It's Not Over Until the Twelfth Drummer Drums

I hope your Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, (or if you're Jehovah's Witness, weekend where everything was closed and the only thing you could do was eat Chinese food or go to the movies), was fabulous. While Christmas is not my favorite holiday (it comes in at a close second to Thanksgiving), it is my favorite time of year. With all the twinkle lights and Christmas songs played everywhere you go, there just seems to be a certain glow about everything. Friends come home. Family gets together. I love the magical, warm and fuzzy feeling I get every year around this time. And let's face it, presents don't hurt either. For the first time in more years than I'd like to count, Kurt and I exchanged presents. In years past, we were just-out-of-college-and-starting-out-on-our-own-poor, or saving for something important (like a wedding), so we agreed not to exchange. This year, we finally feel like we're on our feet and while there's always something to save for, we decided to exchange and, not wanting to go overboard, capped the value at a modest amount. I got him cologne and some books and dvds and he got me a pair of beautiful turquoise earrings. That's right. Cologne and books. Turquoise earrings. It's not hard to see who made out better in that exchange.

On Christmas Eve, we go to my aunt and uncle's house for dinner. We have a few traditions on Christmas Eve that date back to before I can remember. I love traditions. This is because I am largely a creature of habit. Once, my parents surprised us with tickets to Disney World (my favorite place on Earth) for Thanksgiving and my response was, "Wait, we're not going to see Aunt Arlene and Uncle Ed?" I was also appalled that we would be eating Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant (no offense to anyone who does, but since we had never eaten Thanksgiving in a restaurant before, I was completely against it. see: Creature of Habit above.).

Anyway, back to Christmas. Before Christmas Eve dinner each year, we each take a piece of Christmas wafer (or Opłatki, in Polish) and go around wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. The way it works is this: you walk up to someone, say Merry Christmas, take a piece of their wafer, while they break off a piece of yours, you each eat your own little piece of each other's wafer, then kiss on the cheek or shake hands. Move to the next person and repeat. This, as you can imagine, was torturous for Kurt the first time I brought him to Christmas Eve. It's a fun little tradition to initiate anyone into the family. This, and not the food, is my favorite part of Christmas Eve dinner. As a kid, I used to let each person take only a tiny piece from my wafer so I could eat the rest when we were done. This little habit, I realized a few years ago, must have been picked up from my Nonni who would do the same, but also take the largest piece possible from everyone else.

After the wafers, we move onto dinner. My aunt's parents were Polish and my grandparents were Italian, so we have a mish mash of cultural food. Pierogies with sauerkraut or cheese, pickled herring, and kielbasa represent the Polish side, while the feast of the seven fishes, stuffed mushrooms, and risotto two ways represent the Italian side (usually, we also have lasagna as a first course). And let's not forget, we're also American, so we have to have ham, potatoes, carrots, and the staple of any American holiday dinner table: green bean casserole. After dinner comes a ridiculous amount of desserts. This year, my dad must have been feeling adventurous because, for dessert on Christmas Day, he made an Eggnog Cheesecake, which, if you've ever had any dessert made by my father, you would know was to die for. Now that all four of us cousins are old enough to drink, the wine and champagne flows and by the end of the meal, everyone is stuffed, happy, warm, and just a little bit tipsy.

On Christmas Day, my dad and sister came over for pancakes and we gave my sister the nerdiest Christmas present ever: Anatomy Flash Cards (which she asked for and loved).

And then we made the rounds visiting Kurt's parents and then back to my aunt and uncle's to end where we began.

I've always liked Christmas Eve better than Christmas Day. I think it has something to do with anticipation being sweeter than whatever is being anticipated. On Christmas Eve, there's still one day left, there are still presents to open, people to see, food to eat. On Christmas Day, it's over. After December 25th, radio stations stop playing Christmas music, people start taking down their trees, everyone goes back to work. It's just so sad. We spend months preparing for Christmas, living each day in a sort of stressed, yet somehow warm and fuzzy, holiday stupor. Each day, the excitement mounts. And then suddenly, it's over and we're required to go on with our days as usual. Did you know The Twelve Days of Christmas are actually AFTER Christmas? I learned this fact only a month ago. I think it's marvelous, a way to ease out of the holiday the way we eased in. I, for one, still have my Christmas tree up, my wreath is still on the front door, and my Glee Christmas CD is still in my car stereo. And while I'm being forced against my will to take down my tree this weekend (tax season starts on Monday, so Kurt won't be around to take down the tree after this weekend), I plan to celebrate Christmas until the twelfth and final day. Happy 5th Day of Christmas!

Typography Clock

One of the blogs I check on a daily basis is Apartment Therapy. I like to find decorating and furnishing ideas for the rooms of my future. Hey, it's better than spending money I don't have on furniture that won't fit in our apartment, right? Anyway, yesterday, Apartment Therapy posted this fabulous clock by Doug's Word Clocks.

Yes, I know it's not for everyone, but I am totally in love with it. I love how odd it is. It’s not for those of us who need to know the exact minute at all times (ok, me), but it could go in a room where that’s not totally necessary. I’m imagining it hanging in a cool dining room or living room as a unique piece of art, because at a whopping $363.50 AUD, that's the only way I could justify buying it. One day.

Oversharing: The Secret to Making Friends

Have you ever met someone and hit it off right away, finding yourself sharing way too much information in your first meeting and feeling totally normal about it? Well, this Saturday night, Kurt and I went to my friends’ Christmas party and did just that. We didn’t know many people, so naturally, we stood by the kitchen and intercepted homemade spanikopita fresh from the oven and mini apricot and brie filo pastries that burned the roofs of our mouths from the unsuspecting arms of our hostess. Yes, my friends, I know how to party. (Sidenote: this is also the best place to stand during the cocktail hour at weddings. No more will you be shouting, “THERE WERE MINI HOTDOGS?!” because you will have first dibs. You’re welcome.)

Anyway, after awhile, another couple came over and introduced themselves. They were our hosts’ neighbors and in the first 15 minutes we covered birth control, vasectomies, periods, and poop, without irony, or shame. Forget the weather and what you do for a living; apparently, the best way to make friends is to delve into those really, deeply personal and awkward topics. After realizing what we'd been talking about with, let's face it, perfect strangers, we laughed and moved on to more “appropriate” topics as more people joined our conversation. Meanwhile, I contemplated how to make these people our very best friends, because really, how often do you meet people right off the bat with whom topics like these surface naturally (outside of a doctor's office, of course)?

Tangerine Tango

Each year, pantone announces the color of the year. 2010 was turquoise, 2011 was a bright red called Honeysuckle. The official announcement for the color of 2012 came on Thursday: Tangerine Tango.

It’s so bright and energetic, exactly what we need to revive ourselves this coming year. I’m ready to paint something, anything this zesty color.

What Happens When You Read Too Many Decorating Blogs

Every once in awhile, I get the urge to do some major redecorating. I've basically been feeling that way for months about our bedroom and living room, but both logic and lack of funds have restrained me. Kurt and I have agreed to curb our new furniture shopping sprees (and by "our", I mean "my") until we buy a house and know what we need to get. I'm one of those people who believe the perfect room is achieved little by little, collecting pieces you love that might not match, but go perfectly together. For an idea of my style, think of Jess's bedroom in the show New Girl. I love color, antiques, and a mish mash of styles.

