GreenCanary

Chili Update: And The Winner Is...

2009-11-06T13:46:00.003-05:00

WOOO! My chili was well-received by my colleagues! Though I did not win a ribbon, I did have the 4th highest number of votes.

That was some tough competition, let me tell you. The winner duped us all by LYING and telling us that his chili contained spicy pork sausage and ground beef. We all ooh'ed and aah'ed over the lively flavor of his chili, wondering aloud what ingredients he used to give it its sweetness and tangy zip. Once the winner was announced and Mr. Chili Liar was bedecked in his ribbon, he revealed the truth: that WASN'T sausage and ground beef in the chili.

It was wild boar and venison.

I pantomimed hurling into the nearest trash bin.

"I knew if I told you that it was venison, you wouldn't try it," he explained.

And he was right. We all feared Mr. Chili Liar, aka: Mr. Hunting Man, would try to slip some deer into our food and he knew it. Had we known that deer was in there, none of us would have eaten it. (I'm not all that bothered by the wild boar, as I consider that to be fancy bacon. With tusks.) So lie he did and win he did because venison and wild boar aside, that was some damn good chili.

And Now You're Telling Me You're All Out?

2009-11-06T11:12:00.009-05:00

Today is my office's first-ever chili cook-off. The event is our effort to boost morale and give everyone a chance to show off their culinary skills. With everyone working their asses off like they have been, chili and cornbread are deserved.

My role in this, in addition to being a chili-cooker, was to create the awards and decor. Seeing as how we're chillin' in one of our conference rooms, there isn't much one can do about decor. There are only so many solutions one can provide in a room with flourescent lighting and furnished with a marbled formica conference table. But I did my best, ladies and gents, and in an hour my coworkers and I will sit down to 967,421 gallons of chili, 13 batches of cornbread, 6 tubs of sour cream, 37 bags of Tostitos, and 26 bags of cheddar cheese.

Mr. Mystery has already been informed that we are having chili for dinner tonight.

And for breakfast tomorrow.

And for the rest of our lives.

Some photos for you, my lovelies. I have to admit that I am particularly in love with my first, second, and third place ribbons (crafted with love and an ass-load of hot glue), and hope that I win one so that I get to hang it on my office wall and use it to mock the inferior chili-making skills of my colleagues.And here is my chili, contestant #2, all 4 gallons of it. My secret ingredients? Cumin and curry. Oh! And also sage-flavored sausage. No recipe is complete without sausage. Delicioso, mis amigos. Delicioso.

Shows Us What We Are

2009-11-05T15:05:00.003-05:00

Greetings, my fine feathered friends. As you may have noticed, things have been rather dull over here in GreenCanary Land. I could give you some great excuses, like the End of the World or Bubonic Plague, but the truth is that I've been lacking creativity. Even now as I type this, I find the words to be coming out a bit mucky and thick, like tar or molasses. Tarlasses, if you will. But once again I started to worry about losing you, my lovelies, and also my lover-ly Kate of South Dakota sent me an email that was the virtual equivalent of a bitch slap delivered by kid gloves. In other words, a loving bitch slap, which I enjoyed more than I should have. Gave me a thrill *wink wink* So here I am, posting a butt-load of crap for your reading non-pleasure.

Hee hee... I said "butt-load of crap." *snort*

So anyhoo, I got all sick and shit and was out of work almost two weeks. Through a thick layer of phlegm and snot, I informed all and sundry that I had Swine Flu. I was pretty certain for I felt downright swine-ish. But the doctor informed me that I did not have Swine Flu. Hell, I didn't even have the REGULAR flu. What ailed me? Sickness. Yep, that was the diagnosis. Sick-to-the-ness. Let me tell you, when you're about to expel your lungs through your mouth by sheer force of will, the last person you want diagnosing you is a doctor with a proclivity for being vague.

So there I was, perched precariously on the papered exam table, working hard to keep my lungs from coughing, my nose from running, my chills from shaking, and my body from fevering, when the perky doctor sing-songed, "Good news! No flu! But you ARE sick."

*crickets chirping*

I waited for her to say something more but nothing else was forthcoming, so I caved and asked, "Whad?" (That's the stuffy nose equivalent of, "What?")

"You're sick," she repeated. "I don't know for certain what it is... maybe it's bacterial, maybe it's viral. You want some antibiotics?"

I politely declined the antibiotics unless, you know, she - THE DOCTOR - thought I needed them.

"Hard to say, hard to say..." she said. "They might work. They might not. You never know until you try, right?"

I had many answers to this question but lacking the will to live, I remained silent.

I took my Sick and went home where I hibernated in my bed for 6 days. On the 7th day I emerged from my bedroom and pretended to be a normal, functioning adult.

The next day I was right back in bed. Damn undiagnosable sickness.

The good news is that I'm now sorta better, though my general tolerance for people's crap is ultra low and my teary-eyed finger is trigger happy. (<-- That's my fancy way of telling you that I keep crying over stupid things, like commercials, The Biggest Loser, clipping Bixby's wings, and bad meetings with my boss. That last one was sort of legitimate in that it wasn't a happy-go-lucky discussion but rather a painful pick-apart of my department's shortcomings, though what she said didn't warrant the waterworks. Those I threw in for free. Because of the Sick. I blame the Sick.)

So there you have it, friends! Me, sick and crazy! Like always! Aren't you glad that you're protected by that there monitor? Goodness knows what sort of germs I could spread should we ever conversate face-to-face. Woo.

Beat Some Crap Out Of It And Demand Some Florida Oranges As Well

2009-10-26T14:51:00.003-04:00

Oh lovely people, my lovely lovely people. Mah brain? It is on meltdown. Meltdown, with a capital M. It is convinced that my body is sick and thus is giving me a low-grade fever and an earache when the only thing *actually* wrong with me is that my head-med dosage has been reduced.* The reduction in head-meds has kicked my brain into a crap slump of epic proportions, the solution to which is just to muddle through. If I can make it through the Effexor withdrawals, I can do anything. I'm pretty sure. This will be my litmus test.

*Okay, I wrote that first paragraph days ago. Turns out that the Effexor withdrawal was just a wee part of my sickness. The earache turned into a full-blown ear infection and one of my glands became so swollen that you could actually see it protruding from my neck. I kid you not. It was gross. I regret not taking pictures for your viewing pleasure.

Sadly I must confess that I tried to drag Mr. Mystery into my epicly proportioned meltdown. Many months have gone by since I brought up the B word with him. Really, it's been a long while since I've even THOUGHT about the B word. But then my head went berserk and ran off naked into the fray. Suddenly I was all BABIES and EX-GIRLFRIENDS and DO YOU LOOOOOOOOOVE ME? and man! Can we just say, "C-c-c-crazy?!" because seriously, I went absolutely bonkers.

When my ass finally made its way to Mrs. Lady Doctor, it was tired from all of the self-kicking it had undergone. Because no meltdown is complete without the instaneous REGRET and DAMAGE CONTROL. You lose your mind and are then instantly, "I'M SORRY! I DIDN'T MEAN IT! PLEASE DON'T LEEEEEEEEEEEEEAVE MEEEEEEEEE!" One's ass gets tired from the self-flagellation.

