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Archive for the ‘I want!’ Category

Tuesdays, in my opinion, are worse than Mondays.  I’m usually imbued with a sense of optimism on Mondays, a sense of “let’s totally kick this weeks ASS!  I’m gonna get so much stuff DONE!”

That lasts until about Monday night, when I am dead tired and I have to take pictures of stupid furniture and post them on Craigslist and argue with H about prices…(can you guess what I did last night?).  But it wasn’t just last night.  It’s Monday nights as a whole.  The whole burden of an entire week to go before the weekend hits me, and I am not a happy camper.

Which explains my stance on Tuesdays.  Tuesdays: the bleakest days of the week.  Unless you attend St. Lawrence University, where Tuesdays are the magical “Senior Blues” night at the local bar, night of $1 Labatts (we were close to Canada, okay?).  Suffice it to say Tuesday nights are awesome for Larries.  And hazy.

Sadly, I’m not at St. Lawrence anymore, and I definitely don’t go out boozing heavily on Tuesday nights.  I wish, on both accounts.

Instead, I will most likely spend my Tuesday night watching this on repeat as I irately shove kitchenware into cardboard boxes.  Welcome to post-collegiate life.  Word to the wise: never graduate. Cause they sure as hell don’t sell beer for a dollar in New York City.

 

Edit:  This vid was brought to my attention by my littlest sister.  Props, C.  Better now?

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Not so breaking news in the world of BOR: we are moving!

Yes, the time has come to break free of our 1st floor duplex and move on up.  I am exceedingly happy about this development for a few reasons.

1. Our new apartment is on the 5th (count it, 5th) floor.  That means that I will no longer stay up at night convincing myself that the noise I just heard was clearly someone breaking open our window to climb in and murder me.

2. In the same vein as #1, we will no longer have a 2nd floor to worry about.  The downstairs was great for guests (especially those of the extended variety…) but now that it’s empty it is simply another thing for me to lay awake and listen to.

3.  There is a dishwasher.   I weep with joy.

4.  The kitchen!  THE KITCHEN IN THIS PLACE.  It is. To die. For.   It’s all sleek and fancy and stainless steel appliance-filled.  It has a REAL sized fridge.  No more cubby-hole for me!  No more singular drawer! No more negative counter space!  If you think I’m impressive in the kitchen now, just you wait until I have enough space to really get going.

5. Due to the smaller size, we have to do some major purging.  I, for one, take great pleasure in throwing things in garbage bags and donating it all to charity.  H, no so much.  He’s a borderline hoarder.  I am steeling myself against the brawls that this move is going to create between us (“no, H, you don’t need your old golf bag/smelly cleats/sweater that does not fit/holey underpants”).  But really, he’ll have to see the light.  There simply isn’t enough room.

With that being said, I have spent the last 2 weeks all-out obsessing over how we are going to decorate our new home, what kind of new fancy things we can put in it, and how I can convince our landlords that painting the walls grey will up the re-sale value.  Yes, I am excited to get rid of all our old stuff and break free of the shackles of consumerism and materialism and all that jazz.  But more importantly, I am ready to do it all over again, from scratch, except in a way more sophisticated and interior-designy manner.

I never said I was sane.  Deal.

But what could you possibly be obsessing about, you crazy old bat? You might be asking yourselves.  Well, as an example:  yesterday afternoon I spent a solid 2 hours researching flat screen TV wall-mounts and shelves, but only the kind that hide away the cables from probing eyes.  Dangling, twisted wires annoy me.  Add that to the pet peeve list.

That probably isn’t even a good example, because a wall-mount for our yet-to-be-purchased flat screen is something we really do need.  It’s practical.  But my obsessing doesn’t stop at necessities, oh no.  No no no.

See, I go to other people’s apartments, and I am always flabbergasted at how freaking cute and well decorated everything is.  And instead of saying to myself okay brain, see that couch? You should get something like that. I’ll fixate on some tiny detail and that is all I’ll take away from my visit.  Self, do you see those incredibly ADORABLE giant upholstered letters sitting on her shelf?  THEY ARE HER INITIALS.  And OMGSPARKLYBOOKENDS!! MUST. COPY.

Clearly my decorating priorities are in the right place.  Clearly.

It also doesn’t help that every design website I visit (and that is a lot these days, trust me) has an insanely awesome thing that I must buy immediately.  Never mind that we aren’t moving until November and we need to get some basics (i.e a couch, a tv).  I want some whimsy, damn it.

