operation vegetarian

It is a truth universally acknowledged...that I haven't posted in long enough to gestate a human baby. And I haven't even gestated a human baby about it.

Let's not linger there. Or on whether or not I'll do this regularly. I have plenty to catch you up on, but my willingness to do so is limited. It interferes with my naps.

I was inspired to post today because of the mini-transformation I've gone through in the past month. You see, I think I lied to you. If I ever said I was a vegetarian, I was lying. From late 2009 to early August, 2012, I was a "pescatarian." And that was a stupid thing.

I spontaneously decided to go vegetarian (or whatever-a-tarian I actually went) back in 2009 because I was living alone and wasn't cooking meat anyway. I thought I'd see if I could do it. And I did it quite easily. Meat hasn't been cooked in my house since late 2009. Not even fish.

And I felt good about it. I felt green and healthy and like I was doing my little part to make the earth last maybe two months longer.

But I wasn't doing it right. I ate fish in restaurants and at our parents' houses and at weddings because it was too much work to find things on menus and inconvenience people. Guess what? I'mma inconvenience y'all now.

We went to Hawaii for our two-year anniversary, and something about all the fish I ate there broke me. I bought this t-shirt:

and I wanted to live it.

And the thing that has happened since I started this adventure has happened again. I'm having a ton of fun crafting meals, working to get all my food groups in and making healthy, delicious things. We touched down from Hawaii and I got two new recipe apps. Seriously, if the iPhone is good for anything, it is good for recipe apps. I don't have to plan meals ahead of time and make grocery lists. I can do it on the subway. And the day after we got home from Hawaii, I made "raw vegan cleanse soup" and it was amazing. We had to buy a new blender to turn kale into soup, but we learned a ton about blenders, how not to spend $400 on blenders, and Husband even turned a person away from the leaky Kitchenaid blender while buying our Ninja at BBB. 

I've conquered the tricky world of tofu. Seriously, I was a semi-vegetarian for three years and couldn't manage stir-fried tofu that stayed in the neat little cubes I cut it into. Yes, you seriously have to press it. When you get all that water out of it, you make it into a sponge for any flavor you want. And it is delicious.

And then you bake it and it gets this amazing crust on it and you forget you've ever had a potato chip. Or bacon.

Now you are asking, "What about Husband?" Yeah, he's not a vegetarian.  He is more like a vegetarian sympathizer. If there were vegetarian McCarthyism, he would be blacklisted. He doesn't eat meat in the house because I don't cook it. What he does in a restaurant or while he's at work is his own business. I try not to guilt trip him. I'm not on a mission with my vegetarianism.

But when he sent me an email about making his own seitan this weekend (for barbecue "ribs," natch), I did a happy dance in my office chair. It involves crazy ingredients--including liquid smoke--and that is right up his alley. I think he's wavering on his meat resolve. We spent the weekend with our vegetarian cousins, talking about being vegetarian, and I think it changed something in him.

And now I will post this and he'll read it and go have a baconchickenwingtunahamburgerpepperoni sandwich. Or a turducken. But don't let him make you think he doesn't enjoy raw beet salad, kale stuffed with feta, or carmelized onions with quinoa. Because his reactions to my meat cooking were never as enthusiastic as his reactions to my vegetarian cooking are.

I'll try to report back on Mission: Homemade Seitan.

(Honey, if you go full veg, I'll have something to blog about. Just saying.)

framing, rearranging, and the trials of being left-handed

One of the things I'm learning through blogging about our decorating adventures is just how much longer it takes to complete a project than I anticipate. We just wanted to hang a few pictures on the wall, and it turned into a month of acquiring materials, assembling, and hanging.

But it's done! Just look at this amazing finished product:

This project is on par with the table for my sense of accomplishment. It took less time to complete the actual work, but it was just as arduous, let me tell you.

First there was the headache of the wrong mat cutter. You would think my problems ended as soon as I bought the correct cutter. Nope. You see, I have the nasty habit of being left-handed. And the ideal mat cutter has a nasty habit of being right-handed. Sure, I could use it. It even has instructions for lefties. They are simple: Use it backward. Thanks, mat cutter people. I will gladly use your push-style mat cutter backward, rendering it a pull-style mat cutter and completely obscuring the handy-dandy start-stop guide which was a selling point on the darn cutter to begin with. 

I tried, people. I tried. But I could not get the right amount of pressure with either my right hand (I make sad attempts at being ambidextrous) or by pulling it.

That's where wonderful Husband comes in. He did go to design school after all. He did a beautiful job! 

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's talk about the process.

First I needed to measure the prints to determine the size of the opening in the matboard. That I was able to do last week. Then we subtracted the print size from the mat size, divided the remainder in half and voila! we had our measurements. Husband also took care of the math. I'm terrible with fractions.