Mrs. Lady Doctor took one look at my baggy, deadpan eyes and asked about my mental state. "Oh, um..." I hedged. "I'm good! Great, even. I'm all PERFECT and HAPPY!" She stared. I repeated, "PERFECT! And HAPPY!" She continued to stare and me until I crumbled under the weight of her gaze. I collapsed into a weepy sopping mess and told her about my naked fraying insanity. I tried to explain the craziness by saying that I was physically sick, that the ear infection was making me nuts, that the penicillan was the cause of my lunacy. I hem'ed and haw'ed until I had talked myself full circle and was forced to admit that my mental state was not the cause of therapeutic mold, but rather the lack of an anti-depressant. "God dammit," I muttered.

I God dammit'ed because here's the thing: I don't want to take anti-depressants to function normally. In the same way, I don't want to need an allergy medication to pet my cat. Or iron supplements because I'm iron deficient. I want to function optimally in an unaltered, unmedicated state. P.S. For me? This is impossible.

Upon receiving Mrs. Lady Doctor's call, the Harvard-Educated Psychiatrist put my medication dosage back to normal and things seem to be righting themselves. I haven't cried today, which I take to be a positive sign. I don't know if I'm completely back to normal because Mr. Mystery has been in Kansas so I haven't had the opportunity to go hog-wild crazy on his cute lil' tush. If upon his return I throw myself into his arms in glorious, rapturous adoration, we'll know I'm okay. If instead I slap him and demand that he procreate, we'll know that there's still some work to be done.

Only time will tell. Stay tuned.

My Heart is a Gypsy

2009-10-14T23:58:00.002-04:00

So I started sleuthing around, all Nancy Drew-like. And what was I investigating, you, my lovely lovelies, ask? Why, my newest blog follower, of course. I couldn't help but be tickled by the names of his blogs. I am neither hot nor gay, so I rather enjoy having some hot gayness infused into my blog. Since I can't do that hot gay infusing myself, I gladly accept the hot gayness infusing from others. That being said, I got to sleuthing.

I clicked on the hot gayness and what did I discover? Girls. In compromising (and drafty) positions, performing various acts that are, by and large, hetero. Sure, there's an occasional lesbian kiss or canoodle, but not so much as to account for the DAILY in the name of Follower 15's blog.

Confused, I IM'ed Mr. Mystery: "One of my blog followers is a porn site. What does that say about me?" He answered kindly, "That you've got great bosoms?" (Only he didn't use the word bosoms.)

"But how would they know that?" I asked, wordlessly accepting Mr. Mystery's praise of my bosoms. He loquaciously replied, "Dunno."

"But is it weird that a porn site is my blog friend?" I continued, totally caught up in the fact that words like "twat" and "cum" are now forever tied to my virginally pure blog.

"Maybe they (meaning Hot Gayness) followed you home for the same reason I did: you're cute."

Aw. How sweet is that? My boyfriend told me that my cuteness (and great bosoms) caused a rathy extensive catalog of amateur porn to follow and befriend me. If that's not a compliment, then I don't know what is.

But questions remain. First, where is all of the daily hot gayness? There was barely enough gay to last a week, nevermind daily. Your blog is a misnomer, my newest blog follower. Second, are you even a real person? The suggestion has been made that you are, perhaps, a spam bot, sent here from the depths of outer space to glean page views from my readers. If this is true, oh evil spam bot, I hereby banish you from my blog. Begone! And you, my lovely readers, steer clear of Follower 15 and his blogs. Thou shalt not give fuel to the spam bot's fire and move him up Google's hit list.

But if you are a real person, Follower 15, then tell me this: how did you come about finding me, lil' ol' GreenCanary, in the great expanse of the Internets? Was it my love of the movie Striptease that enticed you? Or perhaps my lust for Cate Blanchett? Or maybe you were wrangled by my obsession with Willy Wonka, as performed by Gene Wilder. Because I know it isn't my off-key singing voice or poorly formed poetry that captured your fancy.

Porn follows my blog. I am followed by porn. I really don't know what to think about that. So for the time being, until answers are offered, I choose to believe it's because I'm sporting an impressive rack.

Fin.

The Cockroaches of the Ocean

2009-10-14T16:08:00.003-04:00

A-goggling the shrimp at the Marian Koshland Science Museum of the National Academies. In addition to the a-goggling, you can also hypothetically kill hundreds of thousands of hypothetical patients who have hypothetically been infected with the hypothetical flu. Hypothetically, I enjoyed that part immensely.

Hopeful Analogies and Handsome, Dubious Eggs

2009-10-08T12:21:00.002-04:00

My Evil Twin has been at it again, out and about wreaking havoc in her doppelgangerly world. I know this because her antics have spilled over into my Actual Life in the form of a super hot man that has asked to be my friend on Facebook.

It's not abnormal to get the random Friend Requests on Facebook. There are some people who troll around, looking for strangers that share some weak thread of commonality, and then ask them to be Friends. I've gotten these before and I've always responded to their request with this question, "Do I know you?"

Often they'll respond by saying, no, they don't actually know me, but they were looking for people in the D.C. metro that work in marketing and - lo and behold! - I came up in their list and did I know that they work in marketing too? Because we both work in the same industry we should be Friends and hold hands and braid eachother's hair!

No thank you, weird stalkery stranger-who-works-in-marketing. I have a hard enough time keeping tabs on my flesh-and-blood friends, the ones that have held back my hair from my vomiting mouth when I drank too much, and who held my hand when my heart got broken, or who have loaned me money when I overdrew my checking account. I have a PAST with these people and I still can't keep on top of the relationship. So Mr. Unknown Person on Facebook? I'll have to decline your Request because I DON'T KNOW YOU.

Also, your Request smacks of desperation and I don't do desperate.

But then the other day I got a Friend Request from some man with a strong Italian name and whose profile picture showed a chiseled body that belonged on a professional soccer field. Me-ow. After a moment of drooling and silent contemplation, I sent my standard response, "Do I know you?"

And instead of getting back a, "No, we don't actually *know* eachother but both of our last names end in an 'r' so we should be Friends," I got back this: "Yes, we met in the supermarket. Do you not remember?"

Uh... no. I do not remember.

Now people, let's be honest here, I may not have the best memory in the world but HOT DAMN! I WOULD have remembered Mr. Italian Soccer Player had we met in a supermarket. Most certainly. Which makes me think that he has me confused with someone else. Perhaps my Evil Twin. And if this is the case?...

...GOOD JOB, EVIL TWIN. You have my blessing. Please let me know how that works out for you. In detail.

How Truly Great Thoughts Are Created - Friday

2009-10-06T16:49:00.015-04:00

PEOPLE, I wrote this entire post about my obsession with the Crownsville Hospital Center and then accidentally deleted it. I DELETED IT. How annoyed at myself am I? Super annoyed, that's how annoyed I am.

So here's the deal without any fanfare: I trespassed onto the grounds of the abandoned Crownsville Hospital Center so that I could get a better look at the dilapidated barn on their grounds. Here are pictures of that barn.

I said it much better before. I really did. It was a Pulitzer-worthy post. Deleted.

