How to make kale chips

My goal for this week was to learn how to eat kale.

I know how to put kale in my mouth and chew it, but I've always found it really unappealing. It's so...leafy and bland and chewy. But I also know that kale is a "superfood" and good for me, so I wanted to try to find a way to make it palatable.

Enter kale chips.

As it turns out? Kale chips are awesome. And baking them doesn't nullify the healthy aspects of kale! (Unfortunately, dipping carrots in ranch nullifies carrots.) So I'm going to teach you how to make kale chips yourself, so that we can all enjoy some superfoods.

1. Buy a giant bunch of kale. I don't know why, but it's always sold in giant bunches.

2. Wash the kale and then dry it a lot. Or, if you have to go to work, leave it to dry in your collander and hope no animals eat it while you're gone.

3. When it's all dry, tear it up into little pieces. Make them bitesize.

4. Spread the pieces out on a baking sheet, and set your oven to 375.

5. Now comes the most important part: drizzle oil on the leaf-bites. Olive oil is preferable, but perhaps you only have canola oil on hand, like myself. It will still work.

And then salt it! Again, kosher salt is awesome but straight up Morton's table salt will do.

6. Now bake it for about 10 minutes. Check on it to make sure it doesn't get TOO brown, but let it brown a little around the edges.

These are possibly a little too brown.

7. Now you can share them with your vegan co-workers! Everybody likes kale chips.

And if you have some left over, your furry black vacuum cleaner will eat them.

The new List

My best friend Jessica and I like to make lists.

Once we made a list of the 25 things we want in a man. That was a few years ago, and enough things have changed that I decided to make a new list. And... here it is.

Qualities I'm looking for in a male partner: 1. Very, very intelligent. 2. Self driven. 3. Self aware. 4. Well-educated. 5. Has his own life and is willing to let me have mine. 6. Comfortable at a field party AND a cocktail party. 7. Well muscled back and/or pretty shoulders. (this one isn't vital or anything. Just nice.) 8. Allows for my eccentricities. 9. Wants to have a small farm. With horses and sheep and chickens and a veggie garden. 10. Gets along with my family. 11. Has a future. (a career, a plan, something he's actively working on) 12, Cuddles while sleeping. 13. Loves Phineas. (I'll settle for tolerates Phineas.) 14. Gets along well with my friend group and includes me in his. 15. Athletic/outdoorsy. (Can build a fire, likes fishing, likes camping, etc.) 16. Has excellent style or lets me pick out his clothes. 17. Is a good driver and: a. Prefers to drive me around b. But occasionally lets me drive 18. Sexually attentive/open 19. Wants to/is able to have sex at least twice a day 20. Doesn't try to talk to me during Lost. 21. Doesn't mind bland food. 22. Enjoys taste-testing my cupcakes. 23. Likes to take on projects. 24. Takes care of me in little ways, like fixing things and killing spiders.

We're always accepting applications.

How to make cake balls

Full disclosure: this recipe comes from The Pioneer Woman.


So you want to make cake balls. This is a big time in your life, and full of change. I've created a special guide to help you along.

First, make an apron with Toto's face on it. Then put it on.



Second, make a cake. I was feeling pretty lazy and the recipe said it was ok, so I used a box. Specifically, I used Betty Crocker's new gluten-free cake mix. God bless those Better Crocker people for making really good and readily accessable mixes for lazy Celiacs.



Third, cut a hole in the box.

No, wait, that's a different project.

Third, crumble up the cake using your fingers until you get tired of that and go get a pastry cutter.



Fourth, get that blackberry-creamcheese icing out of your fridge that you have left over from when you made cupcakes for your statistics class. Dump that random amount of icing in there and mix it all up with the pastry cutter, your new best friend.



Fifth, roll it up into balls. This part is really tedious. You should probably get someone who's a perfectionist to come over and do it for you. Seriously, this part is boring. The recipe makes millions of tiny little balls and they'd probably be cuter if they were all the same shape and size.



Sixth, use your engineering degree to make a structure that allows two trays of balls to be in the freezer at the same time. You want them to be really firm so that they don't fall apart during the next step. While they're doing that, get yourself caught up on Lost theories or watch Millionaire Matchmaker. You have some time to kill.



Seventh, melt the chocolate you got at Micheal's in the beautiful double boiler you inherited from your mom. You can cut it with a little shortening to make it even easier to spread. But remember: sell it like it's totally pure.



Eight is the tricky part. You have to get the balls evenly coated in chocolate without them falling apart and then get them to emerge from the chocolate while still looking reasonable. I used a spatula, a knife, a fork, cursing, and gravity. It's important to keep a terrier in your kitchen to lick up all the spilled and dripped chocolate, as well.

Eventually your balls will look like so:



I made white ones, red ones, and white ones drizzled in red. Cause I'm fancy.

Now here's the real secret to making beautiful cake balls: destroy any evidence of funny-looking ones. This can be tricky, but I'm sure you and your quality control guy will find a way.



Happy Cake Balling.

The exploding of the organs, part the second.

So the healing began.

As I mentioned previously, getting out of the bed was a complicated procedure. But they made me do it to take walks every day. Part of the walking was to get me up and moving, so that I didn't get bedsores or something, but part of it was to get my bowels working. Because they wouldn't let me leave until I pooped. And let me tell you - discussing your bowel movements with every person who comes in the room is really embarrassing. At first. You get used to it. Discussing them with your mom is also weird, even though she was around for the first ones you ever had.

