learn summat new ever' day

Jim and I went downstairs just now to try to catch Simpsons reruns in the lounge. Unfortunately, the digital cable connection is inexplicably out. This also means we can't watch So You Think You Can Dance tonight. Who's gonna TiVo it for us? (Pretty please?)

However, on the ride down to the lounge, we ran into a couple who were, well, possibly a weensy bit tipsy. When we got onto the elevator, see, I was carrying a glass of wine. No, I was not trying to numb myself for the five-floor ride; rather, I was taking my wine and a small bar of delicious Scharffen Berger 70% chocolate down to the lounge to enjoy while watching television.

Anyway, this couple -- probably the only people over forty-five, by the way, we've seen in our building since we moved here -- seemed slightly schnockered, looked at my wine, and asked if we were going up to the 13th floor. (Note: this was a downward-bound elevator.) We looked confused, I guess, because they went on to say there's a terrace there and you can take drinks.

Well, he said that. She said, "Hey, don't give away all our secrets!"

And that was awkward.

Anyway, they saw us off at the lounge floor, and when we discovered that the digital cable was not functional, we decided, what the hell, let's go to the top floor and see what we can see.

Well, turns out we have a pretty good view. It's not as great as if the terrace were on the southern side of the building, in which case I think we could see the Monument and possibly the White House. However, we can see the National Cathedral and Thomas Circle and it's just a nice, relaxing place to go. There's a little bench and a little--well, to me it looks kind of like a sukkah without the fruit, if that helps, which for more than half of you it won't --and it's really quite lovely.


We still have no stuff, but at least there are some perks thus far.

*for the three-and-a-half of you who care

*I have not been adding menus to the sidebar because I have not been cooking.

I have not been cooking because I have been moving.

(Durrrrrr...)

Menus will resume when I have my kitchen fully stocked again.

That is all.

You may go about your business. Move along.

greatest. book review. ever. (spoilers!)

"Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert. Passionate woman sleeps with men not her dull husband; ignores child; goes into debt; offs herself by arsenic; husband dies; Berthe works in cotton mill; pharmacist Homais gets legion of honor. Possibly the most perfect novel ever written, and possibly my favorite."

From my friend Matt McHale's blog. Go there. He bicycles to raise money for Type 1 (Juvenile) Diabetes, with which he was diagnosed in his early twenties, and has the greatest wife and most adorable son ever. Hi, McHales! Come visit us in D.C. -- or just send your too-cute-for-words child!

the relocation blues

Well, we're here.

Yep, we're safely installed in our new digs. And by "installed" I mean "I cannot wait to start work tomorrow if only because I should have a desk with a chair and not be sitting on the floor anymore."

This is because, while we made it to the District safe and sound with a very welcome week-long detour through South Carolina, our furniture did not actually even make it out of our Maine apartment until the day we arrived in the Mid-Atlantic, and it won't be joining us here for another week. (Props to Ms. Soto for her masterful supervision of the packing, and to Mr. Opperman for his masterful cleaning job.)

We have some bits and pieces because Mom and Dad were happy to provide certain necessities of which they had extras (thanks, Mom!) and because we bought a few other must-haves (thanks, credit card companies!), but essentially, we're living out of suitcases and picnicking on the carpet. Wait, no, that sounds lame. Let's call it "urban camping," shall we?

In all seriousness, though, it's really pretty great. Our apartment is in a fantastic location for us, so we have explored the neighborhood a little and realized we can walk to Whole Foods. This is, of course, a massive triumph for me. We are having dinner tonight with one friend, drinks with another, and brunch on Sunday with a third. And while walking home from dinner Saturday, we ran into a college friend on the corner right near our place. It's kind of awesome.

This is not to say that there have not been been a few snags -- above and beyond the moving-company hell, that is -- but overall, things are positive. The bathroom has two doors, but one won't open alllll the way due to the placement of the toilet (a common apartment foible, but still). The dishwasher is slightly smaller than my previous one -- but I have a double sink! And a gas stove! And an ice-maker! Most vexing during this time of Furniture-Free Living, though, is the fact that the pass-through counter is not meant to be a breakfast bar, so unless I buy extra-tall bar stools, I can't use it for sitting...at least, not without thinking creatively. Last night we decided not to eat dinner on the floor and used our big CD storage books as booster seats so we could eat at the counter. We still weren't quite at the right height, so our feet dangled freely and our plates were a little too close to our chins, but hey, if four-year-olds can do it, so can we!