How Truly Great Thoughts Are Created - Sunday

2009-10-06T11:42:00.014-04:00

It may come as a surprise that I do not like the National Zoo. And when I say "do not like," I really mean "hate with a passion that burns like a urinary tract infection." This hatred stems from two things. First, the National Zoo is built on the world's biggest hill - bigger even than Everest - which seems to run uphill in both directions. No matter where you're going, uphill or down, you're walking up a hellish hill, your calves are burning, your lungs are burning, your ire is burning and you find yourself willing to trade your urinary tract for some relief from the wretched National Zoo hill.

Second reason I hate the zoo: fences.

An animal lover like I am, one would think that the animal proximity the zoo affords would have me all a-dither. But this is just not the case. The animal proximity at the zoo is not enough for me. If I'm going to stand at a railing placed high on a hill, overlooking a trench filled with water and separated by electric fencing, across from which is another hill upon which is a cheetah, then I might as well be on that "another hill" a-pettin' the cheetah. As the crow flies, that cheetah is a mere 15' from me. I mean, seriously, when we're talking about a measly 15' of separation, who wants to look at a cheetah when petting said cheetah would be ever so much better?

My intense dislike of the zoo has kept Mr. Mystery and I from going there. He has suggested it several times throughout our one-year relationship, each time eliciting the following response from me, "What?! NO! Gah! The zoo sucks. I freakin' hate the zoo."

So how is it that we wound up there this Sunday? Walking uphill both ways? We ended up there because Mr. Mystery is a clever one and suggested we go to the children's petting zoo, after which we would go grab some lunch. Petting? I can PET the animals? And lunch? I can eat? SOLD. And away we went.

Turns out that there wasn't so much petting as there was standing behind fences and looking, but one tubby goat made it all worthwhile by coming close to the fence and allowing me to rub his goaty head with my excited fingers. That one goat was the catalyst for my willingness to troop throughout the rest of the zoo, hills be damned.

I'm proud to report that I only complained a little bit, and only got rude once or twice, and only once threatened to murder a stranger's hyperactive child. Fine fine, you got me. That last one was a lie. I threatened that woman's child twice, but in my defense it was the end of the day and I was super hungry and tired and the kid really was annoying the shit out of me AND being mean to the animals so he deserved it.

And then Mr. Mystery took me out to dinner and I ate my bodyweight in bread. The end.

How Truly Great Thoughts Are Created - Saturday

2009-10-05T16:06:00.015-04:00

This weekend, Mr. Mystery and I rambled about D.C., taking in the sights and sounds of a city poised on the precipice of Fall.

Think of the Magic of That Foot Upon Which Your Whole Weight Rests

2009-10-02T14:00:00.007-04:00

Let me start off this Friday post by welcoming my latest blog follower who is not only welcome for the sheer pleasure of his company (and the joy I get from reading the names of his other followed blogs), but because he rounded out my total number of followers so that you all line up nicely into three complete rows. (I totally get off on things lined up neatly. Want to woo me? Stand in a row. I kid you not. I'm just that easy.)

My latest bloggie friend has also healed the hole left by he-who-will-not-be-named, the one who totally dropped my blogging ass and left my neat rows all disheveled and untidy. That he-who-will-not-be-named was British and that I not-so-secretly want to be British only made his leaving all that much worse. So sad.

So last night I dragged my lethargic butt to a new yoga class, this one a study in breathing and meditation. During the hour-long class, I chanted, stared at my third eye, stuck my tongue out and panted, and even sang in a language I didn't understand. To say that I enjoyed myself would be an understatement.

I loved the class so much that I wanted to tackle my instructor and give her kisses on her sweet little nose.

At the end of class we were to lay on our backs and focus on our breathing, feeling all the spaces within us fill with life-giving air. As I lay there, breathing and willing my feet to stop falling asleep, I heard a low, rumbling noise. It was metallic. I stopped listening to my breath and instead perked my ears up to the rumble.

"The gong," my instructor said in a low voice, "stimulates the parasympathetic system. Listen and breathe, allowing the sound and the air to fill you. The gong will relax your body, slowing it down, calming it down, which will bring you peace."

Ah. The gong. That was what was happening. Gonging. Desiring peace, I obediently settled in and listened to the gong. Only? The gong wasn't all that peaceful. The low rumble grew into an ear-splitting crescendo that reverberated off of the walls and into my brain. The sound in my ears transformed from smacking notes into a dizzying squeal of sound. I felt ill at ease. That feeling, that noise, it was familiar somehow and not in a good way. What was it? How did I know this feeling? Where the hell had I heard that brain-bleed noise before?

And then it occurred to me: this is the noise my brain makes right before I black out.

"Oh god, please don't let me black out," I inwardly prayed. "Please oh please oh please oh please..." I repeated this, my mantra, until the gong dissonance faded into nothing and I was left breathing in silence.

And I'll be damned, when all was said and done, I was more relaxed than I had been in years. That damn gong knocked me loose of all resistance. Without realizing it, I was sprawled on the studio floor, my toes turned outward like a ballerina, my arms spread wide and my palms facing up. My hair was all over the place, one pant leg was hiked up around my knee.

In short, I was a mess.

But being a mess in that room was the best I've felt in a long time. The chanting, the third-eye-staring, even the panting like a dog, all of it made me feel wonderful and alive and clean and vibrant.

I will SO be going back next week. Not only for my physical well-being, but also because this particular studio offers its students a month-long stint in an ashram in India and this? This is just too cool. Not only because I'd be all meditating along the Ganges like some sort of super-yogi, but because Elizabeth Gilbert did the very same thing and this would give us something to talk about over imaginary dinner.

Have a great weekend, my lovelies! I think Mr. Mystery and I will be heading out to the Maryland Renaissance Festival. Please pray for me. RennFest people freak me out.

Brought To The Edge By The Demands Of Living On Their Nerves

2009-10-01T16:34:00.004-04:00

Let it be said that I am an avid fan of audio books. My daily commute is, at minimum, 120 miles so you can see how it's possible for me to bust through four or five audio books in a few weeks' time. That much time spent in a car leaves many minutes for cerebral improvement via one's aural apparati.

Let it also be said that I have never been one to host imaginary dinner parties with famous people. As in the proverbial dinner party from one of those super-annoying ice breaker questions: "What famous person, living or dead, would you invite to your dinner party?" I never had an answer to this question. I guess I've just never been all that impressed by people. Or more accurately, I've never known anyone, dead or alive, that I knew well enough to be impressed by.

Or perhaps I don't like dinner parties.

This all changed when I listened to Elizabeth Gilbert's book Eat Pray Love. My love of Elizabeth Gilbert blossomed overnight with the telling of her tale. Her at-times coarse voice thrilled me; her story entranced me. I wanted to run off to an ashram and meditate. I wanted to be friends with ancient Balinese medicine men. I wanted to cry over the world's best pizza.

In short, I wanted to be Ms. Gilbert. And if I couldn't be her? I wanted her to sit across a table from me and regale me with tales from her life while I listened rapturously and thought about brushing her hair and giving her hugs.

I could relate to her circumstances. I could relate to her feelings. I could relate to her desires. I fancied myself to be a little something like her, only without the book deals and hot Brazilian husband.

And that is how a long commute made Elizabeth Gilbert my first imaginary dinner party guest.