All the walking was done in the triangular hallway. The first time, I made one lap and I was so exhausted I had to take a two hour nap. But gradually I built up my tolerance until I could go around for as many as five laps before I needed to rest. (I'm told twenty-one laps makes a mile.) I was shocked that I got tired so easily - whose body gets tired that easily? As I recover, I continue to be shocked by this. I'm used to running in the park and hustling past people on the sidewalk, and suddenly I'm tired out by a length of stairs?

But anyway. The best part about walking was the other walkers. We were all shuffling down the hallways in slow motion like zombies, with our IV poles clutched in one hand and our identical hospital gowns flowing around us. But being in the same situation built this weird instant comradery. We understood what the others were going through. We compared notes on how many laps we'd done, how much the NG (nose to stomach) tubes sucked, how fast or slow we were, when we were leaving. Once I was commiserating with this woman about NG tubes, and she said "well, at least I don't have cancer anymore!" and I was floored. Another time I opened my mouth to talk to a new guy, but his IV promptly burst out of his hand and he started bleeding everywhere. We were some unhealthy people.

The thing I wanted most, besides water, was to have my NG tube out. I wasn't allowed any food or water at this point, only ice chips - and then they took my ice chips away. It seems I was abusing them by eating too much, which meant they couldn't tell how much my tube was sucking out because it was busy sucking out water from the ice chips. So they forbade the ice chips and gave me - wait for it - A SPONGE ON A STICK. Yes. According to Katie, it was at this point that I was truly pathetic. I had a little sponge on a stick, a tiny bit of water in a cup, and that was all. (I kept a few of them, when I left. If anybody wants one, let me know. They really convey a sense of tragedy and pathos) But it worked, and finally a woman came and pulled the thing out. Pulling it out hurt almost as much as shoving it in, but it was worth it. Because they gave me an entire cup of water after that!



At this point, all I had was one IV, and a tube in my stomach! I was practically free. They even let me take a shower at this point - my first in a week. I had to keep one hand out of the water and have help with shampooing and soaping and all, but it was glorious none the less. I had grown a pretty impressive forest of leg and under-arm hair at this point, too.

And then they started giving me hospital food. I can usually tell when I'm actually sick because I'm not interested in food (very unusual for me) but I don't think anyone would have been interested in this food. Besides that, they kept sending me glutenous food. I'm totally tolerant when people unknowingly or accidentally try to give me food with gluten in it in normal life - it's my own problem to worry about, not theirs. But registered dieticians who have my chart which lists my gluten allergy on it? C'mon. So I ate the off-brand Jello and drank the juice and could not be persuaded to do more.

Let's fast forward a few days.

They finally decided to discharge me. They loaded up me, my flowers, and my stuffed animal in a giant wheel chair and rolled me through the hospital that I had never seen clearly before and all the way out to my dad's car. The drive home was bumpy and painful, but when we got there Jessica was there to meet us. I figured that Katie and my mom had done enough nursing to last them a while, so I called my favorite future doctor and got her to come stay with me for a few days.

We made the couch my new hospital bed, and for the next few days Jessica fed me smoothies, timed my pill doses, bandaged my wounds, and took care of my dog. She went with me to get the tube taken out of my stomach (surprisingly unpainful!) and told me it was probably unethical to ask out the doctor who removed it. When I was ready to go back to class, she drove me there and picked me up, so that I wouldn't have to walk too much. She was really wonderful and patient.

But eventually she went home. And I was left alone. And for the past couple of weeks I've been recovering slowly. I've been cutting down on pain pills, adding blocks to my walk, feeding myself, and getting back to my normal life. I've had a lot of support from everyone in my life, and I'm really grateful to you all. All the sweet notes on facebook, the cards, the rides home from school, etc. have really meant a lot to me. It's nice to know that when your organs explode, your friends are there for you.

In which my internal organs explode

I think it's time to recap my latest adventure. I've been putting it off, but now seems to be as good a time as any.

My stomach started hurting on a Friday night. I'd had these kinds of pains before, and they usually resulted in me being in horrible pain for a couple of days and then it would pass. Sometimes the pain would get so bad that I would vomit, but usually staying completely still made it better. I even had pills to ease the pain, from the last time it happened.

I spent all of Saturday writhing and throwing up. My mom called and could tell I wasn't well and she made me call Katie. I told Katie that I couldn't get out of bed and needed her to come over and walk Phineas and bring me Sprite so that I would have something to actually throw up. When she came over, I think I scared her a little. I didn't know it until later, but she called my mother and they debated taking me to the hospital. Since I had had previous episodes like this, they decided not to.

Sunday was spent the same way as Saturday. In fact, the two blended together in my mind and I didn't know they were two separate days. Katie stayed on my couch and tried to convince me to eat things and drink things, but I wasn't having it. I was only interested in holding completely still and trying to use a heating pad.

By Monday I felt better. Not getting out of bed or eating better, but less like my insides were being ripped apart. I finally felt like getting out of the bed wouldn't kill me, but I knew that wasn't exactly a sign of wellness. Katie and I decided it was time to go to a walk-in clinic. She had to help me get dressed, which was a really odd experience. I don't know if you've ever had some one put on your underwear for you, but it's certainly humbling. We also cleverly re-registered me for my school's mandatory insurance mere moments before leaving for the clinic.

The drive over there was horrible and being in the clinic even worse. Katie quickly made them give us a room because I was only comfortable when laying on my side in the fetal position, and that's hard to do in your standard waiting room chair. The doctor came in and palpatated my abdomen, which was hellish, and then literally thumped on it, which was worse. I don't think I've ever begged someone to stop gently touching me before, but I couldn't take the thumping. They somehow decided I had a distended belly (shocker) and should treat it with more of the same medicine I had and Gas-X. Seriously. But Katie and I left there thinking those two things would work. She filled my prescriptions, I took them, and we hoped for the best.