Since I won't be buying new furniture anytime soon, I've had to satisfy my longing for change in other, less costly ways. We have built-in bookshelves in our living room that surround the door to our bedroom. These bookshelves are something I will truly miss when we leave this apartment.** I'm still trying to figure out a way to take them with me. Since they are a focal point in the living room, I've struggled with how I want to organize my books to make them look appealing. Before, they were arranged alphabetically by author (my anal, OCD, used-to-work-in-publishing self taking over) and Kurt complained that he could never find anything. Then, they were arranged by size and series. Now, my visual, "I need to look at something beautiful" self has taken control and done this:

How awesome are my new bookshelves, if I do say so myself? I am very happy with them. Finally. That is, until my right brain completely kicks my left brain out of the equation and I organize them by color.

**While there are many things I will miss about our apartment, here are some things I will not miss: The sprickets, the drafts, the feeling that I can never get anything clean no matter how hard I try, the ghost (though I'm developing a soft spot for him (or her)), the potential for flooding, the uneven plaster walls that I long to paint anything but white, the fact that in the past two weeks, the kitchen ceiling has begun to leak, the drawer underneath the oven has broken for no apparent reason (and the 2 screws that came undone are missing (I'm blaming the ghost)), and the two 2x4s with hooks that were nailed (yes, nailed and not screwed) to the plywood (yes, plywood) kitchen wall and hung all of our pots and pans fell down amidst lots of crashing and cursing.

A Few Things That Have Nothing to Do With One Another

1. I just discovered an amazing thing: DayQuil and NyQuil LIQUIGELS! No more disgusting liquid NyQuil. Whenever I’m sick, I swear by NyQuil, but I dread taking it. When it’s time to take a dose, I prepare myself and get out a full glass of water and a piece of bread. The bread is the only thing that gets that awful taste out of my mouth. But now the geniuses over at the NyQuil Company have made it so I don’t have to use an entire loaf of bread each time I’m sick. Plus, it’s way easier to carry a bunch of liquigels in your purse than a bottle of medicine.

2. Our wedding video is now up on vimeo. When we first started planning a wedding, I didn’t want a videographer. The main reason was I didn’t want to have to watch myself on video. I didn’t want to see the awkward dancing or bad angles. Friends of mine (one of whom is a wedding videographer herself) encouraged me to get a videographer. “You won’t regret it.” “It’s totally worth it.” And I scoffed and stood my ground. But at the last minute, a man Kurt works with offered to do our video for a very reasonable price. The price was so reasonable, we just couldn’t pass it up. And boy am I glad we didn’t pass it up. He did a beautiful job. I was so impressed with this video (and it’s only the “short” version). I love watching it, something I never thought would happen. Ok, I still don’t love the awkward dancing part and look away every time it comes up, but still. I think my favorite part is when one of my bridesmaids ducks the bubbles. So, if you’re into watching wedding videos, click here. It’s only 8 minutes long. If you’re not and feel like you’ve wasted an entire 2 minutes of your life reading about wedding videos and feel like you haven’t gotten anything out of this post, click here to see the biggest insect in the world.

PS - if you're looking for a videographer, Bob Beebe is your man.

Mr. Gobbles

During my Senior year of college, I interned at a company in Kendall Square in Boston. The building I worked in was more or less a "U" shape, with a small courtyard where the smokers would gather. For weeks, I drove to work, swiped my access card, parked in the lot, swiped my access card again, and entered the building; each day like the one before. Then, one morning, I walked into the building and happened to look into the courtyard to my left. There stood the largest, proudest turkey I have ever seen. It was standing in the courtyard, staring at itself in the reflection of the windows, its colorful feathers puffed out. I practically ran to my office to share the news with my officemate. This was, by the way, February in Boston, the temperature rarely above freezing. "DID YOU SEE THE TURKEY IN THE COURTYARD??" He barely looked up from his computer. "You mean Mr. Gobbles?" "He has a name!?" "Sure, he's been here for years. He just looks at himself in the windows all day long." My mind swam with questions. Where did he come from? Where does he live? Why is he in a city of all places? Is he someone's pet? Isn't he cold??

To say Mr. Gobbles was the largest turkey I've ever seen is not hyperbole. I would never want to be face to face with that thing. But he intrigued me. He seemed to completely ignore all the people, cars, and concrete surrounding him, and focused only on his reflection (presumably thinking it was another male). I've never known a turkey to be described as regal before; clumsy, awkward, even tasty, sure. But Mr. Gobbles was a regal bird. He'd strut around the courtyard, flashing his colorful feathers, putting on a show for anyone who would watch.

He had become somewhat of a mascot at the company. At some point, long before I'd arrived, he stopped being "that turkey in the courtyard" and became Mr. Gobbles. Everyone at the company accepted him as part of the landscaping, walking by without a second glance. Everyone, except new people like me, that is, who took every opportunity to watch him. Eventually though, he became just another part of my workday, his presence no longer novel. He was still an anomaly, a great story to tell, just not something to marvel over each day. 

I stumbled across this article today. It seems his mate and offspring have made Kendall Square their home. I know Thanksgiving is a day to be eating turkeys, not reminiscing about them, but every year around this time (ok, yes, fine, while I'm eating one of his brothers (or sisters)) I think of Mr. Gobbles and wonder how he's doing. 

Have a happy Holiday, Mr. Gobbles and may you never end up on a Thanksgiving table.

Some thoughts on Sunday

Sundays are sleeping in, bagels, long runs, brunch, bellinis, lazy, two-hour naps, getting lost in a good book, recuperative, relaxing, sunshine, errands, football, no makeup, dinner with the family, dreading Mondays.

What do Sundays mean to you?

An Overdeveloped Sense of Empathy

Have you ever bought something just because you felt bad NOT buying something? I've been there. Too many times. I'm too nice. I know I am. I want to please everyone, all the time. So, when I'm shopping for something in particular, I usually refrain from asking for help or advice in a store because I end up feeling terrible if I don't buy something. In May, I was looking for a dress for my bachelorette party. We were going salsa dancing, so I wanted something fun, but not too restrictive, different, but not weird. I went into a store on my way out of the mall after a particularly unsuccessful shopping trip and was met by a sweet, helpful salesgirl, about my age. I explained to her what I was looking for and she came back with piles of dresses and shoes. I was overwhelmed by how genuinely excited she seemed to be helping me, but let's just say we didn't have the same tastes in dresses. Most of the dresses she brought over were matronly, or more flamenco, and less salsa. Or just plain ugly. I tried my best to hide my feelings about the dresses and thanked her profusely for her help. Each time I told her I didn't like a dress (or rather that it "was super cute, but didn't really look that great on me"), her face seemed to fall a little more. She was actually breaking my heart. It wasn't one of those "Oh no, I'm not getting a commission" sort of look. It was more "she doesn't like my taste. Maybe I don't know what I'm doing" looks. I swear, I almost bought something just to make her happy (and then return it later to another location). Has this ever happened to you? Please tell me it's not just me who avoids salespeople at all costs just so I don't have to hurt their feelings. I'm sure I read WAY too much into this and these people end up forgetting about me the second I leave the store, but I always worry that I'm hurting someone's feelings.

This overdeveloped sense of empathy is most problematic at craft fairs, or farmers markets, where the merchandise has actually been made by the seller. Typically, at these places, I follow the crowds, never going up to a stand by myself. This way, I avoid being singled out, having to smile politely, apologetically, and leave empty-handed. Normally, I hate crowds, but in these situations, I welcome them and the anonymity they promise. 