Once I opened the door to dinner party possibility, new guests arrived almost immediately: Cat Deeley with her adorable crooked smile; Tyce Diorio with his smart-ass comments and experience as a Goddess Dancer in the horrible movie (that I secretly love) Striptease; Zoe M. Martella, the English-Italian chef that invented the spatula; Jane Austen and her fictitious Mr. Darcy (preferably played by Colin Firth, though I would happily accept Matthew MacFadyen); Gene Wilder; Samuel Born, the Russian immigrant who invented sprinkles and whose candy company makes Peeps; Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Starship Enterprise; the entire American Arts & Crafts Movement; and David Tennant as Dr. Who.

If one were to be realistic, one could not invite fictitious characters of both television and literature to their dinner party. But you see, I'm inviting an entire design philosophy created from opposition to the Industrial Revolution, so, when compared to that, I highly doubt getting the Doctor will be a problem.

This might just be the first time I've been thankful for the many hours spent in my car. Writers, actors, inventors, dancers, captains of starships... 120 miles has brought them all to my table via the wonder of my aural apparati.

A Twead Coat Is Good For Dandruff; It Is Palliative Rather Than A Remedy

2009-09-24T12:07:00.002-04:00

Hello friends, it is I, the GreenCanary, writing to you from the depths of the Internets. I had this grand plan to tell you about how I am suffering a bout of dandruff, the cause of which is my lovely Burt's Bees pomegranate shampoo, but then decided not to. You don't need to hear how the shampoo I love so much makes my head itch like a motha' but how I refuse to stop using it because I spent $9 on the freakin' bottle and I will use the entire freakin' bottle even if it means my scalp will curl up and die from the dry, itchy flakiness.

No. I am not going to tell you about that.

Rather I am going to tell you that, today, I skipped therapy and lied to my therapist about why. (I called and said I was sick, when the reality was that I just didn't want to drive all the way to her office.)

One may look at my skipping therapy as a sign of badness, but I a choosing not to read too much into it. Instead I am looking at it as a healthy decision that will ensure my continued mental stability. You see, when I woke up this morning I felt shaky in my brain, the very thought of showering and dressing and fighting traffic down-county made me want to throw up into one of my potted plants. So I took a breath and then ran down my list of options. I could: 1) skip showering and get on the road sooner, ensuring I arrived at the doctor ontime; or 2) skip the doctor and the traffic and instead take a long and leisurely shower.

As I tend to get really hot and sweaty at night, I chose the latter so as to prevent a day of thorough disgustingness, though in truth my shower was not as long and leisurely as I would have liked. I stood under the water with my eyes closed, letting the hot water scald my shoulders. Then I shampooed with the itch-inducing shampoo and called the shower quits.

Now I am at work and am very glad that I showered, though I feel ever so slightly guilty for lying to my therapist about why I didn't go to therapy. Telling someone you're sick sounds better than telling them that you just don't want to drive to see them. Though... well... technically what I did was lie and lying never pays off. Maybe Mrs. Lady Doctor has found my blog and is now reading about my lie. Maybe right now she is judging me for being a spineless, lying adolescent.

Mrs. Lady Doctor, if you're reading this? I blame the dandruff. Seriously. The head itch makes me do crazy things. For reals.

God Answered, "There's Just Something About You That Pisses Me Off."

2009-09-21T13:04:00.011-04:00

This weekend Mr. Mystery and I went all hoe-down on the farm. I awoke on Saturday morning with an insane need to pet animals, especially animals that gravitate toward stampeding, so I suggested that we get head over to the Great Frederick Fair. "There'll be pigs!" I squealed. "And sheeps! Horses! Cows! Llamas! And goats! THERE WILL BE GOATS!" I could barely contain myself with the goat-y glee.

So off we went to the fair where we spent a delightful few hours touching horse noses and pig noses and goat noses and bunny noses, but not chicken noses because the chickens were sort of crazy and pecky and I wasn't about to stick my finger in their cages.

As we walked back to the car, I asked Mr. Mystery, "What was your favorite animal?" He gave this some serious thought. (I knew he was thinking seriously because his eyes sort of glazed over as he stared off into the middle-distance.) "Hmmm..." he thoughtfully hmmm'ed. "I'd have to say the ginormous ox named Cain was my favorite. His horns were capped." I made approving noises and commented on Cain's impressive nose ring.

Then, without preamble, I launched into my prioritized list of which animals were my favorite. "Based on oddity, my favorite would be the chickens." There were some wild-ass chickens, I kid you not. It was a veritable menagerie of weirdness.Who knew that chickens could be so Muppet-like? Those feathered mohawks! Those clompin' Clydesdale-like feet! The total fluff'n stuff! Amongst these, the most odd of all the odd animals, my favorite was this lil' monster right here:

Anyone who does not think that this is the most adorable chicken you've ever seen has a cold, dead heart and deserves to have their eyes pecked out.

Moving along my list of favorite animals, I went on, "Based on general friendliness, my next favorite animals were the goats." And truly the goats were friendly. They'd stand on the rungs of their stalls and bleat at you, basically asking for head rubs and words of adoration. (Both of these I happily gave in excess, making sure to tell them how much I enjoyed their cheese.) In fact, the goats made such an impression on me that I voted them "Best in Show" and decided that, one day, I would be sure to have a few goats to frolic about in my backyard.

For the strangest show of affection, I cast my vote for the horse that found my arm to be delicious, noshing gently on my wrist and forearm. This orally fixated horse had a neighbor who wasn't as impressed with me, but went hog-wild for a pamplet Mr. Mystery had in his hand. "It's just a pamplet, man," Mr. Mystery explained to the horse. "It's not fo..." As the word "food" hung in the air, the horse, caring not that the pamphlet wasn't food, ripped that motha' from my boyfriend's hands and proceeded to gag the entire thing down.

The sheep won for "Best Dressed." After being sheared for judging, the sheep were placed in white blankets and hoods (which resulted in Mr. Mystery calling them "Klan sheep")... ... or in brightly colored Spandex speedos. I tried to touch the sheep but most were too freaked out by their recent shearing to appreciate the gesture of love. Luckily for them I had the goats to work my love-frustrations out on, otherwise I would have subjected them to forced pets.

I enjoyed touching the pigs, though the similarities between the pinkalicious skin of the pigs and the pinkaliciousness of my own skin were so disconcerting that I had to stop looking at the pink-only pigs and focus instead on the black and sorta-pink ones. When you look at swine ass and it reminds you of your own ass, it's time to move along to another barn. I particularly enjoyed the pig who would oink appreciatively whenever I touched its nose. "You are super cute," I told the oinking pig, "and you taste delicious."

All in all, it was a great day at the fair. I got to pet many farm animals, managed to avoid a stampede, watched Mr. Mystery dump water on himself accidentally, and ate a freshly roasted peanut that was so yummy that I almost stuffed one down Mr. Mystery's peanut-allergic throat.

Many thanks to the people I stole photos from (or considered stealing photos from) because I didn't bring my camera on the outing: katdocsworld.blogspot.com, travelpod.com, oneblonde.blogspot.com, pbase.com, and mypetchicken.com.

Not Into My Ear You Whispered, But Into My Heart

2009-09-16T15:36:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of the night Mr. Mystery and I met in-person. (Want to catch the love from the beginning? Mosey on over here.) We spent that first evening walking through his neighborhood, him talking about space elevators and me trying to ignore the mountains of blood that were pooling into my shoes from the blisters I was developing. Damn cute shoes and their blistery blisterness.