That didn't work.

I waited until I thought Katie might be awake Tuesday morning to call her and tell her we needed to go to the hospital. Luckily she wakes up early. I think we made it there by 8:30am. Which, by the way, is the time you should go to the ER, if that should ever come up. You'll get treated much faster, because there's no one else there. We went to Emory because I had heard that if you wake up in an ambulance on the way to Grady, you should just go ahead and die, since they're going to kill you by the time you get there anyway.

At Emory they put me in a room and proceeded to thump on my stomach some more. They also took away my water, which was upsetting at the time, even though I didn't know then that they would not give me any more water for almost a week. The most horrible male nurse ever earned the endearing nickname "Stabby McGaugey" when he dug around in my hands for a vein for about an hour before decided on a spot that was good enough for an IV. Katie had called my parents sometime that morning and told them it was time to come meet us at the hospital, but she stayed with me in that horrible room for hours, trying to distract me while medical professionals prodded and poked.

Eventually someone decided I should have a CAT scan, so they brought me blue Powerade with bitter chemicals in it. At the time I was happy to have something to drink, but so help me god, I will never drink blue Powerade again in my life. They took me to the scan, I held really still for a while, and then they took me back to the ER.

This is where it starts to get fuzzy.

When I got back, my parents were there and Katie was gone. My stomach still ached terribly and I was exhausted, and nothing made any sense. At some point I started vomiting again - uncontrollably. Over the side of the bed, in my own lap, into a barf bag, on a nurse, whatever. They didn't like this, and decided the solution was to stick a giant tube DOWN MY NOSE and into my stomach. One nurse held my hand (bless her) while another shoved the tube where no tube should go and told me to swallow. Luckily I didn't know at the time (more foreshadowing!) that the tube wouldn't come out until Saturday.

The tube didn't stop me from vomiting. They couldn't figure out why, so they rolled me around in the halls while I sat up in the bed and threw up, they x-rayed me while I threw up, and eventually they put me in a new room of my own. It was then that a new doctor came in and announced "Hi, I'm Doctor Douglas Anderson". "No fucking way", I thought. But was really distracted with yelling at him that the tube didn't work, vomiting some more, and begging for water.

Douglas Anderson, you see, is the kid I sat behind in virtually every class from middle school through high school. And I knew he'd gone to med school, but I didn't know he was in Atlanta and I certainly didn't recognize him since I was a greasy little animal possessed with sickness. And I didn't have my glasses on.

Doug looked at my x-rays and figured out that there was FIVE INCHES of coiled tube in the bottom of my stomach, which was causing it to stick to my stomach lining, which was causing me to try to throw it up. So they fixed that.

And then doctors started coming in to tell me that they didn't know what was wrong with me. I think this started that night...it could have been the next day. I don't really know. Time is hard to gauge in a hospital because everything is on an endless loop. And that's assuming you're well enough to have some concept of time. I kept fading in and out of consciousness, waking up only to find someone injecting me with something or using needles to get something out me. They love needles around there. But anyway, they weren't sure what it was - gall bladder, intestinal something, Crone's, etc. The doctors kept calling in other doctors until they finally called in the highest level person they could find.

And he couldn't tell either. But he wanted to go in laproscopically and poke around a little. You know. See what's in there. He said if it was my appendix, he would just take it out, and if it was something else then I'd have a bigger surgery later in which they'd remove all kinds of organs.

So early Thursday morning they rolled me off, nose tube still in place. I should mention at this point that my mom had been sleeping in the fold-out chair in my room, and that they had refused to give me anything but ice chips for two days. I don't remember anything from that morning except that the anesthesiologist put in an IV like a champ, no hurting at all. I told her to give the other guy lessons. She suggested that men aren't as good at IVs as women.

When I came to, I was back in my room. I had received flowers from Matt and Suzanne, and apparently I pointed to them a lot and repeatedly told my mom about them. I also had several new tubes: a catheter, which was gross, and a morphine button, which was awesome. It turned out they had found what was left of my appendix, because it had already ruptured and then spewed bile upon all the other organs around it, which is why they couldn't read my scans. I had four new incisions and an intense amount of pain.

The next few days are blurry. I couldn't sleep, in part because of the morphine (it gave me weird dreams) and in part because I was in a hospital. Someone came to check my vitals every 8 hours, someone else came to inject me with Heparin every 12 hours, someone took my blood every night at midnight, and those were just the regular visits. Every time they flushed out my IVs (I had one in each hand at this point) or added a new antibiotic it stung. Eventually they took out my catheter and one of my IVs. This meant I could go to the bathroom, but to do this I needed a nurse. They would crank up my bed, pull of my stockings, organize my tubes, and pull me into a sitting position. Then I would get a little extra morphine so that I could stand up and shuffle 6 ft. My nose tube had to be unhooked and my IV pole had to come with me. It was a big production.

I spent most of the time watching really really early morning news, which is boring, and reading magazines. And by reading I mean looking at pictures, because I had no memory recall. Katie and Nick came to visit and were impressed by my morphine button. My poor mom stayed by my side the whole time, fetching cold wash cloths or my phone or my glasses. My cousin Abby came and brought me the most fantastic lavender pillow, which I kept in my bed with the stuffed dog Katie gave me.