So going into Saturday's extravaganza, I had this handy guide of measurements:

So I marked the back of each matboard (after labeling it to prevent future headaches) like so:

Then they were all ready to cut! I made a few paltry attempts with a practice piece, but Husband was the man for this project. I love that it was so collaborative. I tend to take over DIY projects because I have a strong "vision" of how everything should look and how it should be done. That doesn't make my way right, and it certainly doesn't make me able to do everything I set out to do. Especially in this right-handed world. So take a look at Husband at work:

And a close up of one of his amazing corners:

Sure, we probably shouldn't open up a framing business (simply because our method is far from perfect, speedy, or cost-effective), but it was more than good enough for what we needed. I couldn't wait to see how they looked on our prints:

Beautiful! While Husband finished cutting the mats, I went to work trimming the calendar pages and taping them to the finished mats:

Not pictured: My method of cutting perfect squares of masking tape. The photographer found it amusing, but I don't think anyone needs to see it. It makes for a more interesting anecdote than a photograph.

All we had left to do was pop them in the frames (probably the easiest part of the project) and decide on a layout. We had a little fun playing musical chairs (or maybe Tetris) until we came up with an arrangement that satisfied us.

Not pictured: The countless other layouts we didn't go with for reasons such as "too much yellow on top," "too much blue on the left," or "too many different typefaces together." I thought a checkerboard pattern of the darker pieces and the lighter ones would look good, but it didn't seem to work. We decided that we liked the dark/blue pieces on the ends, and our light/yellow pieces in the middle. It grounds the piece as a whole, I think.  Ireland, Switzerland, and Argentina moved around more than I'd like to admit!

We thought the hardest part was over. Cutting the mats was extremely nerve-wracking. Probably more for me than Husband, who did the actual work! But when you add the factors of our un-level floors and ceilings, utter lack of a level (the app did not cut the mustard), and our combined desire for precision, you have a giant headache on your hands. That's why I don't have pictures of the during, with the cute pink hanging templates featured here all over the wall. We tried countless approaches which all would sound insanely boring and probably completely inefficient. We're still learning!

After giving up in frustration Saturday night, we went out for a delicious dinner at a new (to us) place in our neighborhood. Before 10:00 this time. A relaxed, scrumptious dinner and a bottle of wine was exactly the way to unwind after previously wanting to tear our hair out. We woke up Sunday morning refreshed and ready to go. And still pulled our hair out a little. Eventually we found a pretty efficient way to get the templates on the wall, found the proper number of nails and got to hammering.

And then we hung them up. And then they were all over the darn place. And I couldn't look at them because they looked so unprofessional and wonky.

I cannot tell you how much I love ScotchBlue tape. We used it in our many attempts to create reference lines for our templates. And we also used it to level all our wonky pictures. I wrapped some skinny pieces around the hardware on the back, and ta-da! what once was wonky now is perfect!

This is my favorite view--from the couch! It was a ton of work, but it made it all the more worth it. We moved around some other pieces, which we didn't take pictures of because they're completely temporary and some of the lines from previous frames behind them are totally hideous. We also hung a picture in the kitchen, so Husband is no longer staring at a blank wall behind me at the table. I am still starting at a blank wall behind him, but we're working on that.

It may have taken more blood (I cut myself twice and in really stupid ways), sweat (our heat was seriously out of control), and tears (I cry about everything, including wonky framing arrangements) than anticipated, but we're ecstatic with the results.

How about you? Any projects causing you more gray hairs than anticipated, or do you expect things to take as long as they do?

(Psst, check out my Broadway post for a cute pic of me outside the theatre. Proof that we were really there!!)

a night out on broadway

Updated: With photographic proof after the jump!

I may not have mentioned that I have a love-hate relationship with New York. I think I can safely say that the majority of New Yorkers have this relationship, so I'm not alone. So a part of my life project is taking advantage of the elements of New York that you can't get anywhere else. Or most places, that is.

We take advantage of going out for dinner at 10 at night (as we did after we Flor'd) plenty often. We take advantage of not having to own a car every day of our lives (and sometimes, when lugging around bags full of 23" throw pillows, 9 yards of fabric, and a hammered aluminum bowl, we wish we had a car).

We don't often go to Broadway shows.

I grew up watching musicals and listening to the soundtracks on vinyl. My mom had an awesome collection that included the staples of Rodgers & Hammerstein, Camelot, and who knows what else. I also listened to a bunch of Simon & Garfunkel. I have extremely good taste. I grew up thinking that Gordon MacRae was the hottest thing on feet. (I later discovered Hello, Dolly and the joy of Tommy Tune, along with Singin' in the Rain and the inimitable Gene Kelly.)

I saw touring companies of Miss Saigon, Fame, Rent, and Chicago growing up in Rochester. I saw Sebastian Bach in Jekyll & Hyde (twice!) during college, and even dragged my mother along for the ride. I saw Cabaret at Studio 54 and went back to see Rent when Adam Pascal and Anthony Rapp re-joined the cast. (Adam Pascal dared to be sick that day.) I've seen Spring Awakening sans Lea Michele and Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark for no particular reason other than my undying love for U2. (So undying that I love them even after paying good money to watch that train wreck.)

