As we enter into the final countdown to Christmas, we’ve all probably made a list we’re hoping Santa will peruse and use to fill the base of our Christmas trees. With each passing year, I find this list gets more and more difficult to produce. Most of what I want is shit I can buy for myself or is way too extravagant to request or simply no longer exists. It’s a difficult time of year; we all have our battles.
So on this virtual eve of Christmas, I thought I’d share my Christmas list with you – specifically those items which will forever be featured on my list and, at this point, make no sense.
This could probably be labeled as “boyband cd,” but, while I enjoyed the plethora of boybands that exploded during my adolescence, none compared to the magic that was Justin, JT, the gay one, and those other two guys. I know they’re no longer together, but I still want a CD. I want them to be a boyband forever so I can shamelessly sing along to the lyrics I don’t yet know are absolutely vile. I want both that innocence and the splendor of their music for Christmas this year.
I didn’t even have barbies growing up and yet I still want to be able to brag to my elementary school friends that I had that pink mansion shoved and probably mangled in the back of my closet. It makes no sense; I don’t even understand it. And yet…I want it.
Yes, I have my own actual oven now. And yes, I could probably make a much better batch of brownies/cookies in that oven; this point is not lost on me. But something about waiting 6 hours for a lightbulb to cook a single brownie still sounds awesome to me.
I live with a dog larger than my bed and a boyfriend. We share a full sized bed and yet, I still want a pillow that’s going to surround my entire body. It is absurd and would absolutely be more of an intruder than anything else but…I want it.
Why do I want this? Please someone enlighten me! Honestly, I barely understand the label maker’s existence. I have never once opened a cabinet and been so overwhelmed by a lack of labels that I used salt instead of sugar or tried to use milk instead of glue for a glitter project. Most everything comes with some sort of label which is generally useful for identifying its purpose. Yet, if I had a label maker, I would literally label everything – cabinets, coffee pot, soap, tv, book shelves; it would be ridiculous and that makes me want it.
Sharpies are the only markers worth owning. They are insanely expensive. They bleed through EVERYTHING. They last for almost an entire doodle. And they come in colors no person would ever use. No person has ever thought, “you know what color I wish I could use to write this memo? Flesh color.” But you know what? Every damn time I see that pack of 9 million sharpies for a mere $197, I stop and truly consider purchasing it. Mind you, this is all the more insane because I am a web designer and, therefore, write almost nothing with a pen.
I already have almost all of these products, except mine are all one generation old now. So I must replace them. Their functionality has not improved. Their design has not improved. They are slightly modified (neither for better or worse) versions of their parents and owning them will add nothing to my life. And yeeeeeeeeet…my life feels a little empty without them. I have iPad 2, but….is the New iPad better? It’s got “new” in the title, so it must be better…right?”
Do I have a tree in which to build a house? Nope. Do I have a club or massive porn collection which might benefit from the seclusion provided by a tree house? Nope. If I had a tree house, would I ever be willing to spend any amount of time in what could easily become a spider sanctuary? No. No I would not. But here it is on my list.
Otherwise known as an adorably packaged giant responsibility. I had a small puppy; now I have a big puppy and I KNOW I am not ready to restart that potty-training fiasco. But…I mean…how amazing would it be to open a box and see a little yellow lab with a red bow around its neck? It would be amazing provided you had no idea what was about to happen to your life.
It’s garbage…and my life would be no better or worse with either of these subscriptions. But I guess it’s the only product on this list that makes even a semblance of sense…
So there you have it: my ultimate Christmas list. Mine is clearly the product of a childhood in the 90′s. What does yours look like?
I’m in the middle of a show’s rehearsal process, which equates to about 48-60 hours a week. This doesn’t factor in transit time, naturally. So, I will be brief because I can’t remember when I last ate or showered.
An article from the popular comedy site Cracked.com has caught the attention of many folks and is making quite a dent on Facebook newsfeeds. Why? In the threshold of a new year (and our apocalyptic Mesoamerican demise?), an article like this stands out against the flood of “best of” lists recapping overly publicized mainstream or mindlessly viral schlock , banking on the compressed and premature nostalgia of wired youths with shortened attention spans.
So after clicking through half a dozen of these list links, like “The X Best Pop Songs of 2012” (“Oh, I wonder how high ‘Call Me Maybe’ is on this list”) reading about the year ahead is refreshing. Cleansing the palate even more is the article’s healthy dose of “tough love” – which is unfortunately not in fashion. David Wong, the author, is the right life coach mix of painful prodding and cuddly, almost paternal advice.
