Kittens Happen.

I’m thinking about the times when an innocent action, one without any agenda, can bring to bear a unforeseen and irreversible result. One that is unwelcome at the moment it surfaces, but eventually reveals itself as a positive, even life-changing event. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve had that profound of an experience, but since the last one was a doozy—and took quite a while before I concluded it was a good thing—it’s probably just as well that these kinds of surprises are infrequent.

Tonight, as I was propped up on our guest bed with one kitten purring on my lap, and the other sleeping jammed up as close to my face as possible without actually being on it, I thought: this is one of those. I couldn’t imagine how we could add even one more fuzzy, four-legged creature to our house and yet here we are, managing two rather happily.

Having them here has changed my priorities, as they need to be fed frequently and they also need lots of attention and love. This means getting up early, going on out-of-the-way errands, and spending free time with them instead of on myself. All of this extra effort has created a focus in my life that is bigger than me, for once. And it also forces moments of calm and idleness that didn’t exist before now. And this is all good. Despite my initial doubts.

In a few weeks, one will go to new, trusted home and one will stay with us—partly because there is nowhere else for him to go, and partly because, apparently, it's just what we need right now.

             

Whew!

Between my days and evenings, I've written more in the past several weeks than I have since my last composition class in college. What I've been writing at work has turned out to be one of my proudest pieces, maybe ever. It will go in my portfolio for sure, and I can't help but think that my daily forced blog posts have helped it become this. I feel good. 

Today, I put on the finishing touches, and now I am flat out drained. So, I've decided to let my favorite spinster take it from here:

It's All I have to Bring Today   

It's all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

-Emily Dickinson   

Her meaning is different than mine, at least in this context, but that's OK by me.

See you tomorrow!

Nope?

Last night, while fading into sleepyland and trying not to think about shit hitting the fan, I had a stretch of the imagination. It grew out of recent posts by friends who were trying to protect their facebook rights by committing a legal-sounding statement to their timelines. It seemed familiar, as I'd seen this effort to protect personal copyrights in response to new guidelines surface many months earlier.

I asked (no one in particular), "Oh, you sillies, did you check Snopes?" Because I was pretty sure it was a hoax, and then it was confirmed.

Not a big surprise if you're prone to suspicion and desire to take the road of inquiry rather than the shortcut that the bandwagon offers.

But then I wondered...wouldn't it be funny if Snopes were actually part of the scheme? As a site known and trusted to deliver truth, wouldn't it be a hell of a surprise if they were providing false information with a goal to distract and dissuade us from acting on the very events that concerned and threatened us?

Yes, yes it would. I'm not down with conspiracies. Really, I'm not. I just think it's fascinating to consider. Then again,"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you." (Thanks for that, Joseph Heller).

If You Know What I Mean.

Here's a little poem about my day:

When shit begins hitting the fan,
You can panic or make up a plan.
If choosing the former,
You’re not getting warmer:
You’re just feeding the problem some bran.

:)

You Irreplaceable You.

When I wrote my first post committing to write every day for a year, I warned that some days I might write something stupid. Well, it’s not even 11:59 p.m. and here it is.

I have an unexplained aversion to refilling the empty toilet paper roll. It might be my answer to leaving the seat up or it might be that, deep in my subconscious, I think I’m above it. I do it from time to time, when I’m feeling especially gracious, but mostly I just grab a new roll from the stash and set it within hand’s reach of the commode. Eventually, it makes its way to the dispenser, with the replacer, Ben, probably grumbling insults at me and my haughty lack of consideration.

Yesterday, my charitable mood led me to not just replace the roll, but also recycle the empty cardboard from the previous one. However, hours later, I noticed that, possibly caused by lack of practice, I had put the roll on backwards. As a staunch under-hander, I balked at my error. There it was, the tissue unmistakably draped over the top, hanging like a banner devoted to my ineptitude.

I wasn’t unnerved enough to change it, but it continued to taunt me more and more with each constitutional. I gave it one last glare this morning before rushing out the door to work—and vowed that corrective measures would be taken the moment I arrived home.