There is a seasonal farmer's market in the next town over every Monday in the Spring, Summer, and early Fall. Two local farms have large stands, piled with watermelons, peaches, radishes, tomatoes, corn. One farm stand has lower prices than the other. Logic and simple math would tell you to buy from the cheaper farm stand, thus saving money. What do I do? I buy from both, every time. I tell myself it's because I'm trying to support local farmers and really, how could I choose between the two? But really, it's because I don't want to hurt one farmer's feelings by passing over their stand and going straight to the other. So, I buy peaches and tomatoes from one, watermelon and potatoes from the other.

This is why I started shopping more online. I actually prefer the tactile shopping experience of retail shopping, feeling the clothes, trying everything on. But online, there's no salesperson or vendor to disappoint. Although, now I return items much more often (usually in-store because it's easier), which causes another issue: that awkward situation wherein the cashier asks why you're returning it. I never know what to say. "I just didn't like it" just sounds mean. What is wrong with me?

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Everyone has certain things, memories, people, places, that bring back warm, happy, childhood memories. Mr. Rogers is one of those things for me. And if you grew up in the States and were allowed to watch tv, chances are, he is for you too. (Unless you're Kurt who thinks, and swears he always thought, Mr. Rogers was creepy.) Watching television was allowed at my house, in moderation of course. Most of my memories are of playing outside with the neighborhood kids in all types of weather. But the tv was on, tuned to PBS or the Disney Channel, whenever I was inside. And I loved Mr. Rogers. I can't even begin to tell you the many things I learned watching his show. Even now, seeing old reruns brings me back to a simpler time when the biggest decision of the day was whether to play freeze tag or TV tag.

I came across this article today (thanks Ruth!) that only solidified my warm and fuzzy feelings toward that kindly be-cardiganed man. These days, it feels like we too often find that our childhood idols were less upstanding citizens and more flawed, dishonest people, nothing more than actors playing on our emotions. It's comforting to know that somone I admired and loved as a child was truly everything he seemed to be, and more. Let's face it, we could all stand to be a little more like Mr. Rogers, a little more neighborly.

Looking Good Vs. Seeing Well

I am getting Lasik. Or rather, PRK, which is akin to Lasik. Here's a little background: I started wearing glasses in the 3rd grade and have worn contacts since I was 13 and convinced my mother after YEARS of begging to let me stick little round pieces of plastic in my eyes, (I got them the day after I got braces. It was the braces that did it in the end, I think. Glasses she saw no problem with, but glasses AND braces AND an unfortunate bob-like haircut AND the awkwardness of 13? Oh no, we couldn’t have that). I have wanted Lasik since I first heard about it years and years ago. Of course, my eyes were still changing, so I had to wait. And wait. And wait some more. I am now at the point where the astigmatism in my left eye is so bad that contacts can no longer correct my vision fully (Not to worry, Lasik still can) and my left contact moves around all day long while I pretend to ignore it.

About a month ago, Kurt found a deal on Groupon for almost 60% off Lasik at one of the most reputable Lasik places in the area. He called them to confirm and after being reassured there wasn’t anything sketchy going on (they’ll refund your money if it turns out you’re not a candidate), we bought them and made appointments for consultations. Ok, he bought his and made his appointment while I argued with myself, trying to decide if I should. My thoughts went something like this: Should I get it? I don’t think I’m a candidate. My prescription changed a TINY bit last time. But maybe it’s just because my eyes are strained because contacts don’t work anymore. Oh, screw it, I’ll never find a deal like this ever again. THEN, I bought my groupon and made my appointment.

By now, I'm sure you’re all aware that I have some issues. I don’t like people touching my neck, or my belly button (I don’t think you knew that yet). While (surprisingly) I have no qualms about touching my own eye, it creeps me out to think of a laser, a BEAM OF LIGHT, touching my bare eyeball. Actually, what I worry about is that I’ll flinch or move and the laser will blind me. That’s really what I’m worried about if I’m being completely honest. Nevertheless, I went to my appointment to find out if I’m a candidate. I expected a very lengthy, indepth testing process. This is my vision we're talking about after all. Instead, I sat in front of two machines; one of which somehow automatically focused an image to perfection to determine my prescription, the other took 50 pictures of my eye in the span of about 3 seconds to determine the thickness of my cornea.
 

(As a sidenote, my prescription is really bad. Every new eye doctor I go to, and this one was no exception, feels the need to tell me just how bad it is, as if I've never been told that before. I can see clearly 2 inches in front of my face and closer. That's it. The technicians and doctors never seem to take this into consideration. This particular technician took my glasses from me, had me take out my contacts and said, "Ok, now look at the pinwheel." "I see a white blur." "Oh, ok, well it'll become a pinwheel." Then she gave me reading material on Lasik. Because, you know, I can read it perfectly fine. I am at an eye doctor's office WITHOUT MY CONTACTS IN. I also never make eye contact with the doctors during this process because I have no idea if they're looking at me or not. So to avoid looking socially awkward, I look away...and then manage to look socially awkward because I'm NOT making any sort of eye contact. Does anyone else have this problem? Just me? Great.)

After the two incredibly technologically advanced exams (I consider myself an intelligent person, but I still don't understand how either machine does what it does), the doctor came in to speak with me. She began by telling me how bad my vision is. Really? I had no idea. As it turns out, my cornea is too thin for Lasik (who knew?), but I am a candidate for PRK. It's apparently safer, the same price, and easier for the doctor's (I don't know about you, but when I have a major surgery, I always care about how easy it will be on THE DOCTOR). So why doesn't everyone get this? Why haven't I ever heard of this procedure? There is significantly more downtime and discomfort afterward. Without going into too much gory detail, instead of making a flap like they do for Lasik, the doctor will perform the surgery directly onto my corneas, essentially scratching them. The downtime and pain are similar to having a scratch on your cornea if you've ever felt that (which I have not). I will be out of commission for 4 days and should have 20/20 vision after a week or so. So am I doing it? That would be a resounding YES. I'm looking forward to waking up and being able to see, to opening my eyes underwater again, to not having to blink a gazillion times a day to readjust my contacts. Even if they had to take my eyeballs out of their sockets to perform the procedure, I would still be doing it.

One of the hardest parts of having this procedure has been the scheduling. I can't wear my contacts for 10 days straight before it, which meant it had to be scheduled after my half marathon and after New Years (who wants to party in glasses?). AND, I can't wear makeup for THREE WHOLE DAYS before the surgery. I think I've done that once since I discovered mascara in 8th grade and it was only because I was uber sick and in bed for 3 days straight. I will actually have to go out in public, to work, without makeup on. It is THAT, and not the wearing glasses for 10 days nor paying a doctor an obscene amount of money to scratch my corneas, nor the "intense pain" that a "few" people experience afterward, that I'm most worried about. At least I have my priorities straight. Right? I scheduled the procedure for January 19th and have been counting down the days ever since they confirmed the date, planning, of course, to avoid as much human contact as possible.

So here's my question for you. Have you or do you know anyone who had this alternative to Lasik? How did they fare? Have they been blinded for life? Actually, if they have, don't tell me. I think I'd rather not know. Just give me the good stories.

No Real Than You Are

Does anyone else find this hilarious? And perhaps a little creepy? Just me? Ok, then.