We've also decided we should paint before our stuff arrives, but that means driving the six hours round-trip to and from Warminster to borrow painting accoutrements from the Malteses. The idea of getting back in the car half makes me cringe, but then I realize, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing, since spending Friday night there means a real bed and not an air mattress. And chairs...

I'd post pictures, but we packed the digital camera's cable. That's probably for the best -- this way you'll see it when it's all gussied up, and when my hip flexors don't ache from contorting myself all over the damn place.

It's good. It's gonna get better. Welcome to D.C.

i no has fernichur...

...but at least i has lolcats.

only at an arti(choke)sts' colony

Rachel: "Someone here--I don't remember who--has tried it. Said it's really bitter."

Me: " That? Made my day."

Rachel: "You're so easy."

the family i've made

A select few of the friends we've made here in the Land of Port (...ha!) are more family than friends. They won't easily be lost from my life, and this is a tribute to them.

One is a younger brother who is trying to make it as an artist. He's talented and awesome and everyone should book him for a gig.

Another may be even younger, but is too much like me for words. (Well, if I'd been a younger-sib boy rather than an only-sib girl.) He's got an amazing mind and astounding intellect, and it stuns me more than I can say.

And the last is the younger sister I never had but probably always wanted. Plus she has inherited all our leftover alcohol and our air-conditioner. Whee.


You're all expected in DC, kids. Don't forget it.

because i am an emotional wreck about moving: a poem

Remember that afternoon at
the old covered bridge
smack dab in the middle
of nowhere, New Hampshire?
The bronzed marker cried history
as we made over the world
inhabiting a fairy-tale castle
caught out of time, scaling
splintery turrets to hang
upside-down
backwards
dangling our toes into the
moat below, trading the lookout,
scanning the fish-borne ripples for
signs of Prince Charming’s
barque lured by our siren anthem
felled by our skipped stones.
Oak planks long ago exhaled
dying breath into the brittle
thinning gasping autumn
air, shocked and bled out life
warmth into winter’s killing
kiss. Seventeen
tints of gray, dotted
here and there the red paint that
once welcomed those who crossed
no longer.
Sun streaming through gaps
like beestings in the roof
over our shoulders hair scraped
elbows and browned knuckles,
we laughed, little girls,
stringing dandelions into
dungeon chains and playing princess
until the shadows doubled our height.
In them we shuddered to see a hint,
grown women,
but we shook off the dandelion yoke
and ran home,
all skinny knees and ankles.

regina registrar

Main Entry:

reg·is·trar

Pronunciation:

\ˈre-jə-ˌsträr\

Function:

noun

Etymology:

alteration of Middle English registrer, from registren to register, from Anglo-French registrer, from Medieval Latin registrare, from registrum

Date:

1675

: an official recorder or keeper of records: as a: an officer of an educational institution responsible for registering students, keeping academic records, and corresponding with applicants and evaluating their credentials b: an admitting officer at a hospital


Or, as I like to think of it: I get to stage manage the whole school. I'll also be teaching and, most likely, advising Model U.N. So, to sum up?

So. Awesome.

Huzzah!

that's what friends are for

Ideas for Rachel's bio in the Goucher anthology, as put forth by the gang at Downtown Lounge:

Rachel would like to know if you have a guest room. Tonight.

Rachel can be reached at "Itinerant Mini Cooper, Maine License Plates, U.S.A."

Rachel went to Yaddo. So there.

Rachel is from Colorado, Washington DC, North Dakota, South Carolina, Texas, Maine, and probably some other places...yeah, she's just that cool.

Rachel knows a lot about guns, and knows where you live.

Rachel has some very awesome friends who enjoy living vicariously through her, because she is the best!

i think i might artichoke

On Saturday night, I went out for the most fantabulous girls' night out ever with Cat and Alisa. We sat at the bar at Chez Henri and ate a bunch of delicious food (duck tamale, smoked baby octopus, empanadas....mmmm) and even more delicious cheeses. We drank various cocktails containing rum and cava (namely, the rhum cocktail marilene, the mojito, and the pomegranate 75, if you are interested).

Then we noticed a bottle on the shelf called Cynar.

As we were waiting for our check, Cat pointed out that she'd noticed it earlier but forgotten to mention it when Alisa and I showed up. It seemed as though the label was decorated with an artichoke, which all three of us found...odd.