There. That’s better!

Oh, and for those on the opposing side of this dispute (most people do fall to one side or the other), you might appreciate this:

Brought to us by HappyPlace. You have to read the end of their post.
Of course, we have never done the paper towel thing...

Risky Business.

As Chief of the Bod Squad, I might, after the last four days, be asked to resign my post. In addition to bountiful, thrice-daily meals, I've been late-night snacking on pretty much anything that is scoop-able in my hand: licorice pinwheels, pistachios, Fruity-Frutti (if you don't know what these are, best you not learn), chex mix, mustard pretzels, and, yes, leftover stuffing. I am a monster.

The big wrinkle in this behavior is that I just started a Hold it for the Holidays campaign, and while losing $10 come January 3 if I've gained even a pound isn't going to launch me into poverty, the shame of my damaged reputation might send me into isolation. Where, presumably, I will purchase an extra-large muu-muu and let it all go. So, you can see the danger I'm in.

I've decided to right my course sooner rather than later and fix up a batch of curried lentil soup that will correct at least one of my meals for the next several days. It's spicy, hearty, low-fat, and doesn't remotely taste like punishment.

Yum! No, really.

Bodaciously Bewildering Beats.

In the winter of 2010, when I decided to take up belly dancing seriously, I was experimenting a lot with music and styles—trying to figure out which direction I would venture in. At the time, I was really into Beats Antique:
  

While I ultimately decided to embrace a more traditional form, rather than tribal, I still appreciate their music and occasionally try out a gyration or two. And I can do a pretty mean belly roll, actually—which shouldn't surprise considering what I feed it.

I remember back then mentioning them to a friend, and he said (something like), "Oh yeah, well have you heard Balkan Beat Box?" I hadn't, but once I did, I was completely taken. Not the same sound of Beats Antique at all, but in the spirit of belly dance music with a twist. I challenge you to hold your booty still for this: 

 Or the next evolution:

Or with what they're up to today (caution for ears who are sensitive to the F word):

They continue to thrill me like none other. I guess you won't enjoy them as much as me, but give them a listen anyway, will you?

Talking the Stalk.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't think of a good reason to leave the house. And, if that was the case, then clothing was really completely optional. But right around the time that I started to get really comfortable, I remembered that I had made an afternoon appointment to have some maintenance done on my car. Crap!

Driving home from the dealership—I deliberately took a route that avoided the malls and surrounding retail pandemonium—I found myself passing right by a local boutique that carries an exceptional line of offbeat shoes. And I thought, "well...I am right here..."

As I left, I started to think about Shoe Stalking, a blog that I abandoned more than a year ago so I could explore above the ankle issues.

I just spent a little time looking back at it, cringing at some of my compositions and smiling at others—and in some ways wishing I still felt the passion to write on the subject. I do, from time to time, but something has changed. It is, as I wrote in my final post, as if I have lost my muse. Or maybe I just haven't been trying hard enough to find the right inspiration...

An accidental shot taken while wondering: is this thing on? Turned out to be my favorite.

     

Remember, You Are Alone in the Kitchen.

When I was a kid, occasionally we would have tacos (or something equally atypical) instead of the customary meal on Thanksgiving. And my sister, I, and anyone we told about this thought it was the coolest thing ever.

The last couple of years, since I've been hosting my parents at our house, I've been returning the thrill by serving non-turkey meals. A couple of years ago, I made barbecued pulled pork sandwiches, loosely based on this recipe with sweet potato fries (recipe perfect as is), and last year I made pot roast with winter root vegetables, which might be the best roast I've ever tasted. FYI.

This year, I decided to one-up myself by serving braised Guinea pig:

They're hard to catch, but man are they...of course, I'm kidding.

I was missing the flavors of a traditional feast, but a whole turkey for four people means leftovers for days and days after the cravings fade.