READ IT. OWN IT. LOVE IT. Let’s stop using the shitty, stagnant economy as an excuse for being shitty, stagnant people. And neither David or I are talking about money; if you’re broke, unemployed, whatever, that doesn’t stop you from picking up a goddamn book. Learn a language, an instrument, Excel, etc. If you think you’re such a good person, stop thinking and start doing: pick up a ladle or visit an old folks’ home or teach a class to little ‘uns.
Now, it is a BITCH to set some sort of autodidactic course schedule for yourself and actually stick to it. (Intimate knowledge of that.) If you know your self-discipline is laughable, instead try making a pledge to never take the “easy way” out of stuff. Example: you could bring beer or wine to a party OR you could use it as an opportunity to try a new recipe. I did this once and made pierogi ruskie from scratch for the first time ever. They were excellent. They were time-consuming. I’m, like, never making them again because that’s hours of my life rolling dough or peeling tiny red potatoes, BUT I’ll never be scared of a recipe again. Or trust “prep time” estimates. That alone makes it worthwhile. Veni, vidi, vici, bitchi.
Show some grit and BRING IT in 2013. I triple dog dare you..
I love it when I go into my most recently pinned items and find a theme. It is oddly reassuring, as if by seeing some kind of pattern my hours spent on Pinterest is now validated. Like my brain now thinks, “oh hey! you didn’t waste all that time like you thought you did.” If at this point you are calling my bluff, or muttering to yourself that that girl is an idiot, well, then you might be right. But, if you too are now looking for reassurance in your recent pins, then welcome aboard. I am happy to provide you with an excuse to pin. Below is apparently my most recent theme. A little blush and camel anyone?
There’s no place like home for the holidays…really, no place. The warmth and familiarity of your old family home, the smell of cookies baking in the oven, the constant questioning of Great Aunt Irene, and the ever fun challenge of fitting into your old single bed that’s occupying a corner of your once-childhood-bedroom-turned-office. It’s fun, it’s stressful, it’s exciting, it’s the most wonderful time of the year, and here are a few tips to help you make it through it.
Keep Up Appearances | Sure, this may sound like shallow advice, but you are going to be seeing people you only see once a year: cousins, neighbors, that one cute guy you had a crush on in high school (who still hasn’t left town), and you want to look your best. Show them that all that you can take care of yourself: that you can afford that Super Cuts haircut, can pick out cute outfits without your Mom’s guidance, and even know how to apply eyeliner. Because you know they’re going to notice these things…
Socialize (With an Escape Plan) | Practice your spiel. People are going to be asking you what you’re doing, what your plans are, why you’re not married, when you’re getting married, when you’re going back to school, when you’re going to find a “real” job, etc. So either have all your answers down pat, or…make something up. Either way is fine, as long as your confident and convincing! ”Well Aunt Mary, I’m only working at this coffee shop until my lawyer-doctor-humanitarian fiance, Michael, finishes his Ph.D. and then we’re moving to Boston where I’ll study philosophy at the University of Massachusetts on a full-ride scholarship.”
And if that doesn’t work, divert attention to your more successful/less successful cousin: “Why would we talk about me when Stacy just got into law school?! Tell us about it, Stace!” OR “Speaking of bar exams, didn’t Jason get arrested at the bar last week? How’s his trial shaping up?”
Be a Little Weird | People are going to be talking about you anyway so why not live it up? Smoke a candy-cane like a cigarette (even though smoking kills. Keep it real, kids) or laughing like Santa Clause (loud, and ho-ho-ho’ey) at least once a day. It’ll make you smile if nothing else.
Settle Into the Nest | Going home often means becoming 12 years old again. Big brother Ned might try to put you in a headlock; Dad might enforce a curfew; and Grandma might make you eat more vegetables. But embrace it, because being 12 again means that Mom might just do your laundry!
Buy Into It | Sure it’s Christmas, but who doesn’t love a little cheer (even if it is in the ironic sense – I’m looking at you Holiday Hipsters)? So sing the carols, tear up at the cheesy commercials, decorate, say Happy Holidays, bake cookies, and wear an ugly Christmas sweater proudly. It is Christmas, after all.
Don’t Forget to Stay Hydrated | Christmas cocktails. Drink them. Enjoy them. Enough said.
