Fam-Diggity-Damnly
As the fog of family slowly lifts from my apartment (my much better furnished apartment) I am able to better embrace the weekend that was Thanksgiving a la Flauna.
I told the rents (Quack's included) that they could come to Thanksgiving dinner if they brought the table.
Yes, that's right, as fab as the new digs are, they are unfurnished dig. That is until our peeps trailered a tin can full of amenities across the country! Yeah for parents desperate to help their children.
So they showed up with the table, and I supplied the turkey (and an entire menu thanks to the good graces of an outdated copy of Real Simple magazine.)
But wait. Real Simple my ass! I had to keep a notebook by my side the entire time just to make sure what needed chopping was chopped and what needed de-gibletted was de-gibletted.
Thank God the peeps were up for my delegated tasks and before I knew it, I had assigned everyone a side dish. Truly, I couldn't have done it without them.
Quack's primary duties included cleaning up after the messy cooks (he couldn't stop the OCD monster) and keep all the workers in the good graces of one type of alcoholic bevy or another - to which I blame the twice burnt spiced nuts my mom was in charge of.
The first sacrificial burning was the night before the meal, over margaritas. The second burning took place the next morning over Bloody Mary's. Opps! We concluded it was a "bad recipe."
To her credit, my mother single handily arranged and re-arranged my apartment until the over sized furniture we own fit within the walls and doors of the tiny turn-of-the-century frames. She and Dad also bought Quack and I a fab turn-of-the-century, wall-to-wall, antique rug for our dining room. I love it, but the smell makes me think there is a granny hiding somewhere in the house.
As the big meal, and big weekend ended, Quack and I sat out on our front porch and exhaled.
Then, in protest of all things pent-up during a parental visit, we farted until the turkey-bloat subsided.
Whew!
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
I Don't Get It
I spent last night in the company of our fab upstairs neighbors, T-bag and his Mattingly. They invited us to what I thought was going to be a lovely holiday get-together for T-bag's company. I imagined finger foods, cocktails and wifeys dressed in glittery holiday turtlenecks.
WRONGO!
Turns out this here holiday par-tay was nothing more than an excuse to tie one on, get down a chili dog or nine and take home a little Thanksgiving Eve syphilis.
A full spectrum of moms in tapered jeans and strappy heels touch-stepped to the smooth tunes of a jazz funk band whose Sir Duke horn section was the only thing in the joint that seemed unaffected by the hazy atmosphere.
Everything else was was veiled in smokey low lighting, which I imagine is maintained on purpose so as not to expose what was growing on, or going down, in the corner.
To be honest, I don't know what you call this get-together and I don't really know where it was. I believe one word sums it up, Pennsyltucky.
It was a blast!
The debacle was held in a "banquet hall" and by that they mean big-ass room with a bar that could easily be replaced with a kegerator, b/c no one was drinking the $3 Jack and Cokes when there was free Miller Lite to be had!
A low stakes poker game was tucked in next to the goody table, which featured individually wrapped chili dogs, strange mayo based salads, foot upon foot of hogie sandwich and what can only be described as a MN bar (though that's not what the PA'ers would call them.)
Mattingly promptly pointed out what she coined as a faux-mullet. More than one woman had taken a potentially flattering hair cut and arranged it to look business in the front, party in the back. This truly took it to a new level.
Outside of the aforementioned syphilis, I took part in all that was offered at this shin-dig. I danced inappropriately with a super campy gay man who grabbed my boobs like I had been his hag since we were chubby outcasts in grade school.
Mattingly and I made a point to shake our Miller off a bit, and by doing so, sent the step-touchers back on their fold-out chairs.
The evening came to a close in Quack's and my kitchen. Our drunken ramblings were documented on the door-sized chalk board, which sadly had to be erased before the arrival of the rents today. Rubber Chicken anyone?
I'm not too sure of the rest of the night's details, all I remember is the four of us all on the kitchen floor in red faced laughter.
Seems to me this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
I spent last night in the company of our fab upstairs neighbors, T-bag and his Mattingly. They invited us to what I thought was going to be a lovely holiday get-together for T-bag's company. I imagined finger foods, cocktails and wifeys dressed in glittery holiday turtlenecks.
WRONGO!
Turns out this here holiday par-tay was nothing more than an excuse to tie one on, get down a chili dog or nine and take home a little Thanksgiving Eve syphilis.
A full spectrum of moms in tapered jeans and strappy heels touch-stepped to the smooth tunes of a jazz funk band whose Sir Duke horn section was the only thing in the joint that seemed unaffected by the hazy atmosphere.