Don't get me wrong -- we all actually love artichokes. Eating them, anyway. But a liquor made from artichokes? It seemed unusual enough that although we pretty confidently identified the design as an actual artichoke blossom, we figured we had to be mistaken, that the label must not reflect the contents in any way other than, perhaps, metaphorically. And despite our earlier imbibing, we weren't, well, "prepared" to taste it to find out. We just decided we must have been misled.

As it turns out? Not so much.

See, Alisa and I returned to Dick's apartment to find the menfolk playing Wii, so we decided to do a little internet research.

And wow were we--and, once we relayed the information, was Cat--glad we didn't decide to try it. Seriously: artichoke liquor? That would not have been the ideal end to an otherwise ideal evening.

Gah.

"be intamit with marge"

Things to do in Portland before we go:

1. Barbecue ribs on Laura's deck, thereby convincing Devin that our ribs are the best. Ever.

2. Disassemble Rachel's lamp and toast the accomplishment of said disassembly with bubbly on her deck, savoring her amazing view.

3. Think about if we missed out, having just a balcony instead of a true deck. (Hmmm...)

4. Pick at least one of our favorite restaurants and get there again. (555 perhaps?)

5. Buy a case of Citra Montepulciano magnums to take with us, since the price is rather ridiculous. (Note: Already done!)

6. Decide unilaterally to postpone a cheese-tasting for the District in an effort to force dear friends to come visit. Also because we already have the wine.

7. Go to the beach. (I have a feeling this one is gonna bite the bullet, since we clearly gave priority to number 5...Oh well.)

8. Find a way to pack up all my SAT materials without too much effort. Well, and by "all" I mean "all the ones that aren't tests or grids that I can shred, because, come on." I'm keeping the teacher's editions, even though there's every chance I {sniff} won't be using them again {sniff sniff}.
Yeah, I know I bitch and moan about SAT prep, but this last class was wicked awesome, as proven by the fact that they let me take their picture. I really enjoyed teaching them, and it's rather bittersweet to go out on a high note.

9. Try extra-hard not to think about the rest of it. Not to think about the friends we've made here who have almost become family (me to Laura: "I'm like the big sister you never wanted!"). Not to think about how we all say we'll visit even as we know life is going to pull us in directions we can't anticipate (key words: Yaddo; Milton; AUP) and that, while we'll still make it happen, it won't be with the frequency and ease that we'd like. And, most importantly, not to think about how damnedly horrible it's going to be to pack up all these books again. Yargh.

associated...puns?

Someone over at the A.P. is having a fun day.

Skywalkers in Korea Cross Han Solo

Couple Who Stole from Mob Got Whacked

Seriously. And the latter includes the line, "The couple liked to rob Mafia-run social clubs in Little Italy and elsewhere around the city, which, as just about everyone knows, is a really good way to get killed."

Heh. Nice.

carnivoracious

I did in fact find a burger the other night. Jim, Laura, Devin, and I went to the Great Lost Bear -- not known for its fries, but a consistent winner of "Best Burger" titles in Portland -- and we all ate burgers.

We even took pictures.

We did not, in fact, take pictures of me eating my burger. My burger was delicious, perfectly medium-rare with lettuce, tomato, onion, and some ketchup and mustard -- the ur-burger, if you will, of burger-y simplicity.

Mr. Anderson, however, was goaded {cough}Laura{cough} into attempting some gargantuan monstrosity topped with...actually, I can't even remember everything it was topped with, and that's probably a good thing, because a number of the toppings clearly had no place together, much less together atop a burger.



Anyway, he ate it. The whole thing. The camera-phone was pressed into action to record the feat for posterity.

Also to absolve ourselves, in case anything bad happened after.

carnivore's dilemma

Of late, I have begun to crave a burger and fries.

Not just any burger and fries, mind you. A really good burger with really good fries. (My definition of "really good fries" probably would require some kind of Stephen Hawking-derived mathematical equation, so let's just say crispier than not and leave it for the moment.)

Thing is, I haven't had a burger in ... uh ... a long time. I don't even know how long. And it's not because I don't like them -- obviously -- but rather because every time we go out and I think I'm going to get a burger, I end up tempted by something else on the menu and get that, thinking, "Well, I'll just the burger next time."

Yes, by now I've learned that "next time" pretty much never arrives.

So I decided that tonight, before we go out to see my favorite cover band of all time, we are going to go out for that really good burger.