So, I made a roulade with a single de-boned turkey breast filled with cranberry stuffing. I started with this recipe, but ended up only following it in spirit after the chicken livers scared me off and the sauce, at the moment of preparation, seemed to be missing a critical ingredient. In short, I improvised like hell.

But it was delicious and my epicurean aura still shines, mostly because there were no witnesses.

Cheers, & happy Thanksgiving, friends!   
   

I'm Ready.

I've procrastinated well beyond what even the most unreasonable dawdler would do and now I am in a serious spot for tomorrow's entertaining. So, while I busy myself with my preparatory shenanigans (I just really wanted to use that word), I'll ask you to ponder this concept, brought to you by the troublemaker of the hour: James Altucher. What do you think? Doable?

(I'll admit, I fantasize a great deal about dropping out, or, at the very least, abandoning what is the accepted, traditional lifestyle. Like these folks. Because we have very few life obligations, this is entirely possible. Making it all the more seductive. Hmmm.)

Take It Easy.

On Thanksgiving Day, I will wake up early, scramble to clean my house, fumble over a new recipe I've never made before, and greet my parents at 11:30 a.m. (or before, as they do love to surprise). Dinner will land on the table whether it's a hit or miss, the Lions will play whether it's a win or lose, and my Dad will fall asleep in the recliner, no whether about it.

What I love about Thanksgiving is that there are few things that are given, but one thing is for sure: I have the day off. And while the day could be a collision of yet unknown disasters, I still have the damn day off. I might change into my pajamas in the middle of the afternoon. I might eat leftovers six hours later while standing in the open doorway of the fridge. I might not wash the dishes until Friday.

It is for these luxuries that I mourn for those chain store workers whose employers have decided to open on Thanksgiving evening. This is absurd. And unkind. And fucking greedy, if you're wondering how I feel.  

I won't be taking any part in this, and not just because I won't be able to get off the couch...

But I may leisurely make my way to some local, small businesses sometime over the weekend. During the hours that they have decided to be open. And I won't be looking for a deal; I'll be looking to support the people who understand the value of a day of rest. For everyone.

   

Dazed and Bemused.

It's almost always Monday mornings. I wake up from the night's sleep disoriented and not right with my mind. I am confused and unsure about the day ahead; sometimes even the days ahead. I am feeling disconnected from my life and what I am doing and where I am going with it.

In these moments I am consumed with an odd dichotomy of being both dazed and aware. I am conscious of my mental struggle enough to worry about what it means. Am I lost? Drifting? Is this where I am supposed to be?

And then, with an automatic command: run > program I am out of bed, in the shower, dressed, primped, and full of coffee. And all those thoughts are gone. I know my path exactly and have completely forgotten those seconds of uncertainly.

Interesting.

Hmmm...how did this forest get in my trees?

Adiós, Au Revoir, Auf Wiedersehen.

I'm still thinking about Lawrence Welk, I'm afraid. And still stewing on the dinner conversation we had last night while continuing to not be able to look away from a Thanksgiving special that appeared to be from the late '70s.

We were talking about how much of the show was rooted in denial. The world had changed dramatically from the time it had first aired in 1951 to its finale in 1982, yet every week they continued to cling to the "good old days," virtually untouched by the cultural and sexual revolutions that had been raging right outside their production studio walls. Here's what was happening behind those doors:

 (sorry about the poor quality)

Yes, they were just giving the people (that is, a certain demographic) what they wanted. But they were also coddling them with a security blanket knit of 100% artificial materials. Though occasionally playing peek-a-boo with reality, it was often with disdain and disapproval:

  (quality is even worse on this one, but too interesting not to show anyway)

Unless it was on their terms, that is:

I was thinking I was a little tough on him with all that batshit/what the hell? language in my last post (after all, that Holiday for Strings performance was actually pretty cool), but after spending most of my morning doing this research, I have to say my accusations rest.

Wonderful, Wonderful.

I'm not saying I've ever familiarized myself with mind-altering substances (though I've heard some things through friends...), but I have to say, if I were ever to use the word "high" as an adjective, I would thoroughly and liberally apply it to The Lawrence Welk Show.