This sounds like a lot.

I have lived in or around New York for 11 years. That's not nearly enough.

Until now.

Inspired, perhaps, by missing my dear friend, The So-Called Wife, who really took advantage of her time in New York and saw a truly impressive number of shows, Husband and I will be seeing not one but two amazing shows within the span of a month.

I was also inspired by the big, big, BIG names headlining these shows.

First, there is a Broadway event we simply cannot miss. If you don't know the piece of pure entertainment joy that is Hugh Jackman, well, you really need to get out more. I had just graduated college and had zero dollars to my name when Hugh starred in The Boy From Oz, so I wasn't able to see that. I also think you couldn't get a ticket if you had lots of dollars, it was that popular. (The same is probably true for A Steady Rain.) So when I heard Hugh was doing a one-man show for ten weeks only, I couldn't pass it up. I repeat: A one-man show. That is Hugh Jackman (the second greatest person to portray Curly in Oklahoma! since my dear Gordon MacRae), singing and dancing practically by his darn self on stage. And interacting with the audience. And generally being the amazing song-and-dance man that he is. 


Who wouldn't want to stand out in the rain for him?

Never mind my weird face. I was super-excited!

a whole new flor (part two: installation!)

Now that we have successfully installed our own modular carpet, I can safely say that if our current careers don't work out, Husband and I can make a living installing Flor carpets. We make an excellent team...but that is why we're married, after all!

And it's a darn good thing we spent our Friday night carpet-tiling, because New Couch came bright and early on Saturday morning--meaning we could rest on it for the remainder of the weekend. Pretty sweet!

Without further adieu, here's the finished product:

Tetris? An aerial view of the Midwest? Or modular, Modernist carpeting?

Two days later, it looks much more settled and fluffy. A few passes with the vacuum have lifted stray shag pieces, all but erased the lines between tiles of the same color, and generally made it look even more awesome.

Oh, and the couch is freaking amazing:

Please ignore the Sad Elephant in the picture.

I can't believe how far we've come in the last month!  But first, the story of Flor installation...

a whole new flor (part one)

I should seriously stop posting iPhone pictures on the blog, but I am lazier than you know and it's much easier to email myself the photo than it is to upload it onto my computer.

Anywho, our Flor tiles arrived Wednesday night, and we are so excited to put them together!  Here's a sneak peek:

Just look at them compared to our other rugs! It looks like the beach--albeit a modular, Tetris-inspired, very square-edged beach--was transported to our floor.

I also have stellar news. On our nice hardwoods, the brand-spanking new Flor tiles (with their attached pad) are surprisingly cushy. It's definitely not the same cushiness level as a high-pile fancy-pants carpet, but it's definitely comfortable.

After a bit of back and forth, Husband agreed/conceded/was bullied into agreeing that rotating one of the striped tiles 90 degrees was the best way to go. We'll do a final check when we lay out the entire design, but I'd be surprised if I didn't have an OCD panic attack about the stripes not lining up and demand that they be rotated. It's not that I require them to match, actually. It's just that I think the non-aligning stripes draw the eye to the modular design in a negative way. I prefer to work with that aspect rather than have it work against me.

 In true Philirao fashion, we'll "installing" our rug this evening after work.

New Couch will arrive between 9:30 and 12:30 on Saturday, and we'd rather install the rug when we only have one couch to move, but before Sad Elephant departs next week. Because we're crazy and excited and want to stop blogging about doing things and actually do them. Since we planned to do this starting yesterday, and I have already read the instructions and viewed instructional videos multiple times, we're mentally ready to do this after 8 hours of work (and a huge high-profile event here at my place of employment).

I kind of feel like a superhero. A design superhero.

approximately 13 random thoughts inspired by the number 13 on my 13th post

Having been a little blocked about what to write about, I started to think about whether or not 13 is an unlucky number.

For the Philiraos, it simply cannot be.

We met on a 13th, got engaged on a Friday the 13th, and had our rehearsal dinner on another Friday the 13th. We freaking love the number 13.

Mainly we're just in between projects/delivery of items to complete projects and I'm otherwise out of interesting things to say.

Except for:

• I really want Husband to do a guest post on the blog.
• In an ideal world, this would be a co-written blog about our exciting life, adapting to create the ideal quasi-urban life.
• I think I don't properly know how to use the internet. I should be posting pictures of inspirational rooms and talking about what I like in them. I should understand what the heck Pinterest is.
• I may have an actual title for this blog.
• I want to design a pretty header for the new title. I'm not a web designer, so I'll leave layout to tweaking templates.
• I have to bring boxes home on the subway last night. Last night a woman actually spoke to me (aka: broke the invisible wall) because my bag was a centimeter off my (very moderately sized) lap and impinging on her personal space and/or larger lap. I wished I had the audacity of the woman in my head to be really mean to her. I was getting off in one stop and she was elbowing me all up in the place.