We normally celebrate our anniversaries on the day we first "spoke" to one another. This is the day Mr. Mystery sent me an email, both poetic and awkward, describing how he "saw" (read) me from across the "room" (Internet) and got nervous because he thought I was beeeeeeeeeeautiful and fuuuuuuuuuuuuny and smaaaaaaaaaaart. That email touched my heart to such an extreme that I was willing to lay aside my normal fears and insecurities and meet him. That was NOT typical Canary behavior. The meeting. In fact, it was so far outside the norm for me that it should have been an early warning that I was going to love him.

Normal anniversary-celebrating aside, for the one-year big-a-roo I looked to the date we met in person and began reliving the relationship from the beginning. I've been reading through our first emails to eachother, the ones written as we were still getting to know one another. The thing that I always knew (but had never taken to heart, until now) was this: he and I got super real with eachother, super fast. We were precisely who we were, flaws and fears, from the very start.

On Date One, we walked. On Date Two, we ate Chinese and watched Dr. Who. (Hey, are we low-key or what? And also a little geeky.) When he asked if I wanted a plate - not if I needed a plate but rather if I wanted a plate - I thought it over, weighing the proper response against my honest one, and chose to go with honest: "Nope, I can eat it just like this." So we sat back and dug our way through our respective white paper containers.

An hour or two later we kissed for the first time, a funny and passionate affair from which we both emerged a bit shaken. We regarded eachother for a moment, the expressions on both of our faces likely reading, "Whoa. What? Did we...? I mean... Are we...? So we're doing THIS now?" The answer to that was HELL YES and the rest of the evening was spent in eachother's arms.

To say that Mr. Mystery and I are romantic would not be incorrect, but we're not classicly romantic. There aren't candles and flowers and doves and chocolates and barefoot dancing in the living room. Instead there is drinking from the same cup, sometimes going out to breakfast without showering first, sitting in our underwear in the wretched heat of summer, and more love than I ever thought possible.

It occurred to me that we have been together a year - A YEAR - Mr. Mystery and me. 365 days of togetherness. That's a stinkin' significant chunk of time. If our relationship were a child, it would be walking and talking by now. And not once in all of that time, not once in 365 days, have we fought. Oh, we've had our moments of frustration with one another, moments of, "WTF woman? What are you yammering on about now? No. I am NOT done with my cup, just leave it alone, it doesn't need to go into the sink. Hey. HEY! No! I'm still drinking my beverage FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! Put my cup down! PUT MY CUP DOWN!!" These moments have always been fleeting, barely the length of an exhale. Before we can think to pull on that string of frustration, the moment is gone and we are us, just us, me the neurotic and him the epitome of calm, and we are okay.

The last time I gave my heart to someone, I swayed fearfully to the music he played. I was controlled and tense, unwilling to let myself go and dance, unwilling to let that man see me for who I was. My feet were cemented to the floor. I was unable to keep up with his tempo, restricted as I was, so he danced off without me, looking for a new partner whose fluid body could move along to his song.

These many long years I have wallowed in sadness, fearful that the destruction of that relationship was a reflection of my unloveableness. I saw that failure as proof that, even in perfection, I was imperfect. But this time around, with this man, I am free to be myself without the fear of being left, without the fear of being judged. I can show this man the very saddest and darkest places within me and I know he will not turn away. His eyes never wander and his lips never put me down. He adjusts his tempo to suit my steps, and then takes my hand and dances with me, slowly working my cemented feet free from the floor.

He has chosen me to be his dancing partner.

He loves me.

And I love him.

And I am so blessed to have him in my life that it makes me want to sing and cry all at the same time. It makes me want to stretch my arms out and whirl and whirl and whirl in riot of color and light. It makes me want to dance.

I love you, Douglas, my man of mystery. Happy first anniversary.

The Higher The Sun Ariseth, The Less Shadow Doth He Cast

2009-09-15T11:23:00.004-04:00

Kundalini Maha Yoga
For the past several decades, yoga, which is a spiritual discipline from India, has been a subject of interest to the people of America. I would like to introduce a form of yoga known as Kundalini Maha Yoga. Kundalini Maha Yoga is an ancient universal science, perfected over thousands of years. It is not a religion, but a spiritual practice that brings the experience of lasting inner peace and happiness to individuals of any belief or religious affiliation.

Kundalini Maha Yoga is based on a very simple principle: in every human being there is a source of divine energy. The Sanskrit word for this source of energy is Kundalini. Kundalini is in two states: the dormant state, and the active, aroused, or awakened state. When this source is dormant, a person leads an incomplete, unfulfilled life. One's understanding of the universe is restricted, and everything is perceived and interpreted according to a limited capacity.

On the other hand, when the source is active, progress is rapid on the path of spiritual evolution. One realizes the full potential of body and mind, attains inner peace, harmony and integration, and ultimately experiences the sublime truth of unity in diversity -- the fact that all life is one and is bound by that divine power called love. The purpose of Kundalini Maha Yoga is to awaken this source of energy if it is dormant, or to intensify the activity if it is already awakened. Thus, Kundalini Maha Yoga is a direct method for spiritual evolution.

A powerful yogi awakens the aspirant's Kundalini by a transfer of his or her energy to the aspirant. This process, known as Shaktipat, activates the dormant Kundalini and is like lighting a candle with one that is already lit and glowing. Shakti means power or energy in Sanskrit, and pat means transfer. Thus, Shaktipat is transfer of energy.

- From The Path of Kundalini Maha Yoga by Shri Dhyanyogi Madhusudandas

I'm totally macking on some self-actualization, my friends. In listening to Elizabeth Gilbert's book, Eat Pray Love, I have begun coveting the thoughtful exploration of self and desire and pleasure and peace that Gilbert embarked on.

I think I have always endeavored to explore myself, but the many years of poking around in my heart and brain have not been as successful as I would like. So? So. I am going to learn how to be still, be quiet, be mindful of myself so that I may know myself.

I think this latest pursuit will require the purchase of super comfy yoga pants. Hopefully they won't make my ass look big.

They Sing A Song Only You Can Hear

2009-09-14T12:47:00.003-04:00

I am sitting at my desk eating a peanut butter and apricot jelly sandwich. Normally it would be tasty, but right now it tastes like poverty. This PBAJ sandwich isn't a lunch decision I made because I love peanut butter, but rather it is a decision I made because I can buy a gallon of peanut butter at Costco for $0.99. In other words, it's cheap, people, and cheap is a necessity when you ain't got no monies.

Becoming fiscally responsible has been a process a long time in comin', which you already know because you read my blog and my financial misadventures have been well-documented here. I was just starting to get a foothold, had just paid off one massive debt and was now turning my eyes to the next, when a series of shitness enveloped me and now I'm back at square one.

Okay, that's an exaggeration. I'm not at square one. I'm really more at square one and a half because I'm better than I was but not as good as I could be.

Today's entry in the shitness is being called "A 1, 3, 4." Or if A 1, 3, 4 isn't snappy enough for you, "The Fan-Fabulous Timing Belt."