I survived my entire childhood without experiencing it, but, in my adult life, thanks to my husband, I have now been bathed in its batshitness.

Tonight, we made homemade pizza, and, as with most kitchen collaborations, a proper serenade is in order. Some nights it's Mexicana or  Reggae or Singers & Swing on digital radio; others, as it was this evening, it's Lawrence Welk that entertains us while we promenade between counter, stovetop, and sink. Hmmm...

 

If you decide to tune in, it's on PBS, Saturday nights at 7:00. But, set a timer. You will get hoovered in, and as you marvel at the what the hell? that this is, make sure you don't burn your dinner.

Over the Moon.

I was born of a music-loving family and my parents both came from homes that had a piano as their living room centerpiece. So ours did, too.

When I was really young, I remember my dad sitting down on the bench nearly every night and playing some really raucous boogie woogie. (I mentioned this to him awhile back and he doesn't remember it at all. Which makes me question it. Except I can see him now as if it were yesterday: pounding the keys, lifting out of his seat, spanning from low to high, his hands spastically jumping off the keys. If this isn't a real memory, then what the hell?)

My sister took it up and played beautifully for many years, and even played marimba in our high school's jazz band as a graduation of her skills. I played for a while, too, but lacked the interest or discipline, especially when our living room's picture window invited my attention to the outside world—one that didn't ask me to follow the measures, staffs, and bar lines. Or the dreaded metronome.

While I didn't appreciate the art as an occupation for myself, I was greatly influenced by it in an ancillary way—and, today, I  occasionally surprise friends and acquaintances with my spot-on knowledge of the classics.

Tonight, while watching Jeopardy! (a particularly nerdy thing to do, especially on a Friday night), the entire neighborhood probably heard me shouting: Clair de Lune! Clair de Lune!! Seriously, it's Clair de Lune!!!!! at the Final Jeopardy answerers. And I was right.

Food for Thought.

For practical and cautious reasons, I don't generally talk about my work in this space. I'm making an exception tonight, but since what I'm writing about is both benign and also only loosely tied to my 8-5, I think it will be OK.

As a copywriter, I'm not expected to do much more than write, write, and write some more. All day. Brilliantly, preferred. But a couple of years ago I volunteered to take on the additional responsibility of being the ambassador of health and wellness at my company.

I raised my hand because, having gone through my own healthy transformation, I felt suited to help others reach their goals and also knew that my own success would help prove that change is possible. And the fact that I have managed to stay pretty fit over this time without any unfortunate ricocheting, I'd say I'm still qualified.

As leader of the three-person Bod Squad (yes, I named us), my responsibility is to head up all of our fitness and wellness-related activities, and also provide resources, support, and creative ideas for healthy living. And set an example, which means I occasionally have to pig out in private.

Here I am, demonstrating how to strengthen your core at your desk:

I make it look easy, don't I?

(Incidentally, the benefit of this appointment, in addition to dissuading me from getting fat, is that I know and talk to almost everyone in the company, every day. It makes me feel like a celebrity, which, as you can imagine, I eat up like a hot fudge brownie sundae.)
 
Today, as part of my ongoing efforts, I circulated this infographic from the ever-educating LearnStuff.



You're welcome.

P.S. I just realized that I wrote tonight much like I write for my job. There's a different tone to it than my personal writing, and here it is: that tone. Huh. I guess that's what I get for talking about work.

Subliminal Subterfuge.

Do you ever have those moments when you outperform even your best expectations? To date, you've done "it" (whatever your it is) better than you ever have before. Your fans are throwing roses at you, your agent is fantasizing about making it big, and you are thinking, "Oh, shit. What if I never do this "it" this wonderfully again?"

Am I alone in this feeling? When high praise equals high anxiety? What is it that transforms a great achievement into an altar to apprehension, insecurity, obstruction?

I think in these moments we are worshiping the result, rather than the process.

What do you think?

There's No Fecundity in My Profundity.