Apparently, a giant Lego man has washed up on the shore of a Florida beach. I really don't know what to say about this. Where to begin? First of all, the grammar nerd in me is writhing in pain looking at that sentence fragment written on his shirt. If you're going to go through all that trouble to make a giant Lego man and find a way to have him wash up on a Florida beach, causing a national sensation, wouldn't you want to make sure your grammar is correct? 

I honestly thought I had mistakenly stumbled across The Onion website when I saw this. The headline is the best part. I love that he's being held "in custody." As if he were real. Or is he?

One thing's for sure; it will be haunting my dreams tonight. The sentence, not the giant Lego man, in case there was any question.

I Have Created a Monster

Last Friday night, Kurt and I decided to be productive and run some errands. We are one wild and crazy couple, let me tell you. It's Friday night? Let's go crazy and buy some furniture. While we're at it, why don't we get a cane and some dentures as well!

I've been wanting a little end table to go next to our armchair in the living room. Do you know how expensive furniture is? At least, any piece of furniture I like. I have very expensive taste, but my lack of funds usually means I try to make do with what I have or what I can fake to look up to my standards. I am beginning to see the appeal of flea markets and discount stores. We headed to TJ Maxx. And this is where it gets weird. Kurt is now a full-fledged "Maxxinista". Maxxinisto? Whatever. Either one. He now loves TJ Maxx.

A word on TJ Maxx: I get stressed in these stores. The lack of organization alone gives me hives. I shiver just thinking about the complete randomness that is their clothing selection. Larges are mixed in with smalls, Calvin Klein dress shirts next to flimsy, poorly made halters. It pains me. It really does. I also, inexplicably, feel dirty, like actually covered in dirt, every time I walk in. But, on the rare occasions I'm in the mood to dig through racks of discount clothes, I head to TJ Maxx and almost always walk out with some ridiculously discounted item. The one section of the store I love is the furniture and home section. You can always find a great price on something you absolutely need, even if you didn't know you needed it before you walked in.

TJ Maxx is usually hit or miss for me. I never have high hopes for furniture there, but when it's a "hit" day, it's pretty fabulous. So, on a mission for a new end table, we headed to the furniture section. And Kurt fell in love. We didn't find an end table (I found countless other pieces of furniture I loved but could never fit in our tiny apartment), but Kurt found the following items: a canvas picture, a paper towel holder, a cheese slicer ("we NEED this!"), slippers, an antiqued globe (no, not an antique globe, but instead, one that has been made to look antique), an oversized hourglass, and Darrel Lea Soft Eating Licorice. "TJ Maxx is awesome!" he yelled. Logic eventually won out and we left the store with just the essentials: the paper towel holder, the cheese slicer, slippers, and licorice.

What about the end table, you ask? I had a slight epiphany when we returned home from our fruitful (depending on whom you ask) excursion. We had an old, miniature chess table sitting in our bedroom, covered with random things that could be placed elsewhere. This little chess table is now our end table. I kind of love it.

(By the way, I just discovered CB2. As in Crate & Barrel 2! Now, I love Crate & Barrel, but cannot afford nary a tea towel from that store. I am frequent visitor to the outlet store in Cranbury, NJ where I can at least buy a tea towel, but I had NO idea there was a discount Crate & Barrel! It's like Crate & Barrel and IKEA met and had a baby. A beautiful, fashionable, colorful, reasonably priced baby. How has no one ever told me about this AMAZING website? I mean, most of the stuff is a little modern for me, but mixed in with comfy pieces? Eclectic perfection.)

Best Onesie Ever: The Babe With The Power

If you have no idea why this onesie is the Best Onesie Ever, go to Netflix and put Labyrinth at the top of your queue. Stat.

If you are a child of the 80's and have no idea why this onesie is the Best Onesie Ever, SHAME. ON. YOU.

If you would like to purchase the Best Onesie Ever for your Babe With The Power, click here.

Rules for Trick-or-Treating

We live on Main Street in Small Town, USA, where parades, Civil War reenactments, and knowing your neighbors are the norm. Here, Halloween is an experience. At 6pm, every Halloween, Main Street is closed, fire engines, police cars, and the high school marching band slowly make it down the street, followed by hundreds and hundreds of trick-or-treaters. I've lived on Main Street for 5 years. The first 3 years were spent living in a tiny apartment above a shop. Our apartment number was something straight of a Harry Potter novel: 18-1/2. Since people who knew where we lived could barely find our apartment, it should not have come as a surprise that we got zero trick-or-treaters. Zero. The first year, we bought tons of candy, excited to see the kids dressed up. That candy sat in our living room, not one single piece having been given out to trick-or-treaters. I'd like to say that candy lasted us until Christmas, but that would be a lie. It lasted maybe three days. The last Halloween I spent in that apartment, I stood outside with a bowl of candy, determined to participate, dressed like a creepy twenty-something girl eager to give out candy to little kids. Oh. Wait.

When Kurt and I moved in together, in an apartment across the street, I had no idea what we were getting into. Halloween came, we bought candy. A lot of candy. It lasted 45 minutes. I ran out to CVS to buy more and rushed home. (I'm pretty sure they marked up the Halloween candy at the last minute since those few bags of candy cost me what seemed like an arm and a leg) It lasted another 45 minutes.

This year, we were more prepared. We went to BJ's and picked up four huge bags of candy. We sat on the porch with our neighbor handing out candy to the kids. After tonight's experience, I have come up with four rules for trick-or-treaters. That's right, kids. Your night of fun now comes with a side of rules. As an aside, I'm really not as grumpy as this will make me sound. It just really bothers me that some kids (and parents) think they are entitled to EVERYTHING FOR FREE and feel no need to even say thank you. So here goes:

1) If you don't dress up, you shouldn't get candy. Put cat ears on, paint whiskers on your face, anything! (more to the point, if you are a parent, you do not get candy. you can buy your own, you don't need the free stuff from strangers. leave some for the kids, huh?)

2) Say "trick-or-treat." Really, how hard is it? They're three measly words and you get FREE CANDY. No "trick-or-treat," no candy.

3) Take ONE piece of candy. There are hundreds of kids behind you and I'm not made of money. (I couldn't believe the number of kids who grabbed handfuls and ran - because they KNEW THEY WERE WRONG.)

4) If you've come to my house once, I remember you. No double dipping. (PARENTS, this one is for you as well. It's time to teach your kids honesty and integrity. Saying "Ooo look guys, candy!" doesn't fool me for a second. I remember you from the first time you came around and encouraged your kids to take handfuls of my candy.)

There. Four simple rules that really shouldn't even need to be enforced. I honestly don't think that's too much to ask. Is it? Am I a grump?

Truthfully, most of the kids said thank you and "trick-or-treat" and at least put on a Phillies jersey as a costume. Some teenagers even went all out (one kid was Max from Where the Wild Things Are). The parents stood behind the little ones, nervous, waiting to correct them; "say trick-or-treat!" "say thank you!" I love these kids and these parents. I appreciate their manners and enthusiasm. A little effort and kindness really go a long way.

And yes, I gave candy to the ones who didn't dress up, who didn't say "trick-or-treat", who took a handful of candy, and who came twice (a couple kids DID ALL FOUR of these things). I'm all talk. I "jokingly" scolded the kids whose parents encouraged them to come back for seconds, but that was really more for the parents to hear than the children. The truth is, I love Halloween, I love the costumes, I love handing out candy, and I love making just one child's night, even if a thousand didn't appreciate it. My only regret from tonight? Not getting the chance to watch the movie I watched every Halloween as a child: Hocus Pocus. I guess there's always next year (when I'm printing these four rules on a piece of cardboard and posting it on my porch). Kids, next year, at the Bernhard's, you get a piece of candy AND a lesson in manners. Bring your parents!