One amazing experience was the morning a complete stranger bathed me. This big black woman came in, helped me stand up, and then told me it was bath time. Before I really understood what was happening she undressed me and handed me a warm washcloth. I hadn't taken a bath in ages, and it felt wonderful to be slightly cleaner than before, but being naked in front of a complete stranger was bizarre. I hadn't seen my body in a mirror in a long time, and there I was with scars and bruises and tubes coming out of me. The nurse was so gentle and so sweet and the whole thing was really calming while also being really odd.

I'm tired of writing and I think this post is getting too long. Tune in for future installments about walking the hallways, getting my ice chips taken away, the return of Doug Anderson, and the removal of the nose tube.

Back to it

Lately I've been living my dog's life:

Wake up
Eat
Nap
Walkies
Nap
Eat
Sleep

And it's not a bad life - not at all. I got lots of rest, I stayed warm, and we got some good snuggling in. But my brain has been switched off, and I'm ready to turn it back on. It's not good for me, all this laying around. It's like so many other things: a little bit is fantastic, but too much makes me grumpy and sluggish.

So today it's back to work. I have my first statistics seminar today, and I'm already dreading it. I can tell from here that stats is going to kick my ass. Tomorrow, on the other hand, is the first day of the undergraduate sexuality seminar. I've been given my dream job this semester: teaching undergraduate sexuality. I won't be teaching the whole thing, really only about half of it, but I'm already giddy.

I would like to take this opportunity to give a shout-out to my new phone. It's a Droid, and I'm pretty sure it's actively making my life better. It's easily the smartest phone I've ever had. And since it has a full touch-screen keyboard, I can text like the wind. Although I do have to mention that I've had to teach it my name and all my favorite swear words. I guess they don't come standard.

A toast to glutens past

I was diagnosed with Celiac a few weeks ago.

This means I can never have gluten again.

Gluten is in many of my favorite things: macaroni and cheese, pasta alfredo, beer, raisin bran, crunchy oat flake cereal, Twix, pizza, etc.

Actually... I can have those things, I'll just have diarrhea all my life, never absorb nutrients, have unhealthy bones and blood, and eventually die of stomach cancer. But I won't die IMMEDIATELY. Indeed, if I take my grandfather's route, I won't die of stomach cancer until well after my 85th birthday!

But I'm going to try to be gluten-free anyway. From what I understand, it will cure my neuropathy (I get really crazy itchy after showers or salt scrubs or shaving), my anemia, and some of my attention span problems. Plus my stomach will be really happy with me.

I've started grocery shopping as a gluten-free person, and it's a giant pain in the ass. But great strides have been made in food production and I can get bread and pasta and cereal at my local grocery stores, which is way better than those before me had it. Really, I can survive just fine at home - aside from baking.

Yes, there's the real problem.

I bake when I'm stressed out, and also when I'm feeling good. I'm often one or the other. I've gotten a few gluten-free baking cook books - the best one is from Babycakes, a bakery in NYC. But they call for bizarre ingredients, some of which I haven't been able to find. (Potato starch? Seriously? Even the people at Whole Foods don't know what that is.) Most of the breads I've tried so far have been for shit - it's like eating a loaf of sand mixed with cardboard that crumbles if you look at it wrong - so I'm going to start baking my own, and testing recipes. I've found two good cupcake recipes so far, and I'm going to try a new one (with pumpkin!) in the next few days.

Tonight I tried out chicken and dumplings, because I was craving it hardcore. The dumplings were fine, if a bit dense, but the broth was all wrong. I suspect the issue was how long I cooked the chicken, which is to say, not long enough. Not enough simmering. I know you're all shocked that I tried to hurry something along. Tomorrow I'm going to try chicken noodle soup.

Anyway - the real issue is eating out, or at parties, or at weddings. Gluten is in pretty much everything, and people have no idea. Not that I blame them at all - I had no idea. But recently I was at Sonic, and I was horrified to find that the only thing left on the menu for me to eat is tater tots. And that's only because I'm not so sensitive that I can't eat things that were fried in oil that also fried battered things. (some people would be sick for days, just from that) So it's all large tater tots and cherry Limeaids for me. Not that that's a particularly bleak future.

I'll update more as I learn more. I'm still phasing gluten out of my diet and out of my pantry.

Velveeta Mac and Cheese, I've always loved you. And I'm going to miss you terribly.
Same goes for you, dark German beer.



P.S. - there are other things going on in my life, too. I'll think them over and update more soon.

Thinking about bed

Going to bed is one of my favorite parts of the day. Sometimes it's the best thing that happens all day.

My bed is very important to me, and very carefully designed around my preferences - and no one else's, because I'm very selfish. And also because no one else tends to be sleeping in the bed. More on that later. Here's a detailed description:

The bed itself was made by my greatgreatuncle, or some variation on that theme, in upstate New York. It's clearly handmade, and most of it was turned on a lathe. I had to drill new holes into it so that a modern mattress would fit it, because it was made before mattress standardization. On the bed frame sits a boxspring and a mattress, both full size. While I can appreciate a giant bed, I prefer full size beds - better for snuggling. More on that later. On top of the mattress is a down mattress pad. On top of that are usually jersey sheets, although I have a set of flannel for the winter time. I HATE flat sheets, as I find they lead to getting tangled up and frustrated, so I don't use them. Next comes my down duvet, which I'm thinking of replacing with a thicker one. (Not that I need a thick one, living in warm climates...it's just a puffy-ness issue) And finally - the pillows. I have a least three - two puffy and one flat. The flat one always has the blue pillowcase with the stars on it. There's also a body pillow against the wall, although I'm thinking of retiring it. Sometimes there's one of the quilts I've made on there, too.