Image Source: Family Photo
Yes, it’s that time of year again. Tis’ the season when twinkling lights invade every street post and tree, when holiday tunes find their way into our heads like gum on the bottom of our shoe, and when our TVs are seemingly programed to play Love Actually on repeat through January. For the record, this last one I am not ashamed to admit, is one of my favorite parts of the holiday season. I LOVE Love Actually… to an almost unhealthy level. If there were awards given for movie memorization, I would be a serious contender for gold, and if it were a team sport, my friends and I would be Olympic champions. Loveathletes so to speak. Let’s be honest, what’s not to love about a movie with 12 different heart-warming love stories in it? And the cast? I mean come on!
Not to mention, some of the finest conversation-worthy quotes can be pulled from this movie. For those of you who don’t know what I am talking about let me provide you with a list of examples:
1. When you can’t believe what someone has just said, say: “There was more than one lobster present at the birth of Jesus?”
Example: Your friend just announced to you that she’s engaged. Being that she’s been engaged a couple times before and those relationships didn’t work out, you are struggling to believe that she’s engaged once again, so all you can come up with is “There was more than one lobster present at the birth of Jesus?” If she’s a “loveathlete” as well she’ll laugh, but if she gives you WTF-face, maybe just quickly add that what you meant to say was “Yay! Congrats!”… Whew, that was a close one.
2. When you don’t quite agree with someone, reply with: “Oooh, would we call her chubby?”
Watch the video for this quote here - this one couldn’t be embedded, sorry!
Example: A good friend mentions that the guy sitting three tables away from you looks JUST like Orlando Bloom, when really he’s more of Shia Labeouf circa 1999 (think Even Stevens years). An appropriate response, so as not to make your friend feel as though she has no sense of what humans look like, would be “Oooh, would we call her chubby?”… and leave it at that.
3. When someone is taking a really long time, try saying: “Are you going to dip it in yogurt? Cover it with chocolate buttons?”
Example: Your sister is at it again – taking her sweet time in the bathroom in front of the mirror when you really need to brush your teeth, make sure you look presentable to the world and get yourself to work on time. You painfully watch her curl her lashes, fill in her brows, blah, blah, blah. At some point, when you just can’t handle her shenanigans anymore, just glare and say “Are you going to dip it in yogurt? Cover it with chocolate buttons?” Hopefully she’ll get the message.
4. And, when you are bummed about anything (or everything?) just shout: “I hate Uncle Jamie!”
(Apologies for the poor quality video – it was the only one I could find for this quote.)
Example: When you miss your bus – “I hate Uncle Jamie!”… When it’s cold outside – “I hate Uncle Jamie!”… When you accidentally step in dog crap – “I hate Uncle Jamie!”… You get the idea.
If you aren’t into Love Actually (and you’ve made it this far into my post) perhaps you can enjoy Hugh Grant bustin’ a move or two.
Whatever your holiday traditions might be, whether they are meeting with old friends, caroling around town or staying indoors and watching the same rom com on repeat for a whole month, I wish you all a wonderful, warm holiday season.
Featured Image via The Entertainment Bureau
Happy Friday everyone! As we near closer and closer to the holidays (or we near closer and closer to the end of the holidays, depending on your religious preference), it has become more and more evident to me why I used to look forward to this time of year so much: winter break. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Christmas season and the holiday and everything that comes along with it. But it is just not the same without the added bonus of not having any responsibilities.
Winter break was a time to put down the stress of school for almost three solid weeks and focus on relaxation and hobbies and shit you had to ignore for the majority of the year to ensure you graduated before you turned 30. You had time to really put a solid effort towards knitting that scarf, building that bird house, or baking (and subsequently eating) all those cookies.
But now? Winter break is non-existent. And it is a bummer. Just because we no longer have school to worry about (some of us) does not mean we are not in dire need of a break from the daily grind. Bosses, clients, deadlines: these things are stressful and just because they aren’t part of a curriculum does not mean that our brains can handle them for a solid year without an extended break. No matter how much you love your job, after an entire year without a sanctioned extended break, we all end up looking like this poor bastard:
So this, my friends, is my open plea for winter break. It needs to be a thing that we all get regardless of age. Whoever be the power that makes these decisions, bring it back; I beg of you!
Until that decision is made, however, I’ll be happy it’s Friday and to have at least the next two days to unwind.
When I volunteer that I live alone with a cat, I often get a knowing stare.
“Ah yes, a cat lady.”