On Snowstorms, Flag Football, and Dedication

For the past month or so, my Saturday mornings have been spent playing flag football. Yes, you read that right. Flag Football. I joined a co-ed team in Princeton with some friends and former co-workers from The Restaurant. While I am pretty terrible at flag football, I'm starting to get a little better, at least on defense. And I'm having fun, which is what's important, right? Have I mentioned we're in 2nd place in the league? That doesn't hurt either.

If you're in the Northeast, you'll know that this Saturday Old Man Winter decided to grace us with his presence about 2 months early. I woke up Saturday morning to near freezing temperatures and frigid rain. I checked weather.com. The forecast was snow. I checked my email. The games were still on. The league moved our games to the turf fields (we play at one of the local prep schools) and we played as usual. Snow? Pah! We are co-ed club athletes. We laugh in the face of snow! On the drive to the fields, the thermometer in my car read 40 degrees, and it was raining. Hard. Halfway there, the rain turned to snow and it quickly began to accumulate.

Having been informed of the potential for freezing temperatures, I had gone on a little shopping spree earlier in the week. I picked up cleats, pants, underarmour shirts, and gloves. I was prepared. Or so I thought. Frankly, the gloves did nothing and what's more, interfered with my ability (or existing lack thereof) to catch the ball. There was already about an inch of snow on the field when I got there, and the snow was still coming down hard. I put on a second long-sleeve shirt and got ready to play. I think it's safe to say I've never been so cold in my life. And that's saying something. I went to college in Boston. My fingers were numb, my toes were numb. I couldn't tell if my pants were soaked or not, so I'm assuming my legs were numb too. When we weren't mid-play, we hopped from foot to foot, swung our arms, jogged in place. Anything to get warm. The snow was that heavy, wet snow, so we were soaked, snow and water in our eyes. For about ten minutes after the game, I sat in my car, worried my fingers had frostbite (they were swollen, red, burning, and still numb). Despite all that, I can honestly say I had a great time. There's something about sharing a comically ridiculous experience with friends that makes it all worth it. It was one of those once in a lifetime (hopefully) experiences that I'm sure I'll look back on fondly. Here's a little glimpse of the game so you can look back on it fondly too, from the warmth and comfort of your home.

Top Secret: Kiss Cookies Recipe

Since I was about 7, my dad has made these fantastic cookies (see the worst picture of them ever to the right). My best friend christened them “Super-Duper-Extra-Special-Mr.-Ricci-Cookies” when we were in 3^rd grade, though we just call them Kiss Cookies. They were/are her favorite cookies (which is why my only job in planning her bridal shower was “BRING THE COOKIES”). My sister and I have helped my dad make them over the years. They really are fantastic and they’re usually a big hit (Kurt is the only one I know who doesn’t go crazy for them), but they’re a pain to make. While the recipe is very easy, it is a painstakingly long process. You start by unwrapping Hershey’s Kisses (at least 28 oz.). Then, you wrap each newly unwrapped kiss in dough. During the holidays, our kitchen usually resembled an assembly line (or a sweatshop. Take your pick). We’d put on Elf and spend hours unwrapping and wrapping hundreds of kisses.

In the past, whenever I needed these cookies, I asked my dad and volunteered my tiny fingers for the unwrapping/wrapping part. Well folks, the student has become the master (or you know, the amateur baker who calls her dad every five minutes in a panic when the dough doesn’t turn out exactly the way he said it would). Putting my new food processor and KitchenAid mixer to good use, Kurt and I spent about 7 hours over the past two weeks making a grand total of 600 cookies, more or less…but probably close to more. The first round of baking (or torture, as Kurt puts it) was for Maca’s going away party, where my former co-workers fought over who got to take some home with them. Is there any better feeling than people loving something you made so much that arguments and fistfights ensue? I think not.

The second round was for a charity bake sale at Kurt’s work this week. On Monday night, we spent five hours making about 400 cookies. For me, this is fairly standard. For Kurt, it was intensive labor akin to sweatshop work. This time, the dough didn’t do exactly what it was supposed to, so I called my dad. “You must have done something wrong.” Thanks, Dad. I appreciate your candor.* But, against all odds, and by some sort of magic, the cookies turned out the way they were supposed to. My dad offered support the way any concerned father would, by calling three to four times during the process to ask how things were going. These are his babies after all.

My dad has always believed in sharing recipes, so in that spirit, I give to you the recipe for the Super-Duper-Extra-Special-Mr.-Ricci-Cookies. Happy baking!

1½  cups of butter or margarine, softened
¾ cup sugar
1 tablespoon of Almond extract
2¾ cups of all purpose flour
1½ cups of finely chopped almonds (consistency of grated parmesan cheese)
2 (14 oz) packages of Hershey’s kisses
½ cup of semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 tablespoon shortening
powdered sugar

Heat oven to 375 degrees.  In a large bowl, beat butter, sugar, and almond extract until light and fluffy.  Add flour and almonds; beat at low speed until well blended.

Shape scant teaspoonful of dough around each candy kiss, covering completely.  Roll in hands to form ball.  Place on ungreased cookie sheets.

Bake at 375 degrees for 8 to 12 minutes or until set at the bottom edges (cookies will not darken much).  Cool on the cookie sheets for at least 5 minutes (they will crumble unless they stand for 5 minutes).

In a small saucepan over low heat, melt chocolate chips and shortening, stirring until smooth.  Drizzle over each cookie and let set.  Sprinkle cookies with powdered sugar before serving.

Helpful hints: Place parchment paper on cookie sheets. Leave cookies on sheets of parchment and drizzle chocolate on them.  It makes cleanup easier.  Place chocolate in a pastry bag to drizzle and use a fine tip.  Refrigerate cookies after drizzling to set the chocolate before sprinkling with powdered sugar.

*My high school AP US History teacher was an interesting man. I'd go as far as to say he was quirky, maybe even weird. When he asked a question, if you gave him the incorrect answer, he'd respond, "I appreciate your candor." and move on, never actually telling you what the correct answer was. One thing I'll say about LHS, it was certainly not lacking in unique teachers.

Sweet Transvestites

In 8th grade, my friend's parents took three of us to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show performed at Bucks County Playhouse. And it changed my life. We dressed up in trampy costumes, black lipstick and tons of black eyeliner, carted toast, playing cards, water guns, etc. We left covered soggy toast, our hair and makeup ruined, with a newfound sense of happiness. While Rocky Horror might be considered by some to be too risque for 13 year old girls, we absolutely loved it (and for the record, it did not corrupt us in any way). We returned every year until college, including more and more friends in our guilty pleasure. Our guy friends and boyfriends came along, gamely borrowing our skirts and letting us do their makeup. Those fall nights at Bucks County Playhouse are some of my favorite memories. We had a blast doing something a little risque yet totally innocent, a little taboo, but extremely popular (for those who knew of it).

(To this day, I am still shocked my father let me go all the way back in 8th grade. I truly believe there are only two reasons I was allowed. 1) My friend's parents took us and more importantly 2) my dad was a theater major and amateur actor. He had always encouraged us to get involved in theater, but my sister and I both chose athletics instead. While he was never a huge fan of Rocky Horror, he was able to appreciate the theatricality and the fun. He understood what it was about: pushing the limits and shocking audiences.)