And here we stumble upon the problem. For, having not gone out in this town for a burger and fries in what we can conservatively estimate as an aeon (cf. above), I don't know where to find the aforementioned "really good" specimen.

I've been springing my dilemma on essentially every friend of mine who gets within hearing distance, with some interesting results.

Rachel, for example, was perplexed. "Why don't you just make burgers at home?" she asked. We weren't chatting in person, but I could pretty much assume she furrowed her brow as she spoke.

"Um..." I replied. "That's actually an excellent question."

{Pause}

Rachel: "Well?" (Did I mention she's a journalist?)

Me: "I'll get back to you on that."

I'm not really sure why we don't make burgers at home, but most likely, the answer is the same as the reason I don't ever order the burger: I'm always enticed by some more complex recipe. That, and we don't grill outside that often up here. Burgers at home are meant to be grilled outside. Because they are. Because I say so. So there.

(Hey. Shut up.)

With some help from Laura, Devin, Jim, and others, though, I'm beginning the hunt to find the best burger-and-fry combo in town. It has to be the two together -- I don't care if I find just the perfect burger, as probably the actual sandwich at Blue Spoon or Caiola's would fit that bill. It must have the right fries to accompany it, or it doesn't quite count.

And before you snort in my general direction, I'll have you know I am in no way alone in this quest. It is a noble calling of the meat-and-potatoes kind, one which I undertake on home soil only at this point in time. Had I taken on this assignment for the Times, I would happily have sought out the ideal steak frites in Paris. And if, to that end, I am the weensiest bit jealous of Mr. Bittman's expense account, that does not prohibit me from saluting another knight's tour of duty. À votre santé, monsieur!

And next time, I'm coming with you.

sunshine and haircuts make me happy

I got a haircut yesterday, and I am so totally in love with it that I took really angsty-artsy self-portraits of it. They make me laugh, and they also make me realize how frickin' pale I am. Yeesh.

Then today the sun came out! So I'm a hyperactive freak of nature, bouncing around, all, "Let's do things! Things! More things! Look, sun!!"

Here, have some pictures. Ignore the deathly pallor, and the insane bags under the eyes. If I ever learn to use Photoshop, I'll fix those. (Heh.)

january 2, 2009

Normally, the second day of the year of 2009 would not be so high on my "looking forward to" list.

First of all, the day after New Year's Day is always something of a bust. Everyone's still vaguely hung over -- if not from alcohol, then at least from the enormous depressive influence of finally realizing the holiday season, with all its concomitant celebrating, has come to a definitive end. Moreover, it's often the first day back at work after the aforementioned extended holiday stretch, and that in and of itself is always at least vaguely disheartening.

It's also my birthday.

And in 2009, it's not merely my birthday. It will be my thirtieth birthday.

(Those of you who have already passed this benchmark, just...shut up. And, oh, congratulations. Whatever.)

I'm not that inordinately focused on turning thirty. What, a blog post nearly two years in advance belies the truth? Ha. I beg to differ.

See, what I'm really doing is giving ample warning, because I have discovered the most brilliant invention ever to find purchase here in life, the universe, and everything.

And it is neither a whale nor a bowl of peonies.

No. It is the Enomatic wine-tasting system.

The Enomatic is awesome. Just the other night, Laura and I were discussing how difficult it is to become knowledgeable about wine, because one must buy it in full bottles -- the mini-bottles are generally not of high quality -- which is prohibitive in terms of risk if not in terms of price. That is to say, sure, you could get through the bottle eventually, but if you hate it, then you're sort of stuck, and you're not going to take that risk on a $50 bottle of wine most of the time. Whereas with beer, you can often buy a single bottle (also known as "a serving, or part of one, depending on how good the beer is and how late into the evening you are drinking it"), and if it's terrible, your wallet is generally none the worse for wear.

The Enomatic solves this by dispensing individual tastings and keeping the rest of the bottle fresh with nitrogen -- or something; I'm not really sure what the nitrogen has to do with it, but I take their word for it. So one can go and taste a wine without the investment, and hence, learn.

Basically, it's like a 24/7 wine-tasting event. Without the spitting. (Or, as Jim just said: "It's like...wine on tap.")

Granted, the Enomatic does not actually seem to come in a model for home usage. Oh, it says it does, on one of the (less than perfectly) translated pages on the website, but I'm definitely not someone who resides in a home that could accomodate the device. So, for my thirtieth birthday, I request a trip to any (or all!) of the locations that do currently host the Enomatic.

