Wednesday, October 15, 2014
The very moment I decide to increase my savings contributions I hate all of my workout clothes and want to buy new gear in the exact same shade of nondescript black in the same nondescript style to supposedly freshen up my routine.
The very moment I am finally going to the farmers' market for the day, I realize I have zero cash on hand and need to sort through the ten pound box of coins I have at home with the hopes I can buy at least two heads of kale or maybe some organic, cage free, etc etc eggs with the change in my pouch.
The very moment I am due to be at the shuttle stop for work I decide to start getting ready for it.
The very moment I map out my itinerary for the bus I find I have missed it and end up taking an Uber anyway.
The very moment our plane tickets for our Christmas vacation reach a reasonably lower price I remember I still have to put in the request to redeem and use mileage.
The very moment I have a full day to write a post, I have nothing to say.
The very moment I have something to do instead of my post, three ideas come to mind.
The very moment I have to get outta here to meet my friend I need to use the bathroom.
The very moment I hit Publish on my blog, all seems right with my afternoon.
Monday, October 13, 2014
|A woman scorned. Meet Maria Elena. (photo source)|
On the surface I appeared calm, steady, normal. Beneath that I was waiting for a tiny reason to tear him a new *ssh0le. Late night make outs began to sour rather than stimulate.
Love Doesn't Just Die. We Kill It Most of the Time. I am not a COMPLETE psycho, but love on life support can make a person feel like one.
I was young and in love, but from where I stood he was less and less interested in me. Disenchanted is the word I like to use. He would look at me with contempt, he seemed too jealous and suspicious of me. Me? Lil' ol' me with the bright smile and prudish upbringing. Me - who believed God would strike her down for having premarital sex and instead developed mad skills at a few Lewinsky-style relations. Me? The gal who wanted nothing but to spend all of her time with him? Me? The gal who wanted to marry him. Me? Suspicious of ME? Blind, loyal, devoted me? You don't want to talk to me about it? Pardon moi - oh, I DID hear you right, you WOULD rather go clubbing than to sit with me at my grandmother's wake. You're too chicken to end it? Oh, allow me, it is my pleasure. Not only is this chicken done, but I used its skin and bones for stock and have composted it all for you too. Sorry, there will be no turning back. Oh, you're sorry? Oh, you DON'T want to break up? Oh I misunderstood you? Do I still love you? Sure - last week I did. Yeah, sorry. You should have thought through the 'Stupid Boyfriend Playbook' before I pulled the plug.
So he's cheating on me, you say? Oh, with her? HER- that girl sitting right in front of me whose desk seat I need to kick with increasing intensity with every swing of my crazy angry sixteen year old betrayed leg? Go for it. Have her. In fact, take everything you ever gave me back with you before I burn it in my parents' house. My mother brushed my hair with her hand looking at the pile of classic high school boyfriend presents in my room: stuffed toys, sweaters, a watch, stupid souvenirs, even a bracelet I think. She kissed the top of my head and said, "Good girl." She practically sealed and shipped the box for me. If I wanted to burn it, I do believe she would have handed me the lighter fluid after having the box brought to the empty lot across the street. We could watch the remnants of my first relationship burn from the patio after dinner while eating dessert. The scene plays well in my head. In reality his crap was delivered to his front yard by a common friend who had the lucky task of giving him the disapproving head shake. "What am I supposed to do with all of this?!?" he exclaimed. My one regret after killing that courtship was that it was so civil. I wanted to see something go up in flames like my feelings for him.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
A smattering of my top snippets from the week. This time around, I am recapping by time of day versus day of the week. Aren't most things more memorable around when we eat anyway? I invite you to follow me @blogger_bp on Instagram during the week if you aren't already.
Or more accurately, 10:45 pm snack. When you want something chocolatey on a week night and know there's a bag of Bob's Red Mill Brownie Mix in your cupboard, it's easy to give in. After trimming off the edges I saw this imperfectly perfect giant brownie square. Why bother cutting some more? I'm just going to eat the whole thing anyway...
|A giant brownie is all I could need.|
Toasters lined up at The Mill on Divisadero ... I can see why they need all of these. Pumpkin butter, almond butter, honey butter, sea salt and classic butter, etc etc atop thick slices of toast with a cuppa joe. Sadly unable to eat the toast nor coffee drinker myself, I enjoyed my cup of tea with Wedded Clicks over the asian pear and midnight brownies I smuggled in. When she coaxed me to taste her toast, I knew we had the makings of an enjoyable morning. We were engaged in spectating between our secret-swapping and silly stories. There were many cool citizens to watch in this stylish spot.