If you've never been to a performance of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, the only way I can describe it is it's an Experience. It is raunchy, shocking, hilarious, over-the-top, dirty, and above all...weird. The audience spends most of its time standing up, dancing, singing along with the cast, and throwing things at each other at the right moments (which is why you should watch the movie before you go...and maybe google "what to do at Rocky Horror"). The cast, mostly men in drag (whom, I might add, looked better in short short skirts and cleavage-bearing shirts than I did. It was depressing really.), spend their time wandering through the audience, sitting on laps, dirty dancing, and generally trying to make people feel as uncomfortable as possible. It is absolutely fabulous.

Glee did a Rocky Horror episode last season and watching it brought me back to those fabulous nights filled with friends, toast, and eyeliner. For those of you who have never seen it, rent the movie, this very second. Then, go for the full experience and see the show. I had planned on taking my sister this year to expose her to this strange and crazy world. However. The theater we used to go to has since closed. If anyone knows of a theater in the Princeton area that puts on Rocky Horror, please let me know. I can't stand the thought of another Halloween without The Time Warp.

The Bumbershoot

I have a love/hate relationship with umbrellas. I love that they keep me dry. I hate how awkward and annoying they are to carry. I have at least 4: one in the car at all times, one in my purse, one at the office, and one at home. Every time I walk past an umbrella stand, I have to stop and look at them. Have they invented a more ingenious way of keeping me dry yet? I’ve debated buying the huge, cumbersome golf umbrellas (surely those would keep me, and ten other people dry), and also the clear, bubble ones. I can’t decide if they’re super cute or super ridiculous.

In college, using umbrellas was just too much of a hassle. I tried wearing hoods or just putting my hair up and pretending not to care that I was soaked to the bone. Boston wind ruined every umbrella I had, except one: the fundraiser Lawrence High School Cardinal umbrella we sold my junior year. I guarded that one with my life.

While studying in Rome in college, I learned never to carry an umbrella. As soon as the first rain drop fell, men would appear from out of nowhere with tiny umbrellas hanging from their wrists. We were usually able to haggle them down to 3 euros a pop. Genius. I wish that would happen everywhere. How great it would be if you were just walking down the street in Princeton, you feel a raindrop, and poof! there’s some random man ready to save you with a $3 umbrella? The Italians have so many things right. We Americans have so much to learn.

As a commuter to NYC, I learned quickly that I needed to prepare for the elements. I bought snow boots, two pairs of wellies (one with a wedge heel and one without), a trench coat, a warm, puffy coat, gloves, etc. The umbrella became that useful, but annoying friend again. My one requirement for a new handbag was that it could fit my umbrella. Trying to juggle a handbag, work bag, coffee, and umbrella and still stay dry is not easy, let me tell you. I’ve tried in vain to find a cute trench coat with a hood (if anyone finds one, please send me the link), and so the umbrella has remained ever present in my wardrobe, mocking me. "I’ll keep you dry", it seems to say, "but I won’t make it easy for you."

I am aware umbrellas are cumbersome and sometimes ridiculous. But they’re useful. At least I think so. For as long as I’ve known him, Kurt has never used an umbrella. “Real men don’t use umbrellas”, has always been his mantra. I’ve always thought it was silly. “Real men” would rather be soaked all day, or ruin a good suit, than be seen carrying an umbrella. I thought he was just being stubborn. But today, I saw this: http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/04181/338865-154.stm. This writer makes some hilarious points about umbrellas and machismo. Good to know I’ve married a “real man.” I was worried.

You Don't Know The Jersey Shore Until You've Run It

Sunday was an historic day - I ran my first half-marathon with my friend, Macarena. It was our last little venture together before she moves to Chile. I have to admit I was a little nervous. We had been training for the past 12 weeks, but I still wasn't sure exactly how I'd feel during the last 3 miles. We'd only ever run 10. The race was in Seaside Heights, NJ, known, as of recently, for fist-pumping guidos. On Sunday, however, the boardwalk was filled, not with overly-tanned, buff men with blow-outs, but with men and women ready to check something off their bucket list, or train for their next marathon. I can safely say Maca and I were of the former group of people. The race began on the boardwalk. We ran past arcades and foodstands, closed for the season. When the boardwalk ran out, we ran through the streets to Island Beach State Park, and then back to the boardwalk, finishing where we started, though maybe a few pounds lighter and definitely sweatier. The course was beautiful. Running on the boardwalk, we were able to catch some glimpses of the ocean through breaks in the dunes. Above all, it was flat, thank God. We started out slowly, too nervous to push ourselves too much too early, but at the halfway point, we realized we were making good time. Our goal was to finish in two hours and 30 minutes. At the halfway point, our time was one hour and 12 minutes. Feeling good and encouraged by our time, we picked up the pace on the way back. I think we were both surprised with how good we felt. Neither of us was gasping for air or ready to quit. My knee started hurting about a mile into the race, which was fantastic, but thankfully, it held out for the next 12.1 miles. Maca's entire family came to support us, equipped with cameras, video cameras, and signs. It was adorable. It felt so good sprinting to the finish line with Maca, her family cheering us on. We finished in two hours, 21 minutes, and 49 seconds, 9 minutes under our goal. Her dad shot a great video of us crossing the finish line, which I'll post when I get it from him. I never thought I'd say this, but I will definitely be running another half marathon. That thrill at the end, when you've actually done something you've been preparing for for so long, but still weren't entirely sure you could do, is something I hope each of you feels one day. It's exhilarating. But now that Maca's leaving me (unless of course I succeed in kidnapping her and her husband before they get the chance to leave), I need a new running buddy. Who's in?

On a separate, though not completely unrelated note, we threw a surprise Going Away Party for Maca and her husband Sunday night. Let me just say that you should all go out and make friends with people who work in restaurants. Everyone brought and/or made the most amazing food. Our host (one of the managers from the restaurant), made duck, steak, and ribs on the grill. It was a great night. I don't think I have ever been to a party where everyone ended up sitting around the same table, eating, talking, and laughing, until now. I hate goodbyes, but I think if you do have to say goodbye to someone you love, this was the perfect way to do it: surrounded by good food, laughter, (with maybe a few tears thrown in) and friends.

Chasing Rainbows

On the way home today, I saw a rainbow (believe me, it was much more beautiful than this picture shows. God, my photography skills are lacking. Can you even tell there's a rainbow there? There is. I promise. It's in the middle. Look close.). I love rainbows. They always make me feel a little nostalgic. For four glorious years, between ages 3 and 7, I lived next door to my best friend, Eric. Most of my memories from those years include him; like the time we chased a hot air balloon that was landing in the field behind our building, or when I told him I wouldn't be his friend if he didn't tell his Grandmother (a die-hard Mets fan) that he liked the Phillies more (he did and she chased us around the yard, tickling us, until we submitted). Some of my favorite memories with Eric are when we tried to find the pot of gold at the ends of rainbows. We had enough freedom, and our development was large enough, that we had plenty of room to run. Each time we saw a rainbow, we'd run as fast as we could, to try to find the end of the rainbow, where surely, treasures awaited, not to mention Leprechauns. There were even a few times we convinced our parents to drive us on our mission. No matter how far we ran or how long we drove, we never made it to the ends of the rainbows. They always disappeared after enough time, nothing more than light and drops of water. But the sense of adventure, the excitement of what we might find if we ever made it in time, was enough for us. Seeing rainbows, even now, reminds me what it's like to be a kid, to believe in magic, and let imagination take over.