Things that are cooking up:

• Having a dinner party/a friend over for dinner tomorrow, and I'm planning to blog about that.
• I'm having lots of thoughts about lampshades. My mother will be happy to know that my grandmother's amazing alabaster lamps are actually going nowhere, because with new, funky shades, they are going to be the greatest lamps ever. And giving away alabaster lamps is stupid.
• Flor tiles will be delivered tomorrow!

That's all. I thought the world needed to know those random things.

living room "flor" design

As always, what we went in thinking and what we came out with wouldn't have recognized each other on the street.

I went in desperate for neutrals, figuring this was the only way to brighten up our dim living room.

Husband went into a store that sells modular carpet squares (with the pad built in) wanting cushy comfort. Such things aren't to be had in the traditional sense.

Let's backtrack to describe the journey that led us to the Flor store in Soho.

A few years ago, we visited the apartment of our dear friends (who have written this blog about their adventures in home-owning and fighting with old wallpaper) and were admiring their very unique carpet. They told us it was from Flor, and explained how it worked and how they used it to carpet rooms and hallways without the permanence of wall-to-wall carpet.

I was hooked. I went home, ordered the catalog, jumped on the website and started designing a carpet for our bedroom, which was at that time in desperate need of a rug. A Macy's gift card later, we purchased two area rugs that I'm now completely dissatisfied with, but could improve with a good shampoo. (A future project indeed.)

Fast forward to now, when I realized that an area rug to adequately cover a 12x18' room would cost me more than I was willing to spend. I also realized that I hated 95% of the rugs out there, unless they were miles out of my price range. You see, I live in a pre-war apartment in New York, so I have basically no sound insulation between my floor and my neighbors' ceiling. Sound carries. In fact, it amplifies. I really want to cover as much of the floor as humanly possible.

And then I remembered Flor.

finding our style (and then throwing it out the window)

Last week Husband and I took a few quizzes to get an idea of our "style."

(You can find these quizzes at Ikea, Sproost, Ethan Allen, and HomeGoods. Which one you like best depends entirely on you. I liked them all except Ethan Allen, which was slightly trivial.)

The results were...mixed. Divided even. Here's the prime example:

From the Ikea quiz, in case you couldn't tell.

Yep, not even one word matched, and Husband scored 0% in the "Scandinavian" category.

The differences in our personal style came as no surprise to me. I have known the man for six years, and I've lived with him (and tried to decorate with him) for almost five. It can be a chore.

This obsessive quiz-taking was the result of the following interchange (spurred on by my own temporary insanity):

Me: Do you think the lampshades need to match the rug?
Husband: Well, which is going to last longer?

That's a classic example of our interchanges, especially with regard to decorating and home improvement. Our minds are on two totally different tracks. Mine focuses on everything coordinating obsessively, while his centers on how long things are going to last. This interchange snapped me back to reality. And if it hadn't, rug shopping sure would have. There isn't a lamp shade in the world that can match the rug we cooked up at Flor.

So it was definitely fun to take the quizzes. I found the explanation of the HomeGoods quiz the most enlightening. Here's a quote:

You keep up with culture, style, and trends, but have an appreciation for timeless forms and simple lines. You value good design, quality craftsmanship, and prefer the streamlined to the overly embellished or cluttered. You also appreciate the warmth and individuality of natural materials and handcrafted things and are inspired by colors and forms from nature. This contrast is what makes your home intriguing and comfortable. You love mixing up different  textures and are sensitive to the tactile qualities of objects. Your style is grounded and solid, not flighty or frilly. 

That really rang true to what I'm going for. The contrast between streamlined, contemporary objects and natural forms and colors is exactly what I'm looking for in our home, especially in the living room.

Husband's description, although it contained a different header, was strikingly similar. It was as though someone paraphrased this one and emphasized different things. Exactly like us.

So really, none of these results mean anything. Our design style as a couple is most definitely Contemporary Compromise. We both want streamlined, clean lines an well-made furniture. But we also want comfort serenity. We just get there by completely different routes.

The tale of our Flor adventure is a prime example of this, and will be described in my next issue!

the one about fiction versus nonfiction

At approximately 7:30 this evening, I will submit my last and largest paper of the semester (a project referenced in this post) and thereby have completed all my work for the semester. This will also mean I only need to write a thesis to get my MA.

"Only" write a thesis. Ha.

Writing and revising this paper got me to thinking about how I write, especially with reference to the distinctions between fiction and nonfiction.

When I write fiction, I give entirely too much information up front. I've been writing a novel on and off since high school (aka: a long time ago), and when I workshopped the beginning of it last summer, my instructor informed me that I don't need to put every single fact in the opening chapter / paragraph /sentence / word. I am familiar with the concepts of allusion and foreshadowing, but apparently I don't use them in my writing. I basically say, "Hey! This is important! She is sad because of THIS. Think about that? Remember how she's sad? That's going to affect EVERYTHING. Pay attention!"

This is compared to my nonfiction, critical writing. In which I catch my speed and the paper goes ka-pow about two pages before it ends. And professors think perhaps it should start where it ends. And are kind of right. 