And now, the pitiful parts.

When I was a freshman in college, a friend gave me a giant stuffed sheep (Sheepy), and I'm ashamed to say he's still in the bed. When I was a senior, I started having recurring nightmares about aligators (which I still have, sometimes), so my boyfriend at the time gave me a giant stuffed aligator, and now I can't sleep without it. Finally, there's usually a small black terrier sleeping on my toes, which is actually really handy, because they get cold.


The problem is this: even with all of this nonsense in my bed, I still like it best when there's another person. Preferably a warm boy. I don't know how the boys ever manage to fit in there, but I guess they find room somehow.

The real problem with being between relatioships is that suddenly there's no one else in my bed. (well that, and the lack of sex) This is why I sometimes consider hiring someone to sleep in my bed. I've had this conversation with many people, but I've never figured out how much I'd have to pay. Basically, I want a man to sleep in the bed, take care of scary noises, kill the occasional spider, and snuggle. That's about it. I'm not even talking about sex. (this is where most men tune out) There's a minor issue with the snuggling part, though: I've been told I'm a very aggressive snuggler. I'll snuggle somebody right to the edge of the bed if they don't stop me. I've actually snuggled men off the bed before. It's a problem.

And now you know more than you ever needed to know about my bed. It's late, so I guess I'll go get in it.

The move, continued

So then I had a week before classes started.

I was exhausted and grumpy and really grateful to be left alone.

I spent most of the week eating Lucky Charms, reading Harry Potter, and sleeping. (excellent alone time activities)

I figured out how to ride MARTA and where the closest stations were. Then, after much research, I found the closest bus to my house (4 blocks away) and how often it runs (once an hour, which sucks).

I found the campus, the sociology department, and the bookstore. I signed all the official documents to become an employee of the school.

And I hung out with Katie and Nick a lot.




Coming up soon: further adventures in ATL and the first two weeks of class.

(right now I have to go read for class tomorrow)

The ATL

I've been in Atlanta for a week and a half and haven't posted yet. I apologize to anyone who may have been waiting for an update. I didn't post because I STILL don't have internet.

Getting internet in my apartment has been the battle I never expected. Everyone wanted to set an install date two weeks away, or else had phantom bounced checks on my account (if my bank can't find it and I can't find it... it doesn't exist) or else their wireless couldn't function in my tiny half-underground apartment. My walls are two feet thick. I like that. Wireless networks do not. Tomorrow I should finally achieve internet, with the help of the slowest and most expensive provider around.

So anyway. Atlanta.

Two weeks ago the moving started. My dad brought a moving truck home and we loaded everything I had at my parents' house into it. This included a couch that looked like it was going to be physically impossible to move. That part made me nervous. The next day we drove to Knoxville to get even more stuff. First we went to the POD, where Jessica and her dad were already unloading. Jessica and I put our shit in the POD last July and haven't seen it since - opening it was kind of like Christmas. There were things in there that I had forgotten I owned.

And then it was time for the scary part.

In Knoxville, I'd been living in a loft in the very heart of downtown. The loft was up two sets of stairs, and my furniture was up another set of spiral stairs within the loft. Getting it in was bad enough - it took myself, three strong men, and a lot of swearing. Getting it back down was made much easier with the aid of two of my favorite boys from the Grotto: Pet Barback and Tony. Thank god for them. There were a few moments when I thought either my furniture or one of the boys was going to die, but it worked. After living here for a few days I remembered the stuff I left in Knoxville: a microwave, my nightlights (don't laugh), and a wireless router. D'oh.

My dad and I stayed in a hotel outside of Atlanta that night, and on Saturday it was time to move in. Moving in is always better than moving out.

My new apartment is a hole. Seriously - it's half underground and it's about 400 square feet. But I love it so much. It's in the greatest neighborhood and it's part of this really amazing building from the 1920's. It's small, but it's as much space as I need, and I knew my furniture would mostly fit. Plus, it's about all I could afford in this town. And I can barely afford it.

Cousin Zach, the DePalmas, my dad, and I unloaded the truck pretty quickly. (Cousin Jason showed up right when everything was unloaded...suspicious...) (and yet so clever) The couch was a major disastor all over again. Katie and I watched and tried to make thoughtful and supportive faces while her engineer husband helped make a plan for forcing it around corners. Then we all went to lunch at Mary Mac's, which was brilliant.

And that's about as much update as I feel like doing. We've gotten to moving in, and I'll update more later.

Look out, armadillos

I spent the last few days in a place called Dadeville that has two very important things in common with hell: there is no internet connection and there is no real coffee.

On the other hand, there are fried things. I ate a whole meal composed of fried okra, fried shrimp, fried crawfish, fried alligator, and sweet tea. In retrospect, I should have had the tea fried. Oh, and there are armadillos, which are pretty cute. But that's about all I can say for Dadeville.

I went with my parents because my grandfather was holding a golf tournament for his 85th birthday. The tournament only consisted of men from my extended family, but it was pretty hotly contested, from what I hear. The weekend was both good and bad. I hardly ever see members of my mother's family, so it was nice to see my cousins. I'm about to live near three of them for the first time, so it was good to reconnect with them.

On the other hand, there was my grandfather.

My mother's father has never particularly liked my siblings and I. Not only did none of us play football, we all inexplicably failed to go to Auburn. And then we didn't become conservative Republicans. And we aren't good Christians. So! Basically he has nothing to say to us. I mean, it's not like he's mean, he's just completely baffled by the lot of us and has never bothered to take an interest in anything we might be doing.