My lovely Honda Accord is nice enough to tell me when it needs service. Like a baby cries when it wants to be fed, the Honda will place a series of letters and numbers on the console indicating oil changes, tire rotations, and other such minor maintenance that is sure to keep my car on the road. Normally I can handle these wee maintenance trips with a modicum of grace, but when the Honda man told me that an A 1, 3, 4 is going to cost me $1,200, I actually yelled, "SHIT MOTHERFUCKER!" into the phone. Then I took a deep breath and said more calmly, "Please sir, forgive my lewd language. I will have to call you back once I figure out where I'm going to get $1,200. SHIT MOTHERFUCKER! Whoops, sorry again. Thank you. Gotta go."

When I hung up the phone, I let out a string of foul and caustic curse words that ensured I will never get out of Dante's Third Circle of Hell.

I am both worried and thankful about this latest and greatest car-tastrophe. I am worried because there isn't an extra $1,200 laying about the joint that I can scoop up and deliver to Honda. But at the same time I am supremely thankful because, in these hard times, I have had to give up very little to maintain the life that I am used to. I am not without understanding that the area in which I live has been barely blemished by the economic downturn, and I am not without understanding that I am abundantly blessed and lucky. I am irresponsible and the hardships I encounter because of that irresponsibility are mine and mine alone. I own them.

But that doesn't stop me from letting loose with the bad words. I'm just sayin'.

P.S. Does anyone see something remotely naughty in the timing belt picture up there? Like a woman's reproductive system? No? It's just me? Well, okay then.

Is From The Books Of Honor Razed Quite

2009-09-11T11:07:00.004-04:00

First things first: Peanut butter? It is delightful tho' I am thoroughly sick of eating it. I will confess that I have eaten two non-peanut butter lunches this week and plan on eating a third today. My insides are protesting the massive increase in peanutty protein, but my failure to comply with this self-inflicted lunch routine has nothing to do with that. Instead, I ran out of bread and I've been too lazy to go to the grocery store for more. Also? I haven't planned my meals and I just don't wanna. So there. We'll start again next week when I'll mix tuna and peanut butter. I kid you not. Tuna. And peanut butter. My stomach is heaving just thinking about it.

Second things second: I am so sick of people in general that I want to kick each and every one I come in contact with. I'm tired of political agendas and both parties pointing blame and making accusations against the other. If I hear the words "plant," "fear-mongering," "single-payer" or "town hall" again, I swear that I will regurgitate my breakfast and deposit it on your lap. I'm tired of friends and family making up shit for the sake of being angry and then pointing that anger at me. I'm tired of it raining because the rain makes my allergies worse and I don't want to blow my nose any more. (Though I'm also thankful for the rain because it makes the flowers grow... Oh, Eponine!) And I'm tired of my car needing service because I don't want to spend more money on a vehicle when I could be spending money on useless artifacts I rescued from Goodwill.

Third things third: I'm taking Mr. Mystery a-sailin' on Sunday con mi hermano y cuñada so that we can introduce mi amigo to one of my brother's amigos. I know very little about my brother's friend except to say that he is also a sailor and that he is single. In the grand scheme of life, these two tidbits - single sailor - do not ensure a perfect match, but for all females in the D.C. metro area who have spent any length of time being single, you'll know that any opportunity to meet the lone single man should be taken with alacrity. Also? Sailing means we get to drink margaritas and listen to Jimmy Buffet while tooling about the Bay and that is ALWAYS a good thing. Match or no match, I'm licking salt off of a glass, so help me God.

Fourth things fourth: I honestly believe that I am being overmedicated and I am starting to suspect it's a conspiracy to keep me down. I would start wearing tin foil on my head a la Rory Culkin in Signs to keep the aliens from reading my mind, but I think that would cause my docs to medicate me MORE and, well, you see the problem there. I base my overmedicated assumption on the quality and subject matter of my dreams as of late. Years ago, when the dosage of my meds was still being tinkered with, super-realistic and trippy dreams were a tell-tale sign of being overmedicated. When I lost the ability to differentiate between what had really happened and what I had dreamed had happened, my psychiatrist lowered my dose and things returned to normal. I haven't lost the ability to determine what is real and what was a dream, but my dreams have gotten decidely more realistic and more disturbing. The other night I dreamed that a bloody earthworm emerged from a mole in my face. I woke up FEELING those motherfuckers moving under my skin. Then last night I dreamed that Hugh Laurie was playing a guitar outside of my window in an attempt to woo me. He wore a knit cap and fingerless gloves. When I went out to speak with him, I met a little boy and his cat (the cat was named Stink). The little boy lived in a house that once belonged to Deep Throat, and now the little boy was obsessed with Richard Nixon. Hugh Laurie had given me his phone number while the little boy prattled on about Nixon, so I missed some of the numbers. I spent the rest of my dream being upset that I missed my chance of getting bizzay with Dr. House.

Fifth things last: Today is the day Trash Chair gets picked up and taken to the Furniture Spa. This is where work-worn furniture goes to get pampered and rejuvenated. I'm super excited for Trash Chair as this means it will return to me all glowy and strong, its joints tightened and its finish polished. The next step will be to have an upholsterer recreate the mid-century modern pillows, but that's later on down the line when I've saved up some more monies. Until then, Trash Chair will be a teak delight, all warm wood and love, minus a few cushions. I don't think it will mind, though, as it was only a few weeks ago that the darn thing was on the curb awaiting certain death.

I Also Love Jelly Bellies. But That's Bad. Don't Tell My Mom.

2009-09-03T12:46:00.004-04:00

Today I went to therapy and cried. Then I went to Starbucks and spilled half of my latte down my shirt and cried again.

Tuesday's foray into sibling rivalry was discussed in detail with Mrs. Lady Doctor, the elocution of which caused my tear ducts and snot glands to overflow, reducing me to a soppy puddle on the doctor's floor. Many truths were revealed, the revelation both freeing and upsetting. Freeing in that some things make more sense to me now. Upsetting in that I am, once again, confronted with the fact that I am supremely fucked up in mah head. MAH HEAD!

The good news? I won't always be so ass-backwards in the brain. Every time I plunge my shovel into the ground and unearth another screwed up artifact, I am one step closer to reaching China. One day I will be hanging upside-down on the other side of the globe, eating General Tso's chicken and laughing about how I used to think God was mad at me and how much I needed my father's approval. Until then, I'll keep digging away (though grudgingly).

In other news, I am very quickly getting sick of peanut butter. Today's meal is a variation on the Control Meal. (Don't act surprised! I told you it would happen.) Peanut butter has been paired with spiced apple butter. The result is... surprising. It's like chewing Fall, but with a sweet nutty surprise mixed in. I think I like it, but I can't be 100% sure without trying it again. Methinks an apple/walnut chutney would be a wonderful addition to the Fall-spiciness of the apple butter. It would also reduce the overwhelming peanut butter flavor, so next time I'm a-gonna try that.

Side note: In case anyone is interested, Peter Pan creamy peanut butter is MUCH creamier than Safeway's O brand organic creamy peanut butter. Peter Pan is super creamy, yo.

Peanut Butter Project: Day Three

2009-09-02T13:38:00.006-04:00

The Peanut Butter Project is going strong, though today I don't have picture-taking abilities so you won't be able to see exactly what I ate. To make up for the lack of a camera, I present you with the following drawing I lovingly sketched with my old school No. 2 pencil: Today's lunch consisted of an apple, a Diet Coke, a concoction I am calling "PB Tort-icken," and a Breyer's Low Carb ice cream bar.