Everything else was was veiled in smokey low lighting, which I imagine is maintained on purpose so as not to expose what was growing on, or going down, in the corner.
To be honest, I don't know what you call this get-together and I don't really know where it was. I believe one word sums it up, Pennsyltucky.
It was a blast!
The debacle was held in a "banquet hall" and by that they mean big-ass room with a bar that could easily be replaced with a kegerator, b/c no one was drinking the $3 Jack and Cokes when there was free Miller Lite to be had!
A low stakes poker game was tucked in next to the goody table, which featured individually wrapped chili dogs, strange mayo based salads, foot upon foot of hogie sandwich and what can only be described as a MN bar (though that's not what the PA'ers would call them.)
Mattingly promptly pointed out what she coined as a faux-mullet. More than one woman had taken a potentially flattering hair cut and arranged it to look business in the front, party in the back. This truly took it to a new level.
Outside of the aforementioned syphilis, I took part in all that was offered at this shin-dig. I danced inappropriately with a super campy gay man who grabbed my boobs like I had been his hag since we were chubby outcasts in grade school.
Mattingly and I made a point to shake our Miller off a bit, and by doing so, sent the step-touchers back on their fold-out chairs.
The evening came to a close in Quack's and my kitchen. Our drunken ramblings were documented on the door-sized chalk board, which sadly had to be erased before the arrival of the rents today. Rubber Chicken anyone?
I'm not too sure of the rest of the night's details, all I remember is the four of us all on the kitchen floor in red faced laughter.
Seems to me this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
What a cool kid:
Nov. 13, 2006
To those who grant Eagle Scout status:
I am a healthy 24-year-old woman who, clinging to a senseless fear of needles, had never had the courage to give blood until I met M. Sparks.
I met him at one of the four blood drives Sparks had organized for his Eagle Scout project. He came across as an incredibly ambitious 12-year-old who didn't meet the standard idea of an Eagle Scout (as he was young) or a blood donor (as he was light).
But despite these inconsistencies, Sparks was locked into earning the Eagle honor as well as convincing others to donate in his stead.
I was talking with Sparks about his project, interviewing him actually (I am a reporter for a local newspaper) when he revealed to me the difficulty of meeting his goal.
Everyone kept saying no.
His father, L. Sparks, had been a witness to the refusals given to his son time and again — myself included.
As our interview concluded, and he had convincingly delivered his intentions, I turned down at his request for a pint.
"I'm on the clock; I'm not that great with needles; I don't know how I'll react; I have to drive, and so on," I justified to myself
Some of those excuses held water. For example, I know a light-headed, snacking reporter wouldn't be any good during breaking news. However, my relationship with needles was tumultuous and hollow, and could no longer be an excuse.
At one point in my life, it might have been. As a young child, I spent a lot of time in the hospital, with nurses sneaking up on me in the night armed with a silver gleaming needles.
These images, ingrained so deep in my conscience, had prevented me from doing my donor duty.
So in a moment of spontaneity and courage, I re-approached Sparks, asking him when and where I could meet for his next blood drive.
We shook on it, and he gave me a "Donate Blood" bracelet (a la Lance Armstrong) to be worn until I had made right on my word.
I could go on to tell you about the process, the nerves, the finger prick and how I darn near passed out. But, what I'll say instead is that Sparks inspired me to get to the rec-room of that church and once there, motivated me through the whole process.
He was an attentive and funny distraction, particularly during the more tense parts. But more than anything, Sparks encouraged me to be a better person, giving, very literally of myself, for the betterment of others.
With Sincerity —
Flee
Nov. 13, 2006
To those who grant Eagle Scout status:
I am a healthy 24-year-old woman who, clinging to a senseless fear of needles, had never had the courage to give blood until I met M. Sparks.
I met him at one of the four blood drives Sparks had organized for his Eagle Scout project. He came across as an incredibly ambitious 12-year-old who didn't meet the standard idea of an Eagle Scout (as he was young) or a blood donor (as he was light).
But despite these inconsistencies, Sparks was locked into earning the Eagle honor as well as convincing others to donate in his stead.
I was talking with Sparks about his project, interviewing him actually (I am a reporter for a local newspaper) when he revealed to me the difficulty of meeting his goal.
Everyone kept saying no.
His father, L. Sparks, had been a witness to the refusals given to his son time and again — myself included.
As our interview concluded, and he had convincingly delivered his intentions, I turned down at his request for a pint.