I can revise fiction until the end of time. In fact, sometimes I revise more than I write because writing fiction is hard. Plotting doesn't come easily, and narration sometimes drivels off into inanity. Not unlike my critical work. I'd rather do all manner of unpleasant things instead of revising critical work. But Husband is a no-holds-barred editor these days--since I have recently become able to handle his constructive, useful criticism without yelling at him that he has no idea what I'm trying to say so he should stop trying to tell me how to say it--and informed me that my most recent paper, although working better towards getting to the point earlier, still lagged in the beginning. 

You see, I finish a paper and I say, "WHEEE! I'm done! Where's the wine?" I revise for typos, things spell-check misses, and to clarify word choice. I am excellent at the sentence level. I have great difficulty distancing myself from the text and understanding that time spent getting to the point needs to, well, get to the point. This does not mean starting the paper from scratch. It means tightening language in earlier paragraphs and adding sentences that directly point to the thesis (and later, the conclusion). And generally realizing that not everything I think made it onto the page, even though I can read it between the lines.

For example, I wrote about disabled siblings in disability films serving as foils for their non-disabled siblings. And spent a good page defining the disability, which the film didn't name, without referencing how the unnaming related to the foiling. You follow? Without that referent, the entire section is rendered useless, however interesting it might sound.

Whereas if I were writing fiction, I'd have said a million times how important that was to the point the story intended to make. I'd beat you over the head with it. 

Thus, I need to switch my head-beating techniques between my fictional and non-fictional writing. I've got the skills, I'm just using them incorrectly, as per usual.

the one about holiday decorations

I must be getting old. Or turning into my mother. 

I don't mean this in a bad way. I simply mean that the period from college and a few years afterward--often called "my twenties"--is drawing to a close. And at the same time, so is my rebellion against Christmas decorations.

My dear mother is an amazing craftswoman. She quilts, she cross-stitches, and she has absolutely spoiled me with her ability to make curtains, throw pillows, and pillow shams. There was even an interlude during which we make a duvet cover without a pattern. Putting the duvet inside the cover involved me crawling inside it. Obviously.

And she loves the holidays. It starts in the fall when she gets out all her leaf-pattered paraphernalia and her 99 stuffed pumpkins. There are table runners, table toppers (note the different), place mats, wall hangings, and it's all very thematic. Autumn is her favorite.

And then there's Christmas. She's toned it down over the years--she says this and I believe her due to the lack of bows on the curtain rods when I get home--but my adolescent home is still where the holidays begin for me. I have never decorated as thoroughly as my mother, so I don't really feel it until I get there.  And I love it.  

This year, as it is my second and final year in graduate school, the lead-up to the holidays coincides with finals. Also, Husband and I don't live in the same apartment. For these reasons, buying and purchasing a Christmas tree seems idiotic. (We are also those people who have to throw away their tree on, say, December 17th because we leave town for the holidays and don't want the tree to turn into a pile of match sticks and burn.)

This year, my brain is thousands of miles away from grad school, and I have rebelled from writing papers, doing research, or otherwise being productive by decorating the apartment at very spontaneous intervals.

Examples:

• Last weekend, after getting back from Husband's parents' house for Thanksgiving, I came home and almost immediately hung up the needlepoint mitten garland my mom made for me in college. (Yep, I had decorations in college.) This was inspired by the overnight transformation from Thanksgiving to Christmas decorations in my in-laws' house. I was suitably impressed.
• Later last weekend, when Husband and I were dutifully writing papers across from each other at the kitchen table, I got out the Christmas place mats my mother made me (gingerbread-people fabric, of course), the gingerbread man salt-and-pepper shakers that have been sitting on the window sill all year, and put them on the table. I also insisted we plug in the multicolored lights that hang over the window all year long. We worked hard, but we were festive.
• Last Monday, I came home from a harrowing trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond to buy a comforter (another adventure in putting a duvet in a cover--this time with 100% less of my body inside it), which involved people on stilts dressed as nutcrackers singing in Lincoln Center, and a general inability to walk on the sidewalk. Also featured: a distaste for holiday consumerism in New York. And when I got home, Husband had cracked and bought a wreath from a Christmas tree vendor, desperate for the smell of pine. As we have no over-the-door hanger for such an item, it sat on the floor for a week, but it did smell nice. Saturday night after a late dinner, I came home and said, "I am hanging that up." I looped the attached wire over the door and it proceeded to slide down the door. I said, "We need leverage. Give me my umbrella!" Yep, on the outside of our door, we have a pine wreath. On the inside, we have an umbrella. It's like decorating with Rhianna.  (Cue a chorus of "under my umbrella-ella-ella, ay-ay-ay-ay...")
• Sunday afternoon, I cracked. I wanted a tree. Lots of friends had posted pictures of their trees on Facebook, and I was sitting watching What's Eating Gilbert Grape for the second time in as many days (for research purposes). I popped open the hope-chest-of-holiday-decor and unwrapped my ceramic tree. Husband moved the bed to plug it in. We picked a few choice ornaments to lay around it like presents. And we counted down when we lit it.