The PB Tort-icken started off as a bonafide recipe but failure to obtain one of the ingredients resulted in some experimentation. The end result was neither great nor horrible, falling between "Good" and "Okay" on the scale of enjoyability.

PB Tort-icken

Ingredients

Grilled chicken breast (one breast will do 'ya), cut into small pieces
1/4 cup chopped green onion
Shredded lettuce
1/2 cup pad Thai sauce*
1/2 cup peanut butter
Shredded lettuce
Burrito-sized tortilla

* I have no idea what pad Thai sauce is and neither do any of the area stores. I looked high and low and no one had anything called "pad Thai sauce." The closest I found was a peanut satay sauce that said "pairs well with Thai noodles." The result? A whole lot 'o peanut flavor.

Directions

In small bowl combine pad Thai sauce, peanut butter, and chopped green onions.
Spread mixture atop tortilla.
Place tortilla in microwave for 20 seconds.
Place chicken atop tortilla.
Add shredded lettuce, to taste.
Roll tortilla and eat burrito-style.

Yields: one burrito, possibly two

There wasn't much NOT to like about this recipe - chicken, peanut butter, tortilla. These are all likeable things. But looking at it like a chef would, there was much left to be desired. For starters, let it be known that peanut satay sauce is NOT pad Thai sauce. What I gained in peanuttiness with the satay, I lost in fire and spice of the pad Thai. Some hot Asian spices would have been a nice touch. Some pepper flakes. Something.

Apart from that, I liked this nutty burrito. There is lots of room for experimentation, which I shall be doing in the upcoming months. I will find the fire and put it back into the burrito. Oh yes, I shall. A little kick in the pants is just what this burrito needed, so a little kick in the pants is what I'll give it.

Peanut Butter Project: Day Two

2009-09-01T13:16:00.005-04:00

Today's lunch: PBBC&A, aka: Peanut Butter Bacon Celery and Apricot, also aka: a little sumthin' sumthin' I'm calling Peanut Butter and Pork-icot.

Don't hurl. It's delightful. I kid you not. My colleague shared in the PBBC&A fun and she declared the sandwich to be "SO STINKIN' GOOD!" When other coworkers turned up their noses at our Peanut Butter and Pork-icot sandwiches, we told them to stuff it because they knew not of what they spoke.

Peanut Butter and Pork-icot Sandwiches

Ingredients

1 stalk of celery, washed and chopped into wee bits using a vegetable chopper of the Pampered Chef variety
5 pieces of bacon, cooked until crispy and crumble-able
Peanut butter (amount determined by personal preferences of the chef)
Lettuce
Apricot Simply Fruit or apricot preserves or apricot jam or apricot jelly
Bread

Directions

Combine celery and crumbled bacon in small bowl.
Add peanut butter until mixture is thick and well-mixed.
On one slice of bread spread PBBC mixture.
On second slice of bread place lettuce, to taste.
Atop lettuce, spread apricot.
Put slices of bread together.
Eat.
Enjoy!

Yields: 2 sandwiches

The Sharpest For It Is Love And Hate At The Same Time

2009-09-01T12:22:00.001-04:00

Yesterday I received some bad news and instead of feeling bad for the person it affected, I felt bad for myself for the imagined way it affected me.

I have always known that I was jealous of my older sister. She is conventionally beautiful, as in people notice and remember her. Her beauty, it should be known, is more than just a lucky combination of genes; she works hard to put her best face forward and deserves praise for her efforts.

But she is more than just beauty (and bosoms). My sister is smart and a seriously hard worker. She has fought hard for the things that she has and deserves the good that comes from her late nights spent running on a treadmill while Blackberrying work projects to all and sundry.

I can say these things because I believe them to be true, but there is a large piece of me that sees these good things and bristles at them. Sisterhood is usually a competition, let's be honest, but my competition with my sister is a secret race that neither of us will openly acknowlege. How this race began I never stopped to consider.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday my mother told me that my father may lose his job. He survived the immediate round of layoffs but, come December, the story may be different. December is the time in which his department will be closed should they lose their defense contract. At 61 years of age, my dad is nearing retirement regardless, but when retirement is forced upon you years before you had planned for it, problems arise.

I heard the news with growing dismay and concern for my parents, but that dismay and concern turned inward when my mother confessed that my sister had been told days prior. They told my sister, but not me.

The reality is this: my sister was physically present when my father broke the news to my mom. That she was told was a quirk of timing and nothing more. But what my feelings tell me are completely different.

All of my life I have compared myself to my sister. Circumstances of our growing-up years dictated that she received the lion's share of my parents' focus, strict and concerned as that focus was. Her beauty and poise ensured she received the majority of everyone else's focus, including my male friends who would comment on how "hot" my sister was. Buck-toothed, awkward and incredibly insecure, I took these comments as criticism of how I looked for she and I look(ed) nothing alike. If she was beautiful, I was ugly.

Looking back with an adult's discerning eye, I can see that I have structured my life to be in opposition to her's. Since I could never be what she was, I would be NOT as she was. Unconsciously I made these decisions; unconsciously I became her antithesis. As a teenager, she pushed the envelope with dating, make-up wearing, and car driving. As a teenager, I did none of these things. Where she dated, I focused on my friends. Where she slacked off in school, I applied myself. Where she teased her hair and carefully applied eye liner, I went au naturale even so far as to allow my hair to part down the middle in a wobbly flip of cowlick and neglect.

All of these things I allowed, but I detested myself and saw the undone hair, the pale skin, the straight A's as flaws, weaknesses, because I couldn't be what she was. Not even if I tried.

I knew that people compared us. I compared us. People still compare us; I still compare us. As I've gotten older and the differences between us grow greater, I now see proof that my parents also compare us and this has broken a piece of me. A small voice that has whispered wicked, malicious lies into my brain all of my life is now jeering and rejoicing and his glee has broken my heart.

I am older now but my hair - and life - is as wobbly flipped with cowlick and neglect as it was when I was young. That my mother would tell my sister of my father's potential layoff is the proof I needed to show that my parents see these differences and value my sister's life and her decisions more than they value mine. They have respect for her and her opinion. They see her success and feel that her input matters.

Regardless of whether my insecurity is warranted or not, it is here. My sadness and unease may be misdirected, but they are here. My sister is off living her life, just like she always has, and I am here, not living mine.

Just like I always have.

What I have done is abandonment. I have surrendered. My father's misfortune has been revealed to me, the truth of his possible layoff illuminating the mess within me. The truth: I laid myself off long ago but didn't realize it until just now. The truth: Regardless of whether people really do compare my sister and I, I compare us and until I can stop doing that, I will never move forward.

Time to put my personal resume together and get back in the game. Time to let go and move on.

Peanut Butter Project: Day One

2009-08-31T13:30:00.007-04:00

I'm off to a rip-roarin' start with the Peanut Butter Project, let me tell ya. It's the first day and I am already dipping into the Control Meal. But have no fear! I have much planned for the remainder of the week, recipes that will both tantalize and nauseate you.