Tonight I really wanted to continue my thought arc on the idea of dressing and acting appropriately for my age, what that actually means, and to what degree the opinions and perceptions of other people matter on these matters (heh).

But I am still feeling the effects of the night I spent in Crazytown (population: 2, my parents) where sleep is frowned upon by the residents, evidenced by late night snarling at the moon and early morning crowing at the twinkling of twilight. Had the sandman tried to enter, I'm sure he was frightened off. 

This, combined with a day at work that followed a day not at work while everyone else was, has left me mentally overdrawn. Fees have already begun accumulating in the debit column.

On that note, I bought these fabulous boots while drunk on sleeplessness. They are dreamy, no?

No snakes were harmed in the making of these boots, by the way.
And no dust bunnies were disturbed by the taking of this shot, either.

I've Got a Feeling I Just Can't Shake.

When I first started belly dancing, I just did it for fun. After almost three years, and getting to a point of being not bad, I've become more serious about it. Kind of. I am methodically proficient, but I lack the grace and emotional freedom to get there. Though I believe that with more time, I may.

I discussed this with my instructor once, and she told me that she could see that I wouldn't let go. That she knows that I feel a little silly and that is a big part of my restriction. She is right.

That, and my subconscious is constantly pointing to the clock hands, showing me that there is little time left before I am: TRAGIC.

At 43, I think a lot about this window I have: open, but for a few more inches. The waft of air that drifts between youth and age. Subtle during these years, but more turbulent and frame-rattling as they pass. In other words, I don't want to be that 50-year-old wearing a plaid mini-skirt, over-the-knees, and pigtails who asks, "What?"

So, last night, at the Bellydance Superstars show, I was seated next to a few middle-aged-plus-ten women whom I recognized from chatting around the tables where all the commerce was happening. We talked during intermission and I learned that they are from Battle Creek and that the three of them have their own dance troupe. (Aside: I love that almost every major city in Michigan has a belly dance studio. Or two.) I sized them up, not in an unkind, judgmental way, but in one that took note of everything I feared. And I paused.

I was on pause until dinner tonight when I relayed all of this to Ben. I asked, "Do yo think they are in denial, or they are liberated?" And he said, "If they feel liberated, then they are. And nothing anyone thinks about them can change that."   

Oh.

Thanks, baby.

:)

   

Visions of Pink Wallpaper.

I'm in my sister's childhood bedroom right now (mine was converted to an office about six months after I went to college), sleeping overnight at my parents' after seeing the Bellydance Superstars show in Detroit. (It was awesome.)

Staying here made the most sense from a practical standpoint, but truly at the cost of my sanity. I actually drove around the neighborhood for about 15 minutes before resigning to the inevitable and pulling in the driveway. :sigh:

I love my parents, but man are they a pair.

Goodnight, friends.

Busted.

Just watched Wes Anderson's Moonrise Kingdom. I have thoughts on this  94 minute long Instagram pic, but I will save them for now.

I am remembering an earlier film tonight: The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, which turned me on to Seu Jorge. Here is a favorite song that has a funny translation. I'll leave that part up to you.

I Was Lost, But Now I'm Found.

Do you know that feeling you have when you've found something truly spectacular, and you're so over the moon about it, and you're telling everyone you know about it hoping that they will listen, read, taste, look, or touch and they just don't?

So many years ago (2002?) a friend of mine got so fed up with me ignoring his raves that he just bought the damn CD for me and shoved it in my hands. I listened to it while I was panic-strickenly lost en route to Atlanta's Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, supposedly on my way home after a visit, but prospects of getting on a plane looking dimmer by the moment.

Aside from the intense focus I had on finding the right off ramp (seriously, this airport is like the Bermuda Triangle), the CD in question had the remainder of my attention, and somehow soothed my disoriented mind, lifting my rental car onto its magic carpet and depositing me at my destination without ten minutes to spare.

I'm talking about Badly Drawn Boy's Have You Fed the Fish. Here's a live performance of You Were Right. Is it my favorite? Hard to say. This is a work that from one song to the next my infatuation shifts like a fickle teenager.    