This led me to realize one important thing: Although, when starting our collection of Christmas ornaments, I had a theme in mind, another theme has cropped up unintentionally. I intended gingerbread men. Food has supplanted this. Both my own mother and my mother-in-law gave me cupcake ornaments. Gingerbread men are food. There the traditional German glass pickle. A pop-up toaster, complete with bread.

So, as our other newlywed friends post pictures of their blended decorations, we realize our greatest compromise in decorating has been the same compromise we have in cooking: sweet versus savory. Husband and I love food, and gosh darn it our holiday decor should reflect this. Someday we'll have a tree covered in cupcakes. And it will be delectable.

Happy holidays, everyone!  Once finals are over, we'll be jetting* up to my parents' house and making edible holiday items. Aka: cookies. Mountains of cookies.

*By jetting, I mean, "train-ing"  A slow, decrepit, train that is only on time 44% of the time.  Or is late 44% of the time.  Either way, I'm glad husband and our headphone jack splitter will be there. 

the one about pie that's not really about pie

Earlier today, I informed Husband I bought him a present at the farmer's market. I can't say what it is, because then Husband will find out before he gets here. He is going to like it.

Husband informed me that he bought a gallon of apple cider. Husband really likes cider; however, he often buys more than he has a capacity to consume. For instance: today, when he bought a gallon of cider and is leaving it for a weekend. As it is not pasturized, it will be apple cider vinegar by the time he gets back.  [EDIT: Husband claims he bought the cider yesterday. This improves the situation by 0.97%, which is really small.]

Husband then started talking kind of crazy and hyper. I said, "Stop drinking cider." He informed me he'd had three glasses already. That's a lot of sugar. Good, natural sugar, but sugar all the same, and Husband complains enough about the state of his pancreas. I think his pancreas needs antidepressants or something.

One thing I bought for me at the farmer's market was two mini-pies. I'm talking two inches round, and for my snack prior to class tonight. One apple crumb, one pumpkin. I began to eat it when Husband came back from a walk, upon which he planned to buy cheese. I asked him if he had bought cheese in the following manner:

Edited for punctuation and capitalization.

Me: CHEESE is the question, and CHEESE is the answer. I think that requires question marks. Here are some: ????????????????

Husband: Um, stop drinking cider?

Me: I have no cider I have pie

Husband: Same thing?

Me: Um, one is liquid the other is solid

Husband: For craziness?

Me: Au contraire. One is pie and the other is ... not pie. Liquid goes to your brain faster. Because you swallow it and it goes directly into your blood. Pie / solid has to be broken down into molecules of co7 and stuff, and that takes longer, and there is some splitting of atoms.

Husband: Oh, co7

Bottom line: The sugar contained in apples--named co7 for our purposes, because my copious knowledge of science, molecules, and chemistry tells me that--makes you communicate via Gchat in run-on sentences, which are not really sentences, because you don't use punctuation.

co7 = punctuation depleter.

Watch out for it on the news. It's going to be all the rage.

the one about my lunch: updated

I forgot my lunch today.

Really upsetting, because I went out to dinner last night specifically to purchase a meal that would also serve as lunch. I also specifically insisted upon Italian food thanks to large portions and the joy of carbohydrates.

That lunch now sits on the floor. In the hallway. Of my apartment.

Which is, according to Google Maps, 5.6 miles away from my current location: my office. 

Side note:

Reason #1,502 living in the New York metropolitan area depresses me:

I live 5.6 miles away from my office. It takes me 50 minutes to get from one place to the other. Google Maps says it is a 15 minute drive, via the exact route the bus takes. The bus takes at least 30 minutes.

Le sigh. Side note ended.

To make matters worse, my hallway is grossly under-refrigerated. We have complained about the problem, but apparently normal people do not use their entrance hallways as refrigerators. They're missing out.

Did I mention that my lunch is/was a container full of angel hair a la puttanesca? Yep. That's a bunch of anchovies sitting in my delightfully-heated apartment. Signs point to me not emptying this container, and simply throwing it out, lest I die of anchovy poisoning.

And yes, today of all days I did exchange the aluminum leftover container for a nice, shiny, clean GladWare container, so as not to explode my entire office building by microwaving metal.

Obviously I should explode things more frequently. Although I'd still have to buy lunch in that situation. Vicious cycle.

Related: Google informs me of the existence of a restaurant called Puttanesca in New York. In case you don't know such essential bits of Italian, "puttanesca" means prostitute. Your restaurant is called Prostitute, people. Based on their web site, they know that. And knowing is half the battle.

Also: "I have a container of puttanesca" has all kinds of meanings unrelated to left over pasta. And should not be refrigerated. And perhaps should be ventilated. Or humans should not be placed in leftover containers.

Somehow, this is all moot compared to what Husband forgot enroute to his weekday home today: power cord for laptop. My lunch will cost approximately $7. New power cord: a happy, round $79.