I usually get defensive (and avoid bringing up that I am single), but really, as much as I can act offended, there is truth to their observation.While I can tell myself I get out plenty and don’t eat my cat’s wet food in place of dinner, there also comes a moment where you realize that there is a line between cat ladies and cat owners and you’ve irrevocably crossed it.
For me, that moment came when I was touched, rather than repulsed, when my cat, Pickles, started licking my forehead.
“Oh, she’s grooming me!” I thought proudly (never mind the fact she was probably looking for a tasty morsel of my flesh for an afternoon snack).
Much like the harried parents who are interviewed in a mob of frantic adults trying to get their kids the toy of the moment or slot in a posh preschool, I will swear to you, I never thought I would be like this. I always liked animals, and, like many suburban kids, had my fair share of goldfish, cats, and dogs, and even one cockatiel named Ophelia. I hoped to one day own pets, in the same far-off way I hoped to one day have kids and a house, but I never gave any thought to actually owning a pet in the present; I not only didn’t want a pet, I thought owning a pet in college was stupid if not downright selfish.
Then Pickles showed up.
My job at the time was managing a school-day tutoring program of around 40 tutors and 50 kids at two elementary schools in West Philadelphia. One early Monday, I had a brief meeting with a principal. This was back when winters were actually cold (remember the Snowpocalypse, East Coasters?), so I decided to drive my car the relatively short distance to the school.
I got to the school around 10am- the kids were well into the morning and the streets were empty, except for one sad, skinny little black cat mewling at the door. As I waited to get buzzed into the school, I leaned over to pet the cat, and in that moment, sealed my fate. It arched its body towards my hand, purring incessantly. “Oh dear,” I thought, “What have I done?”
After a brief meeting with the principal, I returned outside, knowing that if the cat was waiting I was screwed. Sure enough, it was patiently waiting, resuming its meowing as soon as I stepped outside. I moved quickly to my car, cat in pursuit. In a moment of weakness, I paused with the door open.
“If she jumps in the car, then I will decide what to do.”
Of course she jumped right into my lap. I drove back home with the cat riding shotgun. When I showed it to one of my roommates, she simply replied, “Nothing you do can ever surprise me again.” Once inside, I was able to take a closer look at my new charge. Breaking the cardinal rule of not getting attached to animals, I started coming up with potential names. There is a long-standing tradition in my family of naming pets for Bluegrass and Country stars (once we got the choice between naming a pet Loretta, Allison, or Rhonda). Guessing my new cat to be female, but not entirely sure, I tried to think of a gender-neutral pet name. One of my favorite banjo players, Noam Pikelny, goes by the nickname Pickles, which seemed like as good a name as any. And so Pickles wormed her way a little further into my heart.
A quick trip to the PetSmart vet taught me a few things: yes, she was female, and I should probably find a better way to travel with her than in my arms. My cat lady saga almost came to an abrupt end when she split as soon as I took her back outside. I chased her down an alley before getting her back into the car. At PetSmart, Pickles was treated for worms (no fleas because of the cold!) and given some shots before being taken back to her new home via a crate a woman had left behind that morning after her cat had to be put down. Morbid, but cheap.
Over the next few weeks, Pickles did everything house cats do: use the litter box, eat a lot, sleep more, and slowly ingratiate herself further into my affection. Soon, any talk of ever giving her away ceased as she started putting on weight and sleeping curled up in my bed. When I found out my senior year house wasn’t pet friendly, I was broken-hearted. I sent a few e-mails to friends who might want to adopt a cat, but my heart wasn’t into it. Pickles moved in with me to my new house, successfully dodging our landlord for over a year with frequent free trips to the homes of friends with mice troubles.
Pickles soon grew fat, traveling to homes of adoring foster families who gave her milk when she meowed. She not only traveled around campus, she also made the trip twice to Tennessee via a very long car drive aided by some crushed-up Dramamine (for the cat, not the driver). She even spent an entire year living with friends of friends while I lived with a roommate with a severe cat allergy. Now, she has moved with me to Boston, and is literally laying on my lap while I type this (I am sure she senses the electronic attention as some kind of energy in the room because she’s purring up a storm).
Now, I live alone with Pickles in an efficiency in Boston (she made that eight hour car ride, too), and I am at constant war with her shedding. She bites my feet at night when she’s energized. Going on trips longer than 2 days is now logistically difficult because no one else lives here to pet her and feed her. I no longer have a car so any vet visits involve public transportation. Having a pet in college, and even