Lately he's taken on two hobbies that I found extra disturbing. The first one is making loud disparaging remarks about anyone who happens to be nearby (neighbors, servers, cash register attendants, family members, etc) and the other is killing small animals. He shoots any squirrels that try to eat from his birdfeeder and any armadillos that come into his yard. Actually, he doesn't get the armadillos much, because they come out and night and he doesn't like to stay up anymore. But his most recent wife (from whom he is separated) likes to shoot them from her deck, and he tried to get my dad to run over one that we saw on the road.

But none of this compared to the bizarre speech he made on the occassion of his birthday dinner. It was sort of a telling of his life story, but with interesting additions and omissions. Most of the speech focused on how much he loves football, his oldest son, and his deceased first wife. He spent a lot of time on how talented his oldest son is, made some half-assed remarks about his other son being technically proficient, and left out my mother entirely. Seriously. Never mentioned her. He also failed to mention his second wife but did include an imaginary relationship with a Broadway star. It was seriously weird. It made me wonder if some day I'll tell a heavily revised version of my own life story that includes embarassing details about other people.

So that was upsetting.

But I suppose there were some good parts of the weekend. I've always been afraid of babies, but my cousin Abby has two that seem pretty cool. I even took one of them in the pool, and not only did he not break, but he seemed downright tough. He's at a phase in his life where he enjoys hitting, throwing, and splashing - or is that a phase? Maybe he's just a boy and that's a life-long thing.

In other news:

Before I left, I spend a delightful evening with someone else's husband. Thanks for the loan, Val. (Why oh why isn't there another Kelly brother for me?)

Right now my parents are keeping the neighbors' dogs, which means we have a whole house full of terriers. I love it. Lots of chaos and barking and snuggling.

I made the mistake of looking at expensive handbags, and now I'm getting a little lustfull for a Coach Addison briefcase.

I'm approaching finishing my brother's wedding present.

Almost time to move!

In which Dorothy and Toto abscond to an island

I had a pretty big week.



I went on my first solo road trip.

I went on my first solo vacation.

I found and signed a lease on an apartment.

I mastered docking the boat all by myself.



Toto had a big week, too. He learned about riding on boats, jumping through marsh, rolling in the sand, how not to eat crabs that are still alive and pinching you, and that waves are dangerous. Here's a video of his new hobby:




So here's the long version of what I did all week: I drove to Atlanta Friday morning, looked at the apartments Friday afternoon, and signed a lease. I love my new apartment. It's in a brick building from the 1920's, and it's a tiny tiny hole. Seriously. I stayed with Katie and Nick, who were very sweet about showing me around. We went to little 5 Points and on a mini driving tour of downtown Atlanta. Plus our dogs got along really well. I'm looking forward to living right next to them.

On Saturday I drove to Charleston (specifically, to my uncle's island house which can only be reached by boat), and spent the 4th of July on an island, just like in the Band of Horses song. I climbed up on the roof of the gazebo with Phineas and I could see three different fireworks displays - it was amazing. And also kind of sensory-overload, because I could never decide where to look.

I spent several days by myself on the island, which I think is the farthest away I've ever been from other humans for an extended period of time. I really liked it. I did some fishing and some crabbing and some pointless cruising around in the boat. And then I got sick and spent some time sleeping and puking and sleeping and puking. But still! A nice place for it.

Then I drove home, stopping in Knoxville over night. I had a nice dinner with Mike, drinks with Kaitlin and company, and even got to stop by the Grotto. I really missed getting petted on by my pet barback. And any night spent laughing with Jamie and Palm is a good one.

I'm back home now, and I think I've finally washed all the sand off me. Time to get back to normal life.

A couple of pictures

Ok - I stole a couple of pictures from Ryan and from Anna.




Monica and the Irish boys - Adam and Karl, respectively.



Erika in her stunning dress and awesome hair.




Erika and Timmy at the altar, promising to love each other and stuff.



Jessica, me, and Kaitlin, watching proudly.



And my kickass dress and curly hair.

Wonderful Week

Hello loyal reader(s)

I've had a fucking fantastic week, and I'd like to tell you all about it.

On Monday morning I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table, eating a banana and doing something really idiotic like looking at lolcats, when I realized I had an email. I started reading it and gasped, which scared my parents, who were in the room because there is no privacy around here. The email said that they had awarded me a full graduate assistantship! With paid tuition, a stipend, health insurance, and rainbows and unicorns and guaranteed happiness. I believe they'll even provide a boyfriend. I still can't believe how wonderful this is. I was worried for a while that I had no future, but now I have the best possible future.

So I'll be moving to the ATL in August. I'm currently apartment hunting (with the help of the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. DePalma) and trying to figure out when to go see the apartments in person.

This means that for the month of July I'm remaining a giant free-loader and traveler. I don't know precisely what this month holds - I had planned on being in Charleston for a few weeks, but I need to go to Atlanta, too. And at the end of the month I'll be in Denver. So...yeah. If you need me, call me, I'll probably be in America.

So anyway. That was Monday morning, and on Monday night the Irish arrived. This whole week I got to host two handsome and charming Irish men, which was pretty much like having drunk pets. They weren't interested in making their own decisions or being any trouble, so no matter what I suggested, they were totally down. I kept trying to come up with hilarious southern things to do, which mostly involved eating. We had grits, fried chicken, chicken and dumplings, pecan pie, Mexican food, biscuits, and iced tea. We saw the General Lee, went to a Civil War site, canoed down the Harpeth, sat on porches and drank, had a cookout, and went to two different malls. It was, to borrow their term, fucking savage.