Example A:

Completely Necessary

Just what the hell is that, you might inquire?  That, my friends, is a glass candle holder type thing that you tie to some twine/fishing-wire/what have you and hang from the ceiling.  I mean come on…what else could it be?

So I find these gems yesterday and immediately email H about it (because I am that kind of girlfriend) extolling how romantic and awesome looking a bunch of these would look hanging down from our soon-to-be-ceiling.  And how does my beloved respond?

“Uh, those look like major fire hazards.”

No imagination.  No vision.  How am I supposed to create a space with this galoot crushing my dreams of dangly glass candle-holders?!

You think I’m over-exaggerating, don’t you?  I can tell from here, you think I am.  Well non-believer, here are a couple more snazzy items  and images that I’ve bookmarked in my constant search for new apartment glory.  You call them crazy, I call them inspirational:

This is wallpaper. WALLPAPER.

This is a wall tile. I would like a whole wall of them.

I would sit down and never get back up.

It's impossible to be sad when you look at this guy.

Lantern!

LOVE LETTERS. On a CURTAIN. Sigh!

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Today seems like a good day for some cute.  It’s rainy and muggy and just uncomfortable outside.  I’m wearing a dress that makes me look semi-preggers.  My deli sandwich for lunch was disappointing (I have very high deli sandwich standards).  I need some cute.

So to that end I give you Charlie the meerkat. I don’t watch that weird meerkat show on the Discovery Channel or whatever it is, so I don’t really know a lot about them.  But I DO know that 1. Charlie is small 2. HIS NAME IS CHARLIE and 3. he was rejected by his family because he was the runt.  WHICH IS SAD.

Runts really touch my heart.  The best dog my family ever had (Casey, RIP) was the ‘runt’ of his fancy pants purebred litter, and it was that precipitous fact that landed him in our home.  Destiny.  Also, sometimes I like to think I myself am the runt of the family.  Because I’m very delicate, you see.  VERY DELICATE.

Also, the cuteness of this video is increased  x 50 because the people in it have British accents.  And Charlie + British accents = sqeeeeeeep.

It’s probably safe to add Meerkats to the list of pets I want.  Also, doesn’t it look like working at a zoo is the FUNNEST JOB EVER?

I’m in the wrong industry.

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Obsessed

You know that weird skinny-person theory that goes on and on about food being fuel ONLY, and how you should “eat to live”?  Well.  I don’t exactly eat to live.  Actually, I live to eat.  Yup, I am obsessed with food.

I’m not sure how this happened exactly.  It’s kind of weird because for as long as I can remember I’ve been an extremely picky eater.  So it was hard to be obsessed with food if I disliked 99% of it.  The pickiness is not completely gone these days, but it’s certainly much better than it was.  And it certainly hasn’t hampered this growing fixation.

A few other things that happened lately probably also contribute: A. I finally have my own kitchen and can stock my own cabinets and fridge B. I suddenly discovered I didn’t actually suck as a cook. C. Said kitchen was located in what is arguably the culinary capital of the USA, if not the WORLD.  Even the universe maybe.

So the food hurricane is blowing like crazy.  And last weekend was basically the eye of the storm.  Because of two little words: BBQ.  FESTIVAL.

That’s right.  Hello, Madison Square Park.  Hello, 18 of the top “pitmasters” generously bringing their specialties for me to munch on.  Hello, delicious delicious BBQ goodness.

People who know me will be shocked that I am raving about BBQ because I was that girl pretty much flat out refused to eat red meat until a couple of years ago.  I had never eaten a fast food hamburger until I was maybe 22 years old.  Not kidding.  Thankfully I’ve grown and matured and can now enjoy things like pulled pork sandwiches, brisket, and ribs.  Hallelujah.

my tum is grumbling already

We got there pretty early because if there is one thing I am NOT obsessed with it is standing in stupidly long lines.  So by the time 1:30pm rolled around, as the crowds of BBQ deprived NYC-ers flooded in, H and I were already slowing sinking into a wonderful meat coma.

NOM

But I haven’t gotten to the best part yet.  Oh no.  As you can imagine, events like this draw a unique crowd of people.  Fun loving, hungry, a little bit wacky.  The food was good and stuff but what really put the icing on the cake was this:

Look Closely

No, not the guy’s heinous choice of pseudo-Hawaiian shirt (perfect for a BBQ on a Saturday, though.  Bet you thought about that one for a while, buddy).  Look beyond the ugly shirt (if you can).  Look to the left of the ugly shirt.  What do you see?