(See why I'm giving y'all advance notice, here? You have eighteen months plus. Get cracking.)

In other news, my husband has asked that he receive no presents this year. However, he has also conceded that, if pressed, he would not turn down a second Wii remote, a supremely large and expensive* plasma-screen television, or a pink (color, not necessarily label) dress shirt for his twenty-fifth birthday. Let me know if you want more info, such as sizes. Or wall measurements.



*Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not get us a gigantic plasma-screen television. Any of you. Or all of you together. There is nothing we need less right now as Jim heads off to law school. He was totally kidding.

But for his thirtieth...we'll talk.

me = weirdest. fangirl. ever.

Never thought I'd say this, but: Thank goodness for Sports Illustrated.

(Thanks for sharing, Jasmin!)

fromagophilia

This article is absolutely brilliant.

I mean, it's not brilliant enough to get me to watch the cheese, but still.

For example:

"The cheddar is not busy. It just sits there in a dank, climate-and-humidity controlled cheese-ripening warehouse, subtly aging with hundreds of other cheeses. Once a week a man named Gary, Mr. Calver’s cheese-turner, comes in and turns it to redistribute the moisture within. Compared with the cheese-cam, the old Yule Log on television was a roiling hotbed of nonstop commotion."

I don't generally giggle aloud while reading about cheese. Or anything, for that matter. I do, however, giggle when I read things like "Waiting for Gouda" in the Times.

And yes, Mom and Dad, I do think she wants some cheese.

things that people i've met in maine may not know about me

I have naturally wavy-to-curly hair that is particularly susceptible to humidity. In twenty-eight years, I've yet to figure out how to blow-dry the back of it perfectly straight.

I spent a good portion of my junior and senior years in high school in the darkroom doing yearbook and art photography. The chemicals wreaked havoc on my fingernails and got me started on a lifelong bad habit of picking at hangnails. Still, I prefer to shoot film rather than go digital, and if I had a darkroom, I'd develop and print too. I generally like to photograph architecture.

When I'm really frustrated, I curse in French. And Dutch. And German.

I think of the squirrel that likes our balcony as "Squidge" because I've never been very good at naming pets.

I learned in elementary school drama club that I cannot control my blink reflex if someone tries to apply eye makeup on me. Because of that, I never wore eyeliner or mascara until four years ago, when I realized I could put it on myself.

I used to collect fountain pens, partly because students in France all used them and I wanted to be French.

I know a trick for folding fitted sheets, but I don't generally bother to fold them when I put away the laundry. I do, however, iron napkins.

I write poetry, usually longhand. I also enjoy doing the math sections on SAT practice tests when I'm proctoring, but I find the critical reading sections boring, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that I write them for the curriculum group.

The first time I ever drove a car was in Maine. It was a big conversion van on a dirt road and I was allowed to drive it about a tenth of a mile. I was thirteen or fourteen. I did very poorly.

Three years seems like forever to me. I'm really going to miss everyone I've met here.

as geeked out as i get

So I'm watching ST:TNG on SpikeTV this afternoon because the weather is a mix of snow, sleet, and soul-crushing general ickiness. Plus, I have nothing else to do at this particular moment in time.

It's the episode called "Starship Mine," which is a great episode in many ways -- not that you care -- but there's a moment near the start that I just realized has always bothered me.

It's when Picard ducks out of the reception because he wants to go riding, and he claims he needs to go get his saddle. And he acts all bumbling and inept about it, which is so not Picard-like, but that's not actually what gets me.

No, what gets me is that Deanna is one of the people who seems shocked -- shocked! -- that Picard keeps a saddle in his quarters. She and Geordi seem to be insinuating that he's clearly lying about his attachment to his saddle just to get out of having to listen to the inane Commander Hutchinson ("Call me Hutch!") and his endless small talk.

But! In Season 2, there's an episode called "Pen Pals" in which Picard tries to go riding on the holodeck. He doesn't quite make it (the actual, you know, plot interferes), but before we get to that, we get a long, presumably necessary bit of character exposition about how Picard has all these varied interest because he makes a point of going to the holodeck with Deanna so that he might explain to her the elements of a true horse-lover's connection to riding and its accoutrements ... including his saddle.

(By the way, is anyone else amused that Marina Sirtis has almost exactly the same body language in these two shots? Weird.)