They were in town because Erika got married this weekend. They used to live in the same apartment in Galway, where Erika was studying abroad. Anyway. Erika had her ceremony in Bon Aqua, which was roughly an hour from everything. Seriously - no matter where you started, you had a journey ahead of you. But it was beautiful out there - especially after we finished decorating according to Erika's standards. She did virtually everything herself - the invitations, the place cards, the menus, our hair decorations, the place settings, the table decorations, the jewelry she gave us bridesmaids for presents, etc. - and it was all amazing. I can't even imagine how she did it.

The ceremony was beautiful, the reception was fun, and the afterparty was drunken. I'm pretty sure that's all you can ask from a wedding. Oh, and I got to spend some quality time with a very funny and charming man. Oh, and my dress was dead sexy and my hair was flapper-inspired. I'll try to remember to post pictures soon.


Everyone left town today, and I guess I'll go back to being lonely. I'll need a least a few days to recover from a long week of partying, but damn - what a good week.

And then camel camel just laid down

Last week my parents got tired of me moping around the house and decided to send me to Phoenix with to see my brother. Essentially my dad said "Hey, do you want to go to Phoenix and stay in a luxury resort?" and I said "Yeah, I'm not busy".

So here I am, at the Camelback Inn. Yesterday I spent the whole day at the pool, gazing up at the mountain and being waited on by incessantly cheerful and tan young men. They seemed so eager to do something that I took to asking them whatever I happened to be thinking about at the time - things like "where can I get some Fritos" (tragically: no where) and "how onion-heavy is the salsa, on a scale of one to ten". They seemed REALLY happy to find answers for me. Like house elfs. (I've been reading Harry Potter again). Today I'm going to meet my brother's fiance's parents and then we're going to work on a new recipe for homebrewing.

Arizona creeps me out. Everything that's not brown is a slightly lighter shade of brown. There's no trees, and no water. Phoenix is very flat, and then there are big jagged mountains encircling it, but the mountains don't have any trees or shrubs. I do, however, like the cacti. I really like them. I keep stopping to examine different ones and physically restraining myself from touching them. I can't believe there are so many kinds. In my mind, cacti only exist as joke props for Wiley Coyote to land on, so seeing them just casually hanging out next to the sidewalk, as if they were some sort of normal plant, is really surprising. I also like Camelback Mountain itself, because it also looks unnatural.




What you can see in this picture (taken from my porch) is his hump and the back of his head. For a long time I thought he had two humps and a big rock at the front was his head, but it turns out he's a dromedary camel and the hump on the right is his giant head. It's like he just laid down to take a nap and turned into stone. I like looking at the Camelback at random times during the day to see if it's changed. It's best at sunset because it turns all red.

So anyway. While I do enjoy the lap of luxury (seriously, they make the beds while you're not looking and then come back and turn them down and then come back and make them), I'll be glad to get back to trees and river and especially the baby Phineas. Walking in the front door and not being greeted is not as much fun.

Time to go check on the mountain and do some high-quality reading of crime novels. Until next time, loyal readers.

Moments of authenticity

Earlier today I was striding through the airport, dodging all the slow people and whizzing past the confused ones, and I thought about how much I love airports. And especially how much I love walking through airports in a purposeful manner while dragging my rolling suitcase and carrying my tote. It's even better if I'm talking on the phone at the same time.

And this got me thinking about moments of authenticity in my own life. I feel alive and happy and purposeful in airports, but there are other moments in which I feel that I am totally myself. Such as walking to class, with a cup of coffee in my hand and my favorite vintage Coach briefcase slung over my shoulder. Or bringing a horse back into the barn after riding while teasing Phineas with my whip. Or standing knee deep in a river. Or reading on the porch (any porch) with a cup of coffee.

And now I'm wondering about your moments of authenticity, dear readers. Or possibly reader, singular. I don't have a fancy tracker to know if anyone reads this besides people who talk to me about it later.

Hmm. Someone just called me from what seems to be Roanoke, VA, but then didn't talk. Was that you, Julie?

Also - when did they start planting crops in circles? While flying over some otherwise boring parts of the country today I noticed that instead of the normal squares and rectangles, there were lots of circles.

Also - how much do I wish I could stick my head out the window of an airplane? THIS MUCH. Because I bonk my forehead on the window every time while trying to get a better view of whatever I'm looking at on the ground.

In which Dorothy and Toto go on the lam

My facebook status says "Goodbye, Knoxville" because today I moved out.

I left my Market Square apartment, I quit my job, I said good bye to a few key people, and I skipped town. I left like a thief in the ... mid-morning. Which is pretty much the middle of the night to most people I know, anyway. If I'd tried to leave at midnight, I would have seen everyone I know on the way out.

I left for several reasons. I was going to go at the end of June anyway, because I was just waiting for Sundown (read as: the Sundown money) to be over. But work had gotten progressively more lame and non-profitable because no shows are being booked because the owner has given up on the place and run all the managers off. Last Friday I made $18. $18. On a Friday night. At a bar.

And then, last weekend, my dog bit someone. He's an asshole, he's always trying to bite people, but this time he actually managed to - which was entirely my fault and for which I feel incredibly guilty. The person he bit stated repeatedly that she didn't want to press charges, but just in case, I thought Phin better go into hiding. His location is currently undisclosed.

In addition to all that, I got into the PhD program I wanted the most! I'm headed to the ATL. Coming on the heels of all the other changes, I haven't had time to relish that and celebrate.