"I'm on the clock; I'm not that great with needles; I don't know how I'll react; I have to drive, and so on," I justified to myself
Some of those excuses held water. For example, I know a light-headed, snacking reporter wouldn't be any good during breaking news. However, my relationship with needles was tumultuous and hollow, and could no longer be an excuse.
At one point in my life, it might have been. As a young child, I spent a lot of time in the hospital, with nurses sneaking up on me in the night armed with a silver gleaming needles.
These images, ingrained so deep in my conscience, had prevented me from doing my donor duty.
So in a moment of spontaneity and courage, I re-approached Sparks, asking him when and where I could meet for his next blood drive.
We shook on it, and he gave me a "Donate Blood" bracelet (a la Lance Armstrong) to be worn until I had made right on my word.
I could go on to tell you about the process, the nerves, the finger prick and how I darn near passed out. But, what I'll say instead is that Sparks inspired me to get to the rec-room of that church and once there, motivated me through the whole process.
He was an attentive and funny distraction, particularly during the more tense parts. But more than anything, Sparks encouraged me to be a better person, giving, very literally of myself, for the betterment of others.
With Sincerity —
Flee
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Inverted Half Moon Pose (Heated)
I post too often about yoga and coffee. But they are the two things that balance me.
Today I tried a new yoga practise called "Heated Vinyasa." Basically, you go through the motions in a room heated by a mini sauna.
I walked into the room, smelling golden, like warm cedar. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. When I opened them and scanned the room for a spot to flop my mat, I was greeted by some of the instructors from my previous health club (since the move we are going to a different branch).
The golden feeling dissipated and it was replaced by steely fear. These women are SVELT! The kind of fit that is all tight abs and fake nails and sportswear that doubles as street wear. I'm clad in some cut-off sweat pants, a floppy t-shirt and my Crocs (of course). I stop dead in my tracks. This is like yoga class for Thoroughbreds, I belong more to the petting zoo variety of yogis.
But it was too late to turn back, so I set up shop and prayed for flexibility.
The instructor looked at me with raised eyebrows and then kindly asked, "Have you done Yoga before?" (Read: You are way out of your league pudge.)
"Oh yeah," I said in true MN fashion.
So we get right into the swing of things, upping and downward dogging, twisting and binding and stretching and posing. I was keeping up pretty well, and the heat didn't appear to be an issue, in fact I think it helped me to limber up a bit.
I was feeling bendy, ambitious, and with the instructors guidance, pushed myself a little further.
The teacher was great in the way she prodded and pushed her students' bodies into the right position. She helped me out on a full back bend, which I haven't done on purpose, or with any comfort, since I was like, 10.
It was all going ducky until I needed to use my calf to stabilize myself. I tipped forward (from a standing position) right foot grounded, left foot raising up behind me (like a seesaw) and as I grasped my cankle (not that I have a cankle just that I was grabbing by calf/ankle area) my hand slid down my leg like a frikin' slip and slide. I was so sweaty, which I was strangely unaware of, that it felt like I'd waded in a pool of KY.
I pitched forward, all balance and confidence lost, doing something that resembled a cartwheel/Karate fall.
Gazing up at the ceiling, my final resting place about four feet from my mat, the yoga instructor peeked her head in to my field of vision.
She didn't have to say anything.
"I'm fine," I said.
And I was, surprisingly. I resaddled and continued on with the session, with a little less candor and a strategically placed sweat towel.
At the end, during the meditation, "Shavasana" - or corpse pose - the teacher knelt at my mat and did a little initiation ceremony by rubbing jasmine oil onto my feet and giving me the best-feeling mini foot rub in the world.
As I walked out of the room, feeling like a rubber band, she said, "You did great. Hope to see you next Tuesday."
I would like to say that the spinal alignment and "third eye" peace of mind carried me the day through, but to be honest, when I picked up a bottle of toothpaste at the grocery store (immediately following the class) I had pain in my back and arm so fierce, it took my breath away.
I think it goes without saying that I can't wait for next week!
I post too often about yoga and coffee. But they are the two things that balance me.
Today I tried a new yoga practise called "Heated Vinyasa." Basically, you go through the motions in a room heated by a mini sauna.
I walked into the room, smelling golden, like warm cedar. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. When I opened them and scanned the room for a spot to flop my mat, I was greeted by some of the instructors from my previous health club (since the move we are going to a different branch).
