearing, hurting, hoping for some easy way out, struggling, gasping, confusing, itching, scratching, mumbling, bumbling, grumbling, humbling, stumbling, rumbling, rambling, gambling, tumbling, scumbling, scrambling, hitching, hatching, bitching, moaning, groaning, honing, boning, horse-shitting, hair-splitting, nit-picking, piss-trickling, nose-sticking, ass-gouging, eyeball-poking, finger-pointing, alleyway-sneaking, long waiting, small stepping, evil-eyeing, back-scratching, searching, perching, besmirching, grinding, grinding grinding away at yourself and just DO.

Don't worry about cool. Make your own uncool. Make your own, your own world."

--Sol LeWitt

I love this quote. I want it on a giant poster to hang in my apartment, to remind me every day that I am the master of my own uncool destiny.