Not that TNG was ever known for its outstanding continuity, but given that the horse thing was actually a recurring aspect of Picard's life -- I don't know, maybe it represents his "sensitive side" or something equally lame -- the writers should have gotten this a little more right. Yes, it's terrifying and awful that I know this and more so that I care. Yes, I'm That Fan, the one who nitpicks the Nitpicker's Guide. It's even more terrifying and awful that I'm still going to watch this episode. Because I'm sure as hell not leaving my house today.

Canceling cable when we move? Definitely the right choice.

may 24 cannot come soon enough

I mean, honestly.

i love highschool friends

Me: "So, I have to ask. What kind of pain am I going to endure as the wife of a 1L next year?"

Mr. S.: "Wow. Well, do you want the real answer, or should I lie to you?"

Me: "I am not drunk. So ... lie."

Mr. S.: "It's like ice cream and unicorns every day."

Hot! Gotta love your senior year homecoming date.

an entirely pointless post

Planet Earth gets more and more entertaining. Seriously -- the penguins and the eider ducks? Awesome footage. Although we're pretty convinced that Sigourney Weaver's narration is missing big chunks in order to allow for commercials, given that the segues to commercials are essentially nonexistent.

I kind of want a baby musk ox, by the way.

In other news, the Chateauneuf was sold out by the next day. Damn and blast. I should have bought it all when I was there.

shameless plug

So, I'm generally pretty modest about my abilities in just about every area...except stage management. I know I'm a damn good stage manager, and frankly, there aren't that many of us out there. Even while I feel guilty even thinking I'm good at it, I know I am, and it's kind of sustaining.

However, in my theatrical experience, I have met a few stage managers who are as good as, or better than, I am. And one of them is my friend Mel.

We met at the Williamstown Theatre Festival -- hilariously abbreviated among its denizens as "WTF"-- and Mel amazed me from day one with her skills.

She now has her AEA card, which is wonderful except for the fact that AEA stage managers get paid crap, and that's totally unfair and the topic of another long ranting post at some point. In the meantime, she has stage managed or PA'ed (i.e., worked as a production assistant on) many fantastic Broadway shows.

Some clunkers, too, but we'll ignore those.

And today, she sent me this (relevant info at bottom of scrolldown and reposted below):

"A by-invitation-only developmental reading of Craig Shemin's The Green Room will be held April 23 at the 45th Street Theater. Original Avenue Q stars Stephanie D'Abruzzo and Jordan Gelber will be joined by Jimmy Bennett, Tim Cain, John Gaines, Tom Galantich, Tom Mizer and Amanda Weeden for the 8 PM reading. Lisa Gilbar will direct; Melanie T. Morgan will be the stage manager. [...] Interested industry professionals may request tickets by sending e-mailing greenroomplay@yahoo.com."

Dude. She got boldfaced on Playbill. And I have a picture of her with Tom Stoppard and David I'm-Blanking-On-His-Last-Name-But-He's-Important. Really.

Mel is my idol.

Anyone wants an AEA SM, you know whom to call.

whine and roses

I hate hate hate moving. Just, you know, in case you were unaware.

On the upside, I got two bottles of a lovely Chateauneuf-du-Pape for $6.99 each today -- $15 off due to a vintage change.

Wine makes everything better.


Well, and guacamole.

sacrilicious

I made really fantastically awesome guacamole* this afternoon.

Guacamole almost (but not quite) demands to be eaten on things that require leavening.

Sigh. Blasphemy, here I come.



*My recipe: One half red onion, minced. One large or two small cloves garlic, minced. One jalapeno, seeds and ribs removed, minced. One half tomato or approximately ten grape tomatoes, diced. Two ripe avocados. Juice of one lemon. Freshly-ground salt. Freshly-ground pepper. Mash roughly with fork. Eat on anything that will convey guacamole to mouth, including but not at all limited to matzah.

geek acres is the place

Jim and I are getting slightly obsessed with Planet Earth on Discovery Channel.

I mean, seriously. It's frickin' amazing -- evolution really should have no right to have created such amazing stuff on this one little rock orbiting a star in the middle of nowhere.

Also? We have to get our fix while we still have cable. We plan to give it up both to save money and to avoid unwise temptation once school starts come fall.