Although I really do think I'm in love with How...

I picked up 1999's The Hour of Bewilderbeast soon after and crushed all over again. This is Once Around the Block.

That was a long time ago, but it still holds up today. Sometimes we don't know what's good for us, eh? Oh, and thanks a million, you know who.

Saved by a Gyro-Roto Redundant Rectifier with Stereotactic Hydrocompressors.

You know what? It's tough coming up with a topic to write about every day. Unless I already have an idea in mind, I often put off the task until as late as possible, hoping that some event or person in my oh-so-interesting life will prompt an a-ha! This is a risky wager, since as the hours turn, the likelihood of any such encounter becomes awfully slim. And I am left further dulled by the flashing Vacancy sign that sits in place of my brain.

Today was mundane as hell. The fact that my jeans were too tight occupied most of my mental energy until 5:00, and then I was driving home, changing (whew), driving to the pharmacy, and then driving to dance class. Leaving the studio to go home, I started to realize I was in big trouble. I still had nothing. And then, as if delivered from the heavens, parked right next to me was this:

On first glance it appeared to be a legit service vehicle of some sort. But as the computer circuitry that was glued to the side panels and the eroded foam tubing mounted on the roof came into focus, any shred of authenticity was betrayed.

Hmmm. Who is the keeper of this fine chariot? I'd love to know.

P.S. I googled Gyro-Roto Redundant Rectifier with Stereotactic Hydrocompressors, hoping to get in on the reference, but I only got one return: a blog post from 2004 that describes a red van too similarly to not be it (or version 2.0).

 

Control. It's the Alternate to Delete.

Technology occasionally messes with my brain.

Back in my first years of college, all of my papers were produced on a typewriter. I hand-wrote pages of ideas, cleaned them up in a second draft, and then carefully tapped them out on the keys. Ding, return, oh shit. New sheet of paper.

Now that I can compose on screen, and backspace and CTRL-Z to my heart’s desire, I’ve become more daring. And more sloppy. In life, even more so.

In the digital world, we exist in a universe that thrives on a lack of permanence. We may edit, edit, and edit again. Even if we click Save. It is this luxury that makes us (me) inattentive sometimes. On occasion, my mind expects an undo function to be available for any time—at just the toggling of my fingers. One that will reverse the moment of impulse in which I said or did too much. One that will spring back into my hands the fragile heirloom that has shattered on the floor. One that will erase the root beer float and fried chicken I ate for dinner. Like none of it never happened.

To further extend my demands on the miracles of modern times, my mind sometimes imagines feats similar to others that currenly exist: like clicking a button and instantly knowing the name and artist of a song that’s playing. Or uploading an image to search the web for its source.

Tonight we met an old friend at the bar. I hugged him and he smelled wonderful. And my mind sprung to query mode: don’t I have an app that will tell me what this fragrance is, so I don’t have to sheepishly ask?

Not yet. Soon come, I’m guessing. That and a little time travel for all of life’s little Deletes.

The Zen of Domesticated Animals.

I took one of our permanent cats to the vet this evening—the one who's going to eventually be on an iron lung—and as I sat in the waiting room with her and peeked at her through the carrier, I realized that her tiny walnut brain had no idea what is going on today. She has no worries, no excitement, no overwhelming insecurity of what tomorrow might bring. She just sat there being a little perturbed that her dinner hour was being so inconveniently interrupted.

After I got home from a wonderfully exhilarating dance class, I corralled the temporary kittens, fed them, and rolled around on the floor with them. As I looked at their little faces and thought about their even smaller, let's say raisin-sized masses of grey and white matter, I had a similar thought. In their minds, tomorrow will be just another day. They will continue to be nourished and loved, and life will go on as it always has without much noticeable change or consequence. And probably ours will too.

Mostly, I just envied their mental and emotional freedom, even if it isn't their conscious choice. Is it possible to get there? I wonder...  

Cold Heart, Warm Hands.