The golden feeling dissipated and it was replaced by steely fear. These women are SVELT! The kind of fit that is all tight abs and fake nails and sportswear that doubles as street wear. I'm clad in some cut-off sweat pants, a floppy t-shirt and my Crocs (of course). I stop dead in my tracks. This is like yoga class for Thoroughbreds, I belong more to the petting zoo variety of yogis.
But it was too late to turn back, so I set up shop and prayed for flexibility.
The instructor looked at me with raised eyebrows and then kindly asked, "Have you done Yoga before?" (Read: You are way out of your league pudge.)
"Oh yeah," I said in true MN fashion.
So we get right into the swing of things, upping and downward dogging, twisting and binding and stretching and posing. I was keeping up pretty well, and the heat didn't appear to be an issue, in fact I think it helped me to limber up a bit.
I was feeling bendy, ambitious, and with the instructors guidance, pushed myself a little further.
The teacher was great in the way she prodded and pushed her students' bodies into the right position. She helped me out on a full back bend, which I haven't done on purpose, or with any comfort, since I was like, 10.
It was all going ducky until I needed to use my calf to stabilize myself. I tipped forward (from a standing position) right foot grounded, left foot raising up behind me (like a seesaw) and as I grasped my cankle (not that I have a cankle just that I was grabbing by calf/ankle area) my hand slid down my leg like a frikin' slip and slide. I was so sweaty, which I was strangely unaware of, that it felt like I'd waded in a pool of KY.
I pitched forward, all balance and confidence lost, doing something that resembled a cartwheel/Karate fall.
Gazing up at the ceiling, my final resting place about four feet from my mat, the yoga instructor peeked her head in to my field of vision.
She didn't have to say anything.
"I'm fine," I said.
And I was, surprisingly. I resaddled and continued on with the session, with a little less candor and a strategically placed sweat towel.
At the end, during the meditation, "Shavasana" - or corpse pose - the teacher knelt at my mat and did a little initiation ceremony by rubbing jasmine oil onto my feet and giving me the best-feeling mini foot rub in the world.
As I walked out of the room, feeling like a rubber band, she said, "You did great. Hope to see you next Tuesday."
I would like to say that the spinal alignment and "third eye" peace of mind carried me the day through, but to be honest, when I picked up a bottle of toothpaste at the grocery store (immediately following the class) I had pain in my back and arm so fierce, it took my breath away.
I think it goes without saying that I can't wait for next week!
Monday, November 06, 2006
Why is it that I can get an exotic bearded dragon or a cheetah printed negligee on a Monday afternoon in this town, but I cannot, I repeat, CANNOT, get a cup of coffee brewed in a decent shop.
My mission this afternoon, which was probably the same mission as thousands of working gals across the state, millions across the country.
Go to the bank and get a cup of coffee on my lunch break.
What is more manageable than this?
Instead, I ended up with a natural high from walking a half-dozen blocks in search of anything that resembled the sweet black nectar of the Gods.
The closest I got was a hot-dog shop, which claims they have the "Very Best" hot dogs, but sadly ends up pedaling coffee that tastes similarly.
Blech.
My mission this afternoon, which was probably the same mission as thousands of working gals across the state, millions across the country.
Go to the bank and get a cup of coffee on my lunch break.
What is more manageable than this?
Instead, I ended up with a natural high from walking a half-dozen blocks in search of anything that resembled the sweet black nectar of the Gods.
The closest I got was a hot-dog shop, which claims they have the "Very Best" hot dogs, but sadly ends up pedaling coffee that tastes similarly.
Blech.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Espress(o) yourself
Well, it's finally happened. The inevitable second job that accompanies every young writer career as descended upon me.
Finding that my "real" paycheck, was not quite covering my "real" bills, I broke down and got a part-time job doing my default, slinging coffee.
The shop I'm at now it probably the hippest I've worked at. Sure as hell beats the visor-clad days of my college coffee kiosk. Which I subsequently got fired from.
Say what?!
Yeah, you heard me right. I got fired.
I basically called in sick to do an assignment and the be-othch who wanted my mint shift (8 a.m.-12) saw me in the library and ratted me out.
Well I said, take this visor and shove it! I don't need your stinking sludge. Turns out I did. If not for the money for the caffeine.
So I just became a customer instead.
Before the college "coffee cart" as it was called, I worked at a quaint mom and pop operation with some sort of Northwoods feel.
I spent my entire teenage prime steaming up sticky drinks, topping them off with whipped cream and then dunking day-old pastries into them.
It was me, and a bunch of fresh faced chickies basically running the place. The owner would come in much less frequently than the cops and weirdos that came to stare at our T&A.