So here it is, Peanut Butter Project: Day One, a little sumthin' sumthin' I'm calling "An Homage to Back to School." In honor of my nieces and nephew who are sitting through their first day of classes, I present to you, my lunch: I have paired the classic PBJ sandwich (though in this instance I've used strawberry preserves instead of the traditional grape jelly) with four mini Chips Ahoy cookies, a packet of strawberry-flavored Fruit Gushers fruit snacks, and vanilla yogurt. Today's lunch is reminiscent of something I'd eat in elementary school, a culinary nod to my littlest niece who began kindergarten today. All I'm missing is a Little Debbie snack cake.

The more attentive of you will have noticed the lover-ly orange gorgeousness a-sittin' behind my lunch. TA-DAH! That is my new Kleen Kanteen! Look at how pretty and smooth it is! No more BPA and leeching plastic for me, no sir. From here on out, I'm all stainless steel, all of the time. I'm an Earth-friendly water drinker, that's what I am.

Though... I must admit that the first sip from the steel container sets my teeth to grinding. The taste of steel makes the goosebumps rise up on my arms, as if I am chewing on tinfoil. But I'm certain that if I push through, the steel taste will disappear and it won't be like I'm licking the kitchen sink. I'm certain. Mostly.

The Way Great Spiritual Giants Are Produced

2009-08-28T17:11:00.004-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with MY SUCCESS! Oh yes, I have succeeded in securing a furniture refinisher for my lover-ly Trash Chair. All it took was three weeks, 15 emails, 4 phone calls, five meltdowns, one nasty blog post calling someone a "yokel," and about a million looks of longing and regret aimed at le Trash Chair. All of that paid off, though, because LO! I now have four possible candidates for le chair.

Candidate Number One - Schoenbauer Furniture Services in Charlotte Hall, MD
This candidate gets major kudos for being the first refinisher to respond to my estimate request. Additional props go out for responding within five minutes of my emailed request, followed by a personal phone call fifteen minutes later (in which I was flattered for my Google-fu in finding so much information about lee chair). That their website is tre chic with glossy photos of cathedrals and mansions set to symphonic background music didn't hurt, either, though it did intimidate lil ol' me and my lil ol' wallet a wee tad. Added bonus: Schoenbauer can create the upholstered cushion and back of the original chair in-house for an added fee. Only drawback? While reasonable, their estimate is a bit out of my league at the present.

Candidate Number Two - Frank B. Rhodes Furniture Maker in Chestertown, MD
Candidate Two was the fourth estimate to arrive yesterday, within hours of my sending a request. This refinisher has experience on his side, with his assertion that he recently refinished a similar chair not too long ago. Major plus here is that Mr. Rhodes' shop can create the upholstery to match the ORIGINAL cushions from the 1950s version. Interesting change of pace with this company in that they charge their refinishing by the hour, rather than by the project.

Candidate Number Three - Termini Furniture Service in Gaithersburg, MD
Speedy Number Three was the second responder to my request. He got right to the point with a solid estimate for both refinishing and reupholstering. A two-line email did the job and I knew exactly what to expect from Mr. Termini.

Candidate Number Four - Second Empire Furniture in Baltimore, MD
Super Four was the third to respond to my estimate request, but this response caught my attention the most as it opened with the following exclamation, "GREAT CHAIR!" Why yes, Mr. Second Empire Man, it IS a great chair! I felt a bit like Wilbur must have when he opened his eyes to find Charlotte's declaration that he was "some pig." That's my chair, "some pig," and I'm glad the furniture expert noticed. The rest of his email was super informative, talking about Danish oil finishes and making light of the chewed runners. Major bonuses go to this company for 1) having the lowest estimate of them all, 2) offering to pick the chair up from my office for no fee, and 3) FEATURING DOGGIES ON THEIR WEBSITE! Oh yes, there are DOGGIES ON THE WEBSITE. It seems that Second Empire is something of a dog rescue in addition to a furniture refinishing shop. The photos and bios of Katy, Ginger and Sabrina warmed my heart. That they refer to them as "4-legged employees" completely won me over. Only drawback? Second Empire can't do the upholstery.

It seems that when it rains it pours. Weeks went by when nary a soul would respond to my pleas for help, and then all of a sudden? Downpour. I have four excellent candidates to choose from. This weekend I shall mull my options over and make a choice, and come Monday? Trash Chair will be on its way to a whole new life and I will be one step closer to becoming Frank Sinatra. Or Liz Lemon. Or maybe a little of both.

There Is No Sincerer Love Than the Love of Food

2009-08-27T16:05:00.009-04:00

I mentioned a little while back that I've taken to bringing my lunch to work. Doing so has saved me some dinero, but it's also stimulated my creative juices (not to mention my digestive juices). Today and for the rest of our lives, I'm-a gonna share those juices with you, my beloved readers. (The creative juices, not the digestive ones. Sharing digestive juices would be supremely gross, and also destructive.)

For weeks now, I've been eating the same thing every day: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. One would think that the good 'ol PBJ would get old and boring, eating on it every day like I am, but you'd be wrong. Oh so very wrong. Some days I cut the sandwich in half, some days into fourths. To mix things up even more, I sometimes cut those fourths on the diagonal, giving me four little triangles of peanut butter and jelly goodness. How can PBJ triangles get boring? I mean, c'mon, they're PBJ TRIANGLES! Perfection, that's what they are. Perfection and totally NOT boring, and I'm being serious when I say that.

A strange side effect of my constant PBJ-eating has been my desire for MORE peanut butter. It's as if by slathering on the peanutty-ness I've opened a door into a latent and primal desire for peanut butter. Perhaps this desire was always there, so by giving in to it just a little, I find that I must indulge myself more. Much, much more.

Which is how I came to create the Peanut Butter Project. Ta-dah! I even made a logo for it.

Here's the premise behind the Peanut Butter Project: I will incorporate peanut butter into my lunch every day, in some way, shape or form. Peanut butter is a mandatory ingredient in my meal. It can be used just as it is, like when making Ants on a Log or the Classic PBJ, or it can be mixed with other things to make something altogether new. Brilliant, no? Sometimes I astound even myself with my own brilliance.

Fridays are not included as this day is my special "eat out" day, given to myself as a reward for bringing my lunch to work. Also included in the rules is a once-a-week "control meal" for when mah brain or hands can't create something new and exciting. The classic PBJ sandwich shall act as the "control meal." No fuss, no frills, no fribelows.

Seeing as how there are 52 weeks in a year, five days in the working week, one day "off" for eating out, I'll need to come up with 208 peanut butter meals. If I include the "control meal," once each week, that reduces the total PB meals to 156. For obvious mathematically-challenged reasons, I'm not even going to worry about holidays and days off.

The project kicks off next week. I'll post a photo and a recipe for you lovely nutters each and every cotton-pickin' day. But don't expect too much right off the bat... I anticipate a full week of sandwich variations - PB and banana, PB and honey, PB and banana AND honey, etc. - before I start with the tricked-out stuff. You should also anticipate my bending the rules a bit, such as claiming that a PBJ on wheat bread is different than a PBJ on white, and other such nonsense like that. I AM me, after all, and I can't help but be a rule-bender. And also nonsensical.

A rule-bender, a peanut butter-eater, and a juice-sharer. I'm a wild one, oh yes indeedy-o, a wild one.