Grabbing lunch at a bar midday feels very adult. After declaring on a twitter chat that I use social media to extend my offline life and not to only live vicariously (link to spectator) through it, I put my money where my mouth was and found this watering hole I saw on IG (natch). Worth the walk, The Social Study is comfortable, relaxed and civilized in the day, with a full bar and good eats manned by the charming owner. Ginger limeade and tacos for one please. Should bring my laptop next time, or just come by at night for the DJ.
|Lunch at the bar; the DJ booth above the home library set up at The Social Study.|
The #pineappleselfie at Wrecking Ball Coffee Roasters in front of Rifle Paper's wallpaper is the "thing" at this Union Street coffee house. Not much for selfies myself, these sugar cubes were screaming for a pineapple portrait prior to being plopped into my cup of Honey Orchid tea (just one cube not all, mind you).
Dinner dates when the hubbies are working late are great with girls, particularly one you are getting to know. @MontgomeryFest and I found some surprising commonalities between us during our delicious mediterranean meal. Mother-daughter dynamics are both unique and universal whether you're from Louisiana by way of Brussels or from New Jersey by way of Manila. I love getting lost in conversation. You never know where it can take you.
|Moving announcement from MontgomeryFest|
Tonight I am working on my first Mosaic Photo Book using their app on my iPhone. Limited to twenty pictures, the book is meant to be done quickly and easily. Click click click, done. with only take four business days from order to delivery. This one is a bit moody in theme, but the next one will be based on offline blog fun. In cooperation with Mosaic I will be giving away a free photo book this weekend, so start looking at your own pictures and tell me in the comments below what kind of Mosaic Photo Book you would create. For an extra entry, please like and regram or favor and retweet my IG and Twitter announcements for this giveaway. A winner will be randomly chosen and announced Tuesday, October 14th, so check back then!
|A snapshot of my Mosaic Photo Book in progress.|
Happy Columbus Day Weekend! Good luck with the contest!
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
It's not so much what you dream about doing as it is what you are willing to endure to carry on with it.
Last week I read this post by Mark Manson discussing the seven questions to ask when contemplating one's life's purpose. His first question, WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE FLAVOR OF SHIT SANDWICH AND DOES IT COME WITH AN OLIVE? stuck with me like gum in my hair. Impossible to shake off and always there, my fingers fiddling with it in the morning and at night while in bed. I do not know what my favorite shit sandwich flavor of all time is, though I have had my fair share of them in different areas and at different times in my life. I do not prepare my shit sandwiches with olives though. I hate olives unless broken down into a tapenade. Mr. Manson perceives the olive as a garnish, saying that if you are going to eat a shit sandwich to get where you need to go or to get what it is you need, it may as well be for something you really really want. It has to be worth it. I see the olive as the devil's advocate, "Are you sure you're willing to eat this shit sandwich because this added olive might just send you over the edge, kid!" So I'd better think hard and fast about these shit sandwiches because the best things in life aren't only NOT free, but you do need to go through a lot of crap to get them.
When I finally moved away from my parents' house halfway across the globe in my twenties, I was willing to eat a shit sandwich of the "no monthly allowance after one year even if that means picking up an extra odd job" and "find a roommate off of Craigslist" variety. Even if the shit sandwiches for being independent tasted like leaving my friends behind, homesickness, humility, uncertainty, strict weekly accounting, a pointless second job under the supervision of a sleazy boss and endless jabs of judgement from my sister, I was willing to keep eating them because I knew that those shit sandwiches were my key to cutting the umbilical cord.
Some people's shit sandwiches taste like missed weekends with friends, carpal tunnel syndrome, 2 hour commutes, early morning burpees, and late night researching. Oftentimes other shit sandwiches taste more like paintings that won't sell, manuscripts full of red lines, cattle calls, staffing that continually turns over, filing small business taxes at a loss, preparing uneaten fresh home cooked organic meals every single day, and working through the holidays.
My shit sandwich currently tastes like several posts being written simultaneously over several hours, none of which interest me by the time I am supposed to be done. My shit sandwich tastes like crickets. Crickets that you hear when there is absolute silence in your surroundings, because my head is empty. The olive is coming back to it time after time and eventually coming up with something I like.
The taste of that shit sandwich is too familiar and not too exciting. Let me be honest. I am not trying hard enough to fail. Therefore, I do not have a true shit sandwich in my lunch bag. I do not know what kind of shit sandwich I am willing to eat to become a published writer because I frankly I am still too under confident to line up at the deli counter to order one. Heck, I have yet to read the menu.
Am I willing to be rejected and my writing criticized? - sigh- Not yet. I am too chicken to eat criticism and rejection. But I want to keep on writing anyway. I both fear and crave that shit sandwich of failure, a shit sandwich that feels like my energy is drained from trying so hard that I need to sit the next one out. The shit sandwich that tastes like a submission completely marked up in edits, or worse, harsh questions (You call yourself a writer? This isn't writing, why did you waste our time?). I never considered the olive on this shit sandwich would mean I'd be improving in the process, becoming more tenacious and therefore better at writing, until just now while writing this. I will have to work up an appetite for that big shit sandwich. I need to simultaneously build up an appetite for and resistance to it so that I can get up and keep going, one shit sandwich at a time.
Do you have an appetite for your shit sandwich? How does it taste?