Still looking for the restart button for today.

Update: Leftover container leaked. Hallway smells like a fish infestation. And someone gave Husband a power cord. I am indeed the bigger loser. Too bad that's not the equivalent of winning.

the one about caffeine

Caffeine is important.

Unfortunately, it is virtually impossible to discern whether or not you have consumed caffeine without the proper labels. Take the following example:

Husband was making coffee. (By "coffee," I mean "espresso," since the kind gift of an espresso machine a few years ago has transformed Husband and I from occasional morning coffee drinkers to people who turn into dinosaurs without a morning espresso beverages. I drink it straight. He uses milk. Wimp.) We have two identical but labeled containers of ground coffee, stacked one atop the other. For purposes of caffeine consumption, the caffeinated is always on top. I doubt I have ever made a decaf espresso for myself in my life, as it defeats the concept of coffee.

Husband: Decaf is on top.
Self: What?! 

Husband: The decaf is on top.
Self: Do you mean to tell me that I have been drinking DECAF all week?

Here's the interlude where I tell you that for approximately four days of the week, Husband lives in a different city.  Generally Tuesday through Friday I make coffee for myself. And never look at the label on the container of coffee, for obvious reasons.

Cut to me, pre-caffeine, upset-ly blaming Husband for my lack of caffeine all week. You see, Husband ground coffee over the weekend, thus disturbing the order of the containers. Containers must be moved in order to use the grinder. How, why, or even when decaf ended up on top, neither of us knows. Husband insists that I could have read the container, but I admonish this as unnecessary, because caf is always on top.

He made the coffee, putting mine in the orange cup and using the matching orange saucer just to spite me. I like to mismatch my cup and saucer. He does not. He says, "Your espresso today is sponsored by the San Francisco Giants." (Scroll down to the entry about how the responsibility of being the good luck charm for the San Francisco Giants is too much responsibility for me.) He gets a glare. I'm sorry, Husband.

I drink the coffee, managing to spill sugar all over the place, because the adorable sugar shaker we recently received is more adorable than it is efficient at dispensing the correct amount of sugar in a timely manner. (But he matches our lady grater, so he will stay. What we required was a sugar pot, but none match the grater. Grater and sugar pot must match?) I eat 90% of my cereal, leaving the rest for Husband who is eating olive bread for breakfast. I have already growled at him because he thanked me for getting him olive bread, when I had in fact gotten the olive bread for myself, but not without him in mind. But I'm really picky about word choice all the time, and lack of caffeine intensifies this.

I depart, thankfully having charged my iPod prior to its death. On the subway, I begin to worry. What if the lids just got mixed up? What if today's coffee was the decaf? How will I know? I didn't get a Metro today. If I didn't want to read, I must be lacking in stimulants. I have closed my eyes in order to better daydream to music. I may fall asleep! I could fall onto subway tracks! My anger remains completely unchecked without proper stimulant consumption! I will be unable to focus on work...or the blogs I read when there isn't enough work to do! The headache!  The headache!! There are holes in my armor!

One of the reasons I so derided Husband about the possible mix-up was the nagging fact that my office has been a steady 107 degrees all week, give or take. It's been a balmy 75 where I live; unseasonable for October, and they had already switched the building over to heat. It went from heat inside with some more outside to heat outside with no air inside and some windows open, but I work in a cubicle in a hallway, and it doesn't have windows. Rumor has it the hallway windows (all three of them) are bolted shut anyway. Cubicle dwellers more prone to suicide? 

You do the math: Heat + probable lack of caffeine = headache that doesn't go away, it just simply lets up enough to let me sleep. Thanks, Husband who rarely gets headaches.

The moral of the story is: I have no idea which is which. It's unlikely the husband removed the lid from the decaf when filling the caf with grounds. He does odd things sometimes--as do we all--but opening a container full of something he does not want to refill when refilling something else is above and beyond all oddness. My office is more seasonable today, and I have supplemented my possibly-caffeinated espresso with a cup of Lipton tea.

My head feels like it's in a vise, but the vise is loose. I am still tempted to dump all the coffee and start over. It's that important, people.

the one about baseball

I have a rather sordid history when it comes to professional sports.

During my tween and teen years, I was a football fan, thanks to my best friend. (If you click that link, you will see that not only is she a sports fan, she is also awesome, and still my best friend. Well, you may not see that last part from her blog, but it is true.) We loved the San Francisco 49ers, but our true patriotism, my geographical necessity, belonged to the Buffalo Bills. But we adored Steve Young and had giant crushes on him. I have vivid memories of jumping up and down on my couch screaming my mother's sports epithet--"Run you sucker, run!"--at the television during 49ers games. (This epithet works for all sports. I'll share some of my new ones that are equally ubiquitous later on.)

Like a true 49ers fan should, I hated the Green Bay Packers. Brett Favre was the equivalent of the devil. He's still pretty squidgy. Steve Young retired to prevent brain damage from getting sacked too many times and getting concussions. Brett Favre hasn't gotten the memo. Maybe his defense has always been better and he doesn't get sacked.  I don't know, i don't watch football any more.