Although if we buy this particular miniseries on DVD (hi, early Christmas present hint!!), it could conceivably be a write-off in light of Jim's future enviro-policy bent. I can make anything a write-off. I am such a CPA-wannabe.

robert palmer ain't got nothin' on me

Yay!
(Addicted to love. Me. Weddings. Stuff. Get it? Cool.)

the district

I've got one real estate agent for condominiums and two more for rentals (they think I'm crazy since there's nothing available yet for July, but whatever -- they work on commission and I'm a sure move).

I've packed sweaters for the 35-degree night on the way there and tees for the 73-degree days in Washington.

I actually copied down a list of free wi-fi spots around town.

I made a reservation at a fun Mexican restaurant for Friday night.

And, oh yeah, we have all the events at GULC to attend.

Yeah, I think we're ready. Let's roll.

furry goodness

Our next-door neighbors are dog-sitting this weekend, so I've been getting a daily dose of poodle time. Actually, I've been acting like a giddy toddler, sitting on the floor throwing treats and crying, "DOGGIE!"

Yeah, I'm animal-deprived.

In a similar vein, I now visit this little guy on my desktop when I feel lonely:


Virtual kitty loves the meta, no?

a typical night chez les maltese

1. Order pizza for take-out from Flatbread.

2. Discuss over dinner why you have never actually eaten Flatbread for dinner* before, in two-plus years in Portland.

3. Somehow get into a discussion about presidential assassinations.

4. Discover you were both right: McKinley and Garfield were both assassinated. Sort of.

5. Wonder if having three names makes one more likely to succeed as a presidential assassin.

6. Wind up talking about Stephen Sondheim.

Yeah. Trust me; if you wiki "Jim and Leigh Maltese," you get redirected to a terribly appropriate term.

OK, actually, it'd be cooler for us if that were true. Which just proves the point.

And dude. Garfield's assassin? Totally nuts.




*If you care: We have both had Flatbread before, but because I am a yuppie pizza snob, we have never ordered it in for ourselves. Or any other pizza, for that matter -- we've made do with quais-gourmet frozen for as long as we've lived in Maine. Yeah, I'm serious. And yeah, I know I'm weird that way. Deal.

procrast in motion, part II

Now that I have a computer with a DVD-ROM drive, I am finally able to upload the wedding pictures that our photographer sent us.

The files are enormous because they are supremely high resolution, and I didn't feel like devoting the rest of my afternoon to picture-sorting, so I only put the ones that are also in our print album onto my hard drive. Which if you think about it is totally ass-backwards, since I should have the ones that are not preserved in hard copy available. Guess that just ain't the way I roll.

Going through the files and renaming them, I immediately proceeded to get all mushy and wedding-obsessed again. So I went ahead and uploaded the photos to my Flickr site. Not only will this allow me to direct friends to the photos without having to email them huge files that could potentially explode either their computers or their patience, but the uploader doober also automatically resized and renamed the files (from .tifs to .jpgs) so that I can redownload a smaller version to my hard drive.

Which means I can now post them here. Salud!

yum

Way too good.

I've been to Whole Foods 4 of the 6 days it's been open. I'm officially addicted, y'all.

Hicka-bicka-DUH.

lush to love you baby

I just got out of the shower to find that my husband had been sent home early from work.

The sort of non-snow snow we were having? Yeah, it suddenly morphed into oh my God the world is exploding with sleet and hurling gigantic piles of snow through the air at warp speeds run for your liiiiiives!!!! in the blink of an eye, and the boss told everyone to pack up and head out.

As is his wont, Jim brought up the mail when he got home. I went over to it and was flipping through when I noticed a neatly wrapped box addressed to me.

Me: "But I didn't get you anything!"

Jim: "I didn't ask for anything."

Me: "Neither did I!"

Jim: "..."

Me: "Well, except a puppy--"

Jim: "Just open it."

I did. Turns out that Lush has opened a store in Harvard Square, and Jim decided to explore it during his breaks from running recruiting interviews on Friday. I don't know where he hid what he bought between then and now -- Lush products have such strong aromas (given that they are all made fresh) that it's hard to miss them when they are in your general vicinity -- but somehow he got it back here without my noticing.

Every once in a while something reminds me that I know I married the right man. What did so today? Well, the absolutely wonderful Jim did not merely get me a fantastic gift box filled to the brim with wonderful bath-y items. No, indeed. That's for rank amateurs.

My husband? Seems he applied the most important lesson of cosmetics shopping: spend enough to get the free gift.

Not one, but two boxes filled with bath bombs, lotion soap bars, and lip balm that smells good enough to eat?

I love him.