If your answer is “I see a woman pole dancing on a pole mounted on the back of a adult-sized tricycle, Mary” DING DING!  You are correct!  Because what would any BBQ Festival be without a mobile stripper showcasing her talent?

I chased this dynamic duo down the street, obviously.  Here’s another one:

Stripper Trike!

I mean, to the stripper’s credit, she was talented.  Pole dancing is not easy, you guys.

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Babies

There are a few things that I really, really, really love in life.  Chocolate & peanut butter, sushi, noodles, party dresses, sleeping…and most pertinent to this post: BABIES.

I really love babies.  I like watching them do funny things on YouTube (type in ‘funny baby’ and you’ll be occupied for 165 hours, at least).  I like it when they try to sell me stuff on the TV (especially those E-Trade toddlers), and when I see them on the subway/on the street/in a restaurant/really, anywhere, I will blatantly stare at them and make faces until I garner some kind of reaction. I love them.  I really do.

So when I saw a trailer for the documentary “Babies.I knew I had to see it.  Someone described it as “March of the Penguins, except with babies.”  Considering I had cried like a (appropriate!) baby at that movie, I was sold.

It’s a pretty basic concept.  A film crew followed 4 babies from vastly different environments (San Francisco, Mongolia, Tokyo, and Namibia) during their first year of life. There is little talking, but LOTS of fun baby noises.  Also featured: exceeding cute facial expressions, fat chipmunk cheeks, and drunken-sailor walking attempts.

Now lest I start a rumor within my own gossip-friendly family, there is a very specific difference between loving babies and wanting to have a baby.  I DO NOT want to have a baby.  God no, not now.  When I do, you can bet I’ll be pumped to the gills with any and all drugs I can weasel out of the attending docs.

I think my baby-affinity stems from being presented with those drooly little life-forms at very young age.  My hey-day at being the ‘baby of the family’ lasted an extremely brief 3 years.   Throughout my formative years it was always “take care of your brother!” “brush your sisters hair!” “hold their hand when crossing the street!” “stop hitting them! Go play in traffic! (just kidding on that last one, mom)”

I mean, there were 5 of us.  So God forgive my mother for pawning some care-taking off on us older ones.  It made us better people, I think, even when the end result was occasionally stitches, concussions, and hospital visits.

So anyway, back to the movie.  Not only was it squeal-inducing cuteness overload, but it was interesting.  You don’t realize how much babies actually see/understand until you really leave them alone and watch them just do their thing.  The movie also ended up being pretty eye-opening in terms of how different cultures raise their children.  To no one’s surprise, the USA-born Hattie (hello, hipster name) seems to have parents who were determined to have her read by age 2 and grow her own organic veggies by 4.  Meanwhile, in Mongolia, little Bayar’s mom thought it was totally cool to leave him to wander around the yurt or whatever it’s called and defend himself against cows, goats, chickens, cats, and a big brother whose sole joy in life seemed to be making him cry.  My friends and I kept asking why this little guy was alone so much.  He was so happy, though, even when he was getting semi-trampled by baby cows.  Here he is saying his first words.

Sigh.  I could literally watch this movie on a never-ending loop for the rest of my life.  OKAY FINE, here’s another adorable clip:

That adorable little muffin was another poster-child for the ‘leave your children the hell alone’ camp.  She liked to eat dirt.  Not exaggerating.

So if this movie is playing in your general vicinity I would say RUN, don’t walk, to go see it.  And then buy it on DVD.  And then send it to me as a gift so I can watch it whenever I am feeling sad or baby-deprived.  Thank you in advance.

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It’s been a week since I last posted, and I’m sorry.  When I started this little project my goal was to post twice a week, or more if there was something very post-able going on.  I had no delusions of grandeur…I would NOT be the sort of blogger who posts every day (that would be my hetero life partner, go read her blog at Just Slightly Neurotic).

But things happen.  I host amazing BBQ’s and have a busy social life and I’m sorry, but I can’t hold your hand and give you something witty and interesting to read EVERY DAY.

So in case you haven’t gotten it yet, this post isn’t about anything at all. I don’t have any snarky insights and I don’t want to comment on any current events.