This morning I got out of bed 20 minutes early, which, considering that I normally get out of bed 10 minutes late, was an act that could only be inspired by pure love. Yep, I flung off the covers, put on some warm socks and a bathrobe, plucked a can of foul-smelling paste from the fridge, poured a cup of water, mixed the latter two together to make an utterly repulsive gruel, and fed it to two very appreciative little mouths.

I didn’t necessarily need to, but I supervised the entire affair, assisting with directional scooping and repositioning of their little bodies so they didn’t miss a morsel. Then I picked them both up and tucked them into my robe, kissing their heads and whispering little coos of encouragement.

And I thought, for roughly 20 seconds, “hmmm, maybe I could be a parent...”

Nah.

For the Love...

I've been an animal lover since I was able to take my first steps toward someone's pet and affectionately pull its tail. (They don't like that, I learned quickly.) My fondness became stronger and more complicated when allergies in our family prevented us from having any creature with fur. (That is, until the problem moved away to go to college and we eventually got a dog.) 

The moment I was on my own and had the ability to care for one, I adopted my first kitten. A new roommate's allergies quickly quashed that scene, however, and I was forced to give her up. My parents were happy to take her, though, having also suffered 18 years of my sister's oppression. (She knows I'm teasing, but I'm not sure how she would feel about me mentioning her here, so don't tell her, OK?) Heh.

Years later, with a compliant, allergy-free partner, I was free to begin bringing felines into the fold, and so I did. Three, to be overindulgent. They're all still with us: two are 14 and one is 11 and gets force fed lung disease pills twice a day. For reals.

I'm in trouble today because we've just discovered two abandoned strays on our back porch, and while they are currently squatting in a wad of blankets in our basement bathroom, they can't stay. Nope. No. No way. No, really.

Anyone...?

I Can't Get No. Satisfaction.

Oh, Internet, how you fail me sometimes. I have been searching and re-querying without result for a watercolor painting I saw earlier today at the Syd Mead: Progressions exhibit at the Kendall College Historic Federal Building Gallery.

If you're in Grand Rapids before December 7, 2012, it is definitely a must see. It features a combination of some of my favorite aesthetics: futurism, conceptual automotive design, and highly stylized architecture. Yum. I feel all warm inside.

I guess I'll have to go back to the gallery to re-see the painting I seek. In the mean time, this site has some sweets for the eye.

Courtesy of carstyling.ru. Thanks!

Young in My Heart.

I happened on this video while I was searching for decent footage to relate to the post I wanted to write tonight. I found what I was looking for, but I like this better so I will embrace the moment, rather than the plan.

It's from my favorite Neil Young album: Harvest. No, wait, I like After the Gold Rush better. Nope, I am absolutely wrong. Everybody Knows this Is Nowhere is the best. After all, it has Cowgirl in the Sand...

Do Try This at Home.

I'm a huge fan of Trader Joe's, in part because its absence from my community creates an elevated fondness. Nevertheless, their smoked sea salt grinder is a household staple and the inspiration for some spicy pumpkin seeds.

Here's what you need:

• Seeds from a medium to large pumpkin, about 1½-2 cups, rinsed and soaked in water over night. (Why do this? For me, it's a carryover from family tradition. But, I think soaking them allows them to roast more evenly without becoming too crispy on the outside without cooking the inside. That's my theory, anyway.)
• Several grinds from your Trader Joe's Smoked Sea Salt Grinder
• One small to medium chipotle pepper, stemmed, seeded, and broken into small pieces
• A pinch of Aleppo pepper
• A pinch of crushed red pepper
• Olive oil

Here's what to do:

Spread pumpkin seeds in a medium roasting pan. Drizzle with a little bit of olive oil to coat. Sprinkle with salt, to taste.

Put the chipotle, Aleppo, and crushed red peppers in a spice grinder and spin until finely ground. Toss onto the pumpkin seeds and stir thoroughly until all spices are evenly mixed.

Roast at about 275°, turning constantly until cooked through and crisp.

There you go! Don't eat a bunch before you go to bed, FYI...