There was one guy in particular, "Hot Chocolate John" I believe was his name. He was a grown man, probably sneaking away from his mom's house, who would come to the shop everyday and order a sticky bun and a jumbo hot chocolate, piled high with whipped cream. I was young enough not to realize what that perfectly piled whipped cream topping represented for him.
He had a horrible demeanour, like Boy George meets Vanilla Ice meets your black sheep cousin.
He would occasionally leave a rose in the tip jar or scratch out a horrible poem on a used napkin. He creeped us all out, but I distinctly remember all of us vying for who would get to take home the floral tip.
So now that I am at this new shop in the city, there are plenty of cops and crazies, but I am not so intrigued by them as I was in my newly post-pubescent state.
The shop owner is a do-good, fair trade, espresso brewing Nazi.
When I went in to apply for the job, I introduced myself and presented my hand for a shake. She, with holding, said, "I don't shake hands when I'm working."
Yikes!
So now that I'm getting to know her, I realize she has a O.C.D., anxiety, snarky sense of humor thing going on.
For example, the first day on the job (which by the way starts at 6 a.m.) she said to me, "I hired you to be nice to customers, at least nicer than me, and that won't be hard because I'm a bitch."
I think this is HI-larious.
She's had me working the register for three straight weeks, and despite my knowledge of all thing "barista" the closest I've gotten to the drinks is re-stocking the cups.
But all of this will change soon. I have a training session this week in which I will be asked to pull 10 shot is a row, at the perfect brew length of 25 to 30 seconds.
Sweet Jesus.
I think it will be fine, but it I don't hit the mark, I'll just go back to my old ways of drinking Folgers out of a dirty mug, for it's all my writers wage will afford me.
Well, it's finally happened. The inevitable second job that accompanies every young writer career as descended upon me.
Finding that my "real" paycheck, was not quite covering my "real" bills, I broke down and got a part-time job doing my default, slinging coffee.
The shop I'm at now it probably the hippest I've worked at. Sure as hell beats the visor-clad days of my college coffee kiosk. Which I subsequently got fired from.
Say what?!
Yeah, you heard me right. I got fired.
I basically called in sick to do an assignment and the be-othch who wanted my mint shift (8 a.m.-12) saw me in the library and ratted me out.
Well I said, take this visor and shove it! I don't need your stinking sludge. Turns out I did. If not for the money for the caffeine.
So I just became a customer instead.
Before the college "coffee cart" as it was called, I worked at a quaint mom and pop operation with some sort of Northwoods feel.
I spent my entire teenage prime steaming up sticky drinks, topping them off with whipped cream and then dunking day-old pastries into them.
It was me, and a bunch of fresh faced chickies basically running the place. The owner would come in much less frequently than the cops and weirdos that came to stare at our T&A.
There was one guy in particular, "Hot Chocolate John" I believe was his name. He was a grown man, probably sneaking away from his mom's house, who would come to the shop everyday and order a sticky bun and a jumbo hot chocolate, piled high with whipped cream. I was young enough not to realize what that perfectly piled whipped cream topping represented for him.
He had a horrible demeanour, like Boy George meets Vanilla Ice meets your black sheep cousin.
He would occasionally leave a rose in the tip jar or scratch out a horrible poem on a used napkin. He creeped us all out, but I distinctly remember all of us vying for who would get to take home the floral tip.
So now that I am at this new shop in the city, there are plenty of cops and crazies, but I am not so intrigued by them as I was in my newly post-pubescent state.
The shop owner is a do-good, fair trade, espresso brewing Nazi.
When I went in to apply for the job, I introduced myself and presented my hand for a shake. She, with holding, said, "I don't shake hands when I'm working."
Yikes!
So now that I'm getting to know her, I realize she has a O.C.D., anxiety, snarky sense of humor thing going on.
For example, the first day on the job (which by the way starts at 6 a.m.) she said to me, "I hired you to be nice to customers, at least nicer than me, and that won't be hard because I'm a bitch."
I think this is HI-larious.
She's had me working the register for three straight weeks, and despite my knowledge of all thing "barista" the closest I've gotten to the drinks is re-stocking the cups.
But all of this will change soon. I have a training session this week in which I will be asked to pull 10 shot is a row, at the perfect brew length of 25 to 30 seconds.
Sweet Jesus.
I think it will be fine, but it I don't hit the mark, I'll just go back to my old ways of drinking Folgers out of a dirty mug, for it's all my writers wage will afford me.
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