Carb Overload

This Sunday, I am running my first half marathon. While I very clearly remember saying I would never run a half marathon, sometime shortly after The Broad Street 10 Mile Run I think it was, I found myself signing up for the Seaside Heights Half Marathon with two friends.

(As an aside, I will NEVER run a full marathon. You can hold me to that one. Bucket list be damned. Not only do I have no desire to run a full marathon, I also don’t have the time to train for one. How do people work full-time AND go for 4 hour runs on a regular basis?)

Anyway, I have been training for the past 12 weeks, running 3-4 times a week and have already run 10 miles twice (more than I’ve ever run for any period of time since high school when my field hockey coach was forcing me to). While I cannot wait for this race to be over, I think I’m going to keep running. I love to run, especially in the summer, but sometime around November, my motivation goes out the window and I end up sitting in front of the tv pigging out on holiday leftovers all winter. Come Spring, I’m out of shape and the thought of getting back INTO shape depresses me. This race has forced me to keep a steady schedule and I have to say, being able to run 5 miles and FEEL GOOD during it, is totally worth it. THAT is what I don’t want to lose this winter. Yea. Let’s see how long this lasts.

I have, however, entered the very best part of the training: Carb-Loading. This week, I have to run 3 2-mile runs at an easy pace, so as not to tire myself out before the race on Sunday. No problem. Easy-peasy right? Just wait. Here's the best part: Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, 80% of my food intake needs to be carbohydrates. Apparently, I need to cut down on the fat and fiber (which are difficult to digest), and load up on pasta, rice, bread, bagels. Seriously? THIS I can do. If only the entire training had been like this. The article I found on RunnersWorld.com said I should aim to gain about 3-4 pounds in the 3 days leading up to the race. Less running + all the carbs I can eat? I’m on this.

Squatters

This weekend was Allentown's Harvest Festival. I'm not entirely sure there's anything better than walking out your front door and being met with the following choices: BBQ or Thai food? (answer: Thai food) Petting zoo or rescue a kitten? (answer: we already have a kitten, so petting zoo) Make a scarecrow or watch the Civil War reenactment? (answer: Civil War reenactment) Cupcake or ice cream? (answer: both). Kurt and I walked through the festival yesterday morning planning our meals over the next two days. In the past two days, I have eaten a cupcake, kettle corn, a pulled pork sandwich, Thai dumplings and fried rice, a pork kebab, part of a kielbasa, egg, and cheese sandwich, and potato leek soup...and possibly more I'm forgetting. I love Harvest Festival. All day, for two days, Main Street is shut down and filled with vendors selling everything from homemade candles to organic dog treats. I never buy much, but I walk the street at least four times, just in case there's something I missed. 

Every year, the fair attracts some interesting people. This year, the fair attracted people who believed our front porch was public domain. We have a crooked wooden bench on our front porch that was left here by a previous tenant. Almost every time I walked out of the house yesterday and today, there was someone sitting and eating on the bench. Our house is very clearly not a shop or otherwise public property. It is a house. And it's not that strangers sitting on my porch bothered me per se, I just don't understand it. I would never walk up someone's porch steps and plop myself on their chairs or benches. I find this extremely odd. It's the first year it's happened and let me say, it happened often this weekend. Some of the people were the family from one of the vendors (whom we do not know), but some were just fair-goers. Is this odd? Am I being grumpy? Perhaps. But would YOU sit on a stranger's front porch and eat your lunch? If so, please explain this behavior to me, since I am clearly ignorant.

essie: Absolutely Shore

New Favorite Nail Polish:

essie: Absolutely Shore

I don't normally do these super girlie posts, but I had to share this. Guys, bare with me here. essie is my preferred brand of nail polish and their new shade, "Absolutely Shore" is my new favorite. I normally play it safe and go with "Sugar Daddy," a very light pink, but I LOVE this shade. It's sort of a sea foam green and is fun without looking too unprofessional (for those of us in corporate America). It's matte and opaque, two musts for me when it comes to my nails. It especially looks amazing on toes, perfect for the transition from Summer to Fall. Plus, how can you go wrong with a name like that?

What 4 (or 5) Drinks Will Make You Do

We've had a busy few days. Thursday night, a few of my girlfriends came over for our weekly Grey's Anatomy Get-Together. I served Sparkling Peach Juice (which was AMAZING. Forget the Sparkling Apple Cider from now on) and this:

Chocolate Croissant Bread Pudding

I think next time, a little honey drizzled on top would make it even better. But it was the perfect Fall dessert: hearty, savory, sweet, and chocolate.  Though to be honest, I'd eat pretty much anything that contained croissants and chocolate.

Friday afternoon/evening we attended my cousin's wedding in New Hope. I love a good wedding. Before we got married, I'd spend the whole reception making mental notes. Now, I use them as an excuse to dress up and wear my blue wedding shoes, because really, there just aren't enough opportunites in life to get dressed up and wear bright blue shoes.

The ceremony was at a pavilion at Bowman's Tower in New Hope, PA. They had a beautiful afternoon for it. The bride was gorgeous in her gown. But, when she walked down the aisle, for the first time in my life, I watched the groom (my cousin) instead. I couldn't actually see the bride from my seat, so instead of standing on my tiptoes and craning my neck in vain, only catching glimpses in between people's heads, I opted to watch his reaction. I am so glad I did. I could tell the moment he first saw her, as she appeared at the top of the aisle, because his face just lit up. It was so heartwarming to see how happy and in love he was. I always look at the bride, but my cousin's face was just so sweet as he watched his bride walking towards him, that I think I've found my new focus at weddings. To all future brides of the future weddings I attend, I'm sorry. To all the future grooms of the future weddings I attend, make sure you look MADLY in love. I'll be watching.

Later that night, at the reception, the fathers of the bride and groom provided cigars and Port for everyone who wanted one. Feeling adventurous, and surprising everyone, I convinced my sister to split one with me. I have never smoked anything in my life before. And for some reason (possibly it was the 2 martinis and 2 (or 3) vodka and sprites talking), I decided that night would be the right time to smoke half a cigar. We joined my father and uncle, and some of the other men (we were the only women to partake) outside on the patio, in the rain. It was fun in the way doing something out of character, even a little rebellious can be. (By the way, I didn't inhale it. I knew it would make me sick if I did. And, really, let's not get carried away. We all know me. My rebellion has to have SOME sort of control.) However, the next morning, I woke up to a sandpaper tongue and the taste of tobacco in my mouth. While visions of Pinocchio at Pleasure Island swam in my head, I drank glass after glass of water and brushed my teeth at least four times. No amount of water hydrated my tongue and no amount of mouthwash or toothpaste rid my mouth of the awful taste. Suffice to say, I will not be smoking any more cigars anytime soon. Oh well. The rebellious streak was fun while it lasted.

Long Live the First Amendment

In honor of Banned Books Week, this post will be a listing of all the banned books you should read.

By censoring books, we tell our children that it's wrong to think differently, to dream, to question, to disagree, to challenge a way of life or an idea. I've already written my thoughts on censorship and book banning here, so I won't repeat myself. Happy reading!