Years passed by--college and living alone--and Husband happened. Before he was Husband, he was Boyfriend who lived in Germany. In 2005. During the World Cup. To bond with Then-Boyfriend across the sea, I watched the World Cup. And got really into it. Because cheering for the USA lasts a disappointingly short length of time, I was forced to choose another country. I chose the Netherlands. They wear orange. When they were out, I chose Germany. In the final, I chose Italy, because I had to choose someone and I had France issues at the time.

World Cup time came around again this year and I realized that I did in fact just adore the sport of soccer. I sat at my desk and watched the games on my computer. No one minded. My boss came out of his office after the famous Landon Donovan stoppage time goal and said, "Not only did we win, but we also won our division!" as though I should be watching the game because it was un-American not to. After the USA was eliminated, Husband and I united for Germany. We watched games at bars, once at 10 a.m. We felt very German. Soccer is great. It lasts a round 2 hours in most cases, and there is never a dull moment.

I would call my baseball-fan mother and tell her about soccer. She would say "I watched, but it's no baseball." I found baseball tedious, although I generally enjoy watching games live.

And then there was the NLCS this year. Husband is a San Francisco Giants fan. Always has been. (We like orange.) I had arbitrarily decided to cheer for the Phillies because I like Philadelpha, even though as a supposed Mets fan I am supposed despise them with the fire of a thousand suns. Game 1, I cheered for the Phillies while Husband did GIS homework. Giants won. We weren't able to watch another game until Game 6 a week later. By then I had switched sides and rooted for the Giants. They won.

Now they're in the World Series and I have watched two games by myself. Unmonitored by Husband or my mother. Game 1 I did the "stomp stomp, slap" of We Will Rock You. I felt that helped the Giants. They won. Game 2 I had to be Husband's eyes and ears, as he was on a bus during the game. I would text him every time something good happened. My thumbs got tired during the 8th inning. Again, I watched the entire game and they won.

This is why I feel responsible for the welfare of the San Francisco Giants. The four games I have watched, they have won. Husband and I will be out on the town Saturday night and unable to watch the game. I am worried. Husband is worried. He has already spoken of ducking into bars to watch the game. We are showing friends about town, and it is impolite to force people into bars to watch baseball if they are not interested.

Husband learned this when went to his best friend's bachelor party when the US played Ghana in the World Cup. He was better off not watching that game, as no amount of "Run you sucker, run!" or "Eat it!  Eat him!" helped the unlucky US team.  Yes, "Eat him!" is my new epithet. It doesn't work as well as my mother's, and Husband generally looks at me like I'm crazy and tells me to be quiet, and this is why our neighbors play loud music.

Here are some unrelated facts: I like the Dutch soccer team. They wear orange. I liked the 49ers as a child. They play in San Francisco. I think I am destined to be a Giants fan for the simple reason that they play in San Francisco and they wear orange. And they are a former New York team, and I do live in that state.

But if they lose on Saturday, it very well be my fault. I'm sorry, San Francisco.

the one about "to be"

The verb "to be" terrifies me.

I try to use it as little as possible. And will avoid it at all costs in this post, unless talking directly about it.

When I worked for a literary agent, he informed me that all uses of the verb "to be" constituted passive voice. He recommended I read The Elements of Style. (Yes, co-authored by E.B. White of Charlotte's Web and everyone's childhood.) I did, because I planned to become the Next Great American Author. It influenced my future writing quite heavily.

Turned out I depended heavily on the verb "to be" and needed to eliminate it from my writing, both scholarly and creative.

To this day it strikes fear in my heart. It does make writing sound boring, germane, and uninspired. Undereducated, perhaps. I worked hard to avoid it, and my already-decent grades remained that way. But sometimes I cannot avoid it. Sometimes avoiding it sounds ridiculous, or unclear. Simple sentences, such as, "Her shirt is green," substituted with "Her shirt appeared green," falter with unnecessary weight.

Last weekend I wrote a paper that didn't want to come out at all. I find it harder to avoid "to be" when in a writing rut. I depend on it. Or everything just sounds awful anyway, so I might as well use the "to be" crutch.

Husband and I proofread each other's papers prior to handing them in. He gives me concrete comments about developing points and including the information I discovered near the conclusion in earlier portions of the paper. He helps me out. Last winter, he had to submit a paper for which the professor would dock one third of a letter grade for each use of the verb "to be." Husband depends on the verb "to be" quite heavily, and had written a biographical sketch of an important figure in his field.  "To be" figures predominantly in those. Rearranging sentences to avoid that verb nearly propelled him into baldness. Thankfully my masterful verb skills prolonged his time with a full head of hair, but not without some strife.

His professor suggested he submit the paper for publication.

The story has a moral: The cranial exercise of avoiding "to be" strengthens your brain and your writing muscles, kids. You'll sound smart, too.  Verbs are neat.