All I want to do is show you guys the baby sloths.  The orphaned baby sloths.  Accompanied by jaunty music (you don’t need sound to watch this but OH does it make the video).

Did you watch it?  No? WATCH IT.  And then try to tell me that you don’t want a baby sloth as a pet and that these things aren’t the cutest weirdest things ever.  They are like muppets.  Except alive.  And those weird claw-hand things?!  You had me at hello, baby sloths.

That’s all I have for you today.  Baby sloths.  WHO ARE ORPHANED.

Where did I find this, you might ask?  Am I sitting at work googling “baby sloth orphanages” just for shits and giggles?

Well no, I’m not.  The thing is, I have developed a rare combination of Adult ADHD and Super-Terrible Procrastination disorder (it’s a real thing, I think I contracted it from my sister, the Procrastination Queen).  Pair that with a slow season in the ole academic publishing industry (read: June to August) and you’ve got so-cute-you-can’t-breath baby sloth videos. Oh, and online shopping.  LOTS of online shopping.

Just to make it up to you vultures I’ll even post later on this week, but be forewarned: it’s going to be a food post.  There are a few chicken breasts marinading in buttermilk in my fridge as we speak.  Beware.

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A lot of things changed when I started my big-girl office job.  My dancey-gymy-college-studenty body went adiós (thanks, 8 hrs in a desk chair!), my eyes got progressively worse from staring at a computer screen and/or tiny typed text for extended periods of time, I started brushing my hair on a regular basis (see, not all the changes were bad), and my once hours-long lunch breaks turned into me scarfing food while hunched over my desk in 30 mins flat.

But I realized recently that the biggest change had to do with the weather.  Or, the lack thereof.

Let me paint a picture for you.  Every morning as I am getting ready, my shades stay tightly draw.  My apartment is cave-like and cool.  Also, I am afraid of weirdo neighbors judging my AM routine (so what if I become entranced by Sam Champion & Robin Roberts’ witty banter on Good Morning America!) and my non-morning-person eyeballs just can’t handle outside light at the ungodly hour of 8AM. By the time I actually get outside I am sprinting to the subway because I’m late, and I am too absorbed with composing the perfect commute play list to notice anything occurring around me.  All in all, my daily time spent out-of-doors is roughly 20 minutes.  All 20 of which I am thinking of everything BUT the fact that I’m outside and oh its quite nice out!  Or, whew its breezy today!  Or shoot it’s rainy!

Anyway.  20 minutes.  Maybe less. The rest of my day takes place in a perfectly nice office where I spent all day, every day, basking (or shivering) in florescent lighting and arctic air-conditioning.

It’s one of those things that you don’t notice until it’s gone, and even when it IS gone you spend some time wondering what exactly is missing.  Something feels off….OH!  That’s it! I no longer experience sunlight unless it is filtered through my quadruple-paned tinted office windows!

I’m not even the greatest fan of weather, as it falls under the category of “Nature”, which we all know is not my cup of tea.  But suddenly I find myself inappropriately excited to spend time outdoors on the weekends just to get my fill of sunshine and clouds and stuff.  Especially now that it’s getting nice out.  It’s sad when a nice breeze and a few rays of sunlight become “special.”  Shouldn’t those be part of basic human rights?!  Life, liberty, and the pursuit of blue sky (and even the occasional sun-shower)!

It also doesn’t help that I live in a city where the sky is a pretty scarce sight.  When I look up I see buildings, not clouds.  Sometimes when I’m outside in Manhattan it doesn’t even feel like I’m outside.  It’s really quite sad.  I’m turning into a weird mole-person.  Help me.

My weather-less lifestyle also does not help me having a skewed sense of temperature.  I’ve always been one of those people who is always cold.  But now it’s a zillion times worse.  I am either irrationally freezing or unable to cool myself off, with my hands and feet feeling like they are on fire.  As we speak it’s 78 degrees outside and I’ve got my personal space heater (yes, I have one) at full blast.  I’m wearing a sweater.  At 6pm when I get up to leave I will step outside and the humidity will hit me like a brick wall and I will be instantly overheated.  And then I will get on the subway and freeze again because there is a frigid blast of icy cold air blowing on my sweaty body.  It’s a terrible, vicious cycle.

Dear Sunshine and other weather-related stuff,

Sorry I took you for granted.  Can we please devise an outdoor-style office that becomes the norm for the publishing industry in NYC?  I’ll even wear sunscreen, I swear!  I miss you!

Love,

me

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