His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman
Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
Blood and Chocolate by Annette Klause
The Giver by Lois Lowry
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl
James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie

Here's a great resource from Random House that offers a more extensive list of banned books: The First Amendment First Aid Kit

On Food and Love

My landlord stopped by the other day to check on our furnace (which needs to be replaced after being submerged beneath 6 feet of water and not “fixed” like he thought) and mentioned in passing that he couldn’t eat mashed potatoes anymore (I was making them at the time). Something to do with cholesterol and a hardening of the arteries. Not at all worth giving up potatoes slathered in butter, sour cream, and milk. I mean, if you’re going to be living, you should be LIVING, right? Here’s my new goal in life: To never ever get to the point where I need to give up a food I love.

I exercise not because it’s good for me, but because it means I don’t have to diet. Because here’s the sad truth. I CAN’T diet. When it comes to food, I have no will power (well, except during Lent, but that’s only because there’s an END). Don’t get me wrong, the foods I eat are normally healthy and fresh, but not because I’m dieting, because to me, THAT is good food. That is what I crave (when I'm not craving chocolate or Skittles or mashed potatoes slathered in butter and sour cream). I can’t imagine giving up the foods I love for the rest of my life. Like everyone else, I'm guilty of falling into the "I'll Just Make PB&J for Lunch Because I Have No Time" trap. And those days are sad and colorless. I crave something with taste. Something new and exciting or familiar and comforting.

For me, eating and eating well is one of life’s true joys. You know those times when you bite into something so incredibly delectable, you just sit there and sigh, at a complete loss for words? Those are the moments I live for. Growing up with an Italian grandmother taught me one thing: to eat good food is to know love. You could be completely alone, and a bite of something that tastes like Heaven can fill you with such completeless, you need nothing else in life at that moment.

What is it about food that makes it transcend mere sustenance and provide comfort, even love? Sometimes it's the people; either the people who cook the food, or the ones with whom you are eating. Or perhaps it's the simple chemistry of ingredients providing taste. I'm sure it's different no matter whom you ask. But one thing is for sure: there's no better way to show someone you love them, than cooking for them (even if what you make is completely inedible).

I experienced this after my mother passed away. Friends, people in the community, cooked us casseroles or soups, and left them at our front door, not to insinuate my father was unable to cook (he's a fantastic cook), but because that was the best way they knew how to show their love and support. It was such a simple gesture, and so loving.

So, tonight, your assignment is this: wherever you are, whatever you're eating, slow down, focus on the taste and enjoy it. I remember my grandfather coming over after dinner every night when I was little. He was diabetic and was forced to give up the foods he loved (he had a terrible sweet tooth). Every night, out from under the watchful eye of my Nonni, he would drive to our house and have a bite of dessert. One little bite. Because he knew firsthand, it is a sad, sad life without good food.

Meet Casper, Our 3rd Roommate

I've mentioned before that I believe in ghosts. I'm fascinated by them, in fact. As a child, I read Goosebumps and watched ghost documentaries until I was completely petrified. During the summer after I graduated college, I was a nanny for my cousin's 2-year old son and his neighbor who was the same age. They live in historic rowhomes in Philadelphia. One day, we were in the living room playing. One of the boys went into the kitchen and almost immediately, came screaming and running into the living room. "A man! A man!" he screamed. I was a young girl, in a city, alone with 2 toddlers. There was no way I could navigate the childproof doorknobs while carrying both of them. I had no idea what to do. I heard nothing, so, heart pounding, I went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife thinking it was possibly an intruder. The back door was in the kitchen. I check the door. It was deadbolted shut. There was no man. I told the little boy that there was no man, that everything was fine. For the rest of the day he refused to go anywhere near the kitchen and stayed by my side. A case of overactive imagination? Possibly. Personally, I'm pretty positive he saw a ghost.

We have been experiencing the antics of our own little poltergeist. While (thank God) there haven't been any sightings as of yet, they're enough to completely petrify me. The lamp on Kurt's desk is touch-sensitive. When you touch it, it turns on. When you touch it again, it gets brighter. Every once in awhile, I'll wake up in the morning, walk into the living room, and see that lamp shining brightly. The first time it happened, I assumed Kurt had just left it on from the night before. But it kept happening. So I asked him to stop. He told me he hadn't touched it, had never touched it. Our house is about 150 years old and multiple homes and shops in town are rumored to have spectral visitors, so it being haunted isn't that far-fetched. When I told him my theory (that a ghost had turned it on), he gave me a look and said it was probably the wind. Right. Because the wind is so strong coming through our completely closed-up apartment. So I've run "tests" on the lamp. I've touched it with the blinds on the window, paper, staplers, anything I can find. Nothing. It only responds to human touch. At this point, I'm so petrified of seeing a ghost that I won't look in the dining room (where the desk is) until all lights are turned on. Just in case.

(As an aside, I also won't walk into a room without turning the light on first, just in case there's an enormous spider or spricket on the floor ready to attack me. It's a great way to live. You should try it.)

To add further basis to my theory, Kurt told me last night that the ghost has been trying to watch tv. Apparently, Kurt will turn off the cable box in our bedroom and later, it'll be back on. Why he needed to tell me this I don't know. I could've been left ignorantly, blissfully in the dark about the ghost's new obsession. But no. Now I'm afraid of my own bedroom.

I figure, as long as the ghost doesn't startle me or show up, I'll be fine. (Ghost, if you're reading this, you're welcome to stay, just PLEASE don't scare me. Otherwise, we'll have to move and I think we can all agree that we've been really good roommates so far. Who knows what awful people might move in if we leave.)

'Sounds Like Parades'

Here's a little known fact about me (or not so little known fact): I am a huge dork. As a child I watched Star Trek with my dad. Of my own accord. I love The Discovery Channel. I enjoy crossword puzzles. I once read an almanac, cover to cover. I was in 3rd grade. I know all the books of the Bible by heart (this is more because of a song we learned in Sunday School when I was little, and less because of some sort of awful compulsive disorder I have, and really only comes in handy when doing crosswords or while watching Jeopardy. Did I mention I love Jeopardy?) I love to learn. I'm sure many people assume my good grades were a result of some natural intelligence. Not so. I found most subjects in school to be interesting, so I paid attention, and retained the information. It was that simple. Add that to the fact that I'm highly competitive and you've got the recipe for a straight-A student.


To add to my dorkiness or perhaps because of it, in high school, while others were learning to drink, building their tolerance for college, my friends and I played charades. No, that's not some euphemism for something I don't want my family knowing I did, nor is it the name of an elaborate drinking game. We actually played charades. Intensely. We'd get together and split up into teams, boys versus girls and spend the night, sober, I might add, yelling at each other. GIVE US ANOTHER CLUE! WHAT DOES IT SOUND LIKE?? SOUNDS LIKE SWEEPING? WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING!!! were the screams you could hear on a typical charades night. Over time, we got better. It didn't hurt that my best friend and I knew each other so well that we were practically telepathic (here's a hint: never play us in Taboo. We'll kick your butts). Those nights, when we yelled until our voices gave out, and laughed until our stomachs hurt, are some of my fondest memories to date. We entered college with embarrassingly low tolerances for alcohol, but armed with the knowledge of charades sign: 'movie' 'tv' 'sounds like' and so on, because surely that would come in useful in college.


Much to Kurt's dismay (he hates charades. I KNOW, right?), I'm planning a charades night with some new friends. I can't wait. I am a little nervous about how they will react to my competitive streak. They've never seen it. I might have to tone it down. At least the first time.