So I was done with Knoxville. I'll miss it, but it was time.

Goodbye, Knoxville.

Little Women

I've been re-reading the book Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott, which was a favorite of mine when I was younger. I found it in my bedroom at my parents' house and thought to myself "hey, I loved this book, I should re-read it".

That was a mistake.

What a sanctimonious pile of bullshit this book has turned out to be, upon further (and admittedly, more feminist) reflection. The 4 main characters (all sisters) are continuously taught that the mark of a good person is one who never considers her own needs, but rather lives quietly and humbly and without desire. Granted, promoting the welfare of others and loving your neighbor and living within one's means are all excellent ideals toward which we should all strive. But every time one of the girls has a thought towards something she wants personally or a life outside of a heterosexual marriage that produces children, she is shamed by the others.

The most pious character, for god's sake, is so meek and loving that she's afraid to leave her home or speak to strangers, and eventually she dies of downright sickliness. And she's the gold standard to which they all strive! A woman who wants nothing but to live silently at home and serve her family is the model citizen.

Jo, the rambunctious one, is constantly criticized for enjoying exercise and speaking frankly. Her slight temper and outspoken honesty are major character flaws, in the opinion of her sisters and mother. She writes "little stories" which bring her great happiness and even a measure of financial independence - so guess what happens in the end? That's right, she gives up all of that to live quietly as the matron in a house run by her husband and filled with their children. WHICH BRINGS HER TRUE HAPPINESS. Not her writing - her duties.

Ok. I'm not saying that happiness can't be found in a family, in a husband, in children, or in service to others. But can we agree that there are multiple paths to happiness? I get that this novel was written in a time where women were taught that their own hetero marriage and household was pretty much all they could hope for, but how can this author be excused for exhaulting a sickly child and repressing a vibrant woman?

Oh, and even the "vain" one isn't allowed to find happiness until she stops having personality and turns to silently grieving the death of the meek one full time. At that point, and only at that point, does another character decide he loves her.

End lecture.

Limbo

I'm in limbo right now, waiting to hear back from GA State, and it's starting to get to me in a bad way. I can't make key decisions, like whether to fix the Volvo, when to leave town, which relationships to pursue and which to let go entirely, where to look for apartments, where to look for jobs, etc.

My job at the bar isn't going well because they've stopped scheduling and promoting shows, so there's not enough customers coming out which means there's not a lot of money to be made. I've been planing for some time to leave at the end of June, but the way it's going I could leave at any time without missing out on too much money.

I can't decide whether to keep pushing forward with energy or just hold really still until I find out what the future holds. I'm tempted to hibernate, although I know it's not good for me. But there's so little action I can take.

I'm stuck!

I'm sitting on my parents' porch in Pleasantville (not the real name, but more accurate) with a cup of coffee and two dogs, watching the neighbors roll by in their fancypants golf carts. The perfect blond mothers are taking their perfect blond children somewhere. Perhaps to a play date. Phineas is not pleased, because he hates things that roll and make noise.

I'm at home because on Saturday my friend Katie married my other friend Nick. It was a really beautiful wedding, and it genuinely reflected the character and asthetic of the bride and groom. Or at least of the bride. I suppose I can't say for sure about the groom. But there was a candy buffet and lots of giggling during the ceremony and plenty of silly pictures. I was the HBIC (read as: Head Bitch in Charge) for the wedding, because that's the roll Katie asked me to play. I kind of enjoyed being a wedding coordinator. I don't think I'd want to do that kind of thing professionally, but I got the whole business off without a hitch. Most of that, mind you, was due to Katie's EXTREMELY detailed schedule and well thought out vision of how she wanted things to go. But my watch and I deserve some credit.

After the wedding I thought it best to change scenes entirely, so I went to a hiphop show. My friend Mike (MIKE PALM!) is the tour manager for 2Fresh, who are these adorable twins who play a really kickass show. So I went to that in my formal wear and felt totally out of place, but it was really fun. It was interesting to see how Mike and his friends live. On the one hand, they're professional musicians touring the country and making money, but on the other hand they're hanging out at house parties hosted by 18 year olds and trying to figure out what happens in the morning. It was like being in high school and being a post-college young adult at the same time.

Phineas just busted through the gate on the front porch in order to break out and attack a dog who was walking by. Why must he be such an asshole?

Anyway.

On Thursday night I worked Sundown but left early to start driving. Lots of people questioned my choice to start a road-trip at 3:30am, but I felt like it was the best idea ever. I haven't been as happy in a long time as I was when I got on the road. There's something really profoundly exhilirating to me about being on an open road with nothing but miles of interstate in front of you. I had a fast car, a loyal dog, loud music, and a giant cup of Mello Yello to keep me company, and I felt GOOD.

I had a fast car because I had to leave the Volvo at home. It's developed quite the oil leak, and the leak is worst while driving, which means the oil has spattered all over the undercarriage of the car. It's covering most of the bottom of the car and has essentially baked on there into a thick paste that's highly flamable. Basically, if I drive it at high speeds for a long amount of time, it could explode into a giant fiery ball of terror. Which, on the one hand, is AWESOME, but on the other hand is a little deadly, so I guess I'm going to have to fix that.

I'm sleepy. I had a really odd night last night, which I will not detail in an attempt to protect the vaguely innocent. But since it's my blog and not your blog I'll just say this: You are a very stupid man. And you should probably work on that. But regardless, I doubt I'll ever try you again.

I think I'll go hunt for the ingredients to make brownies for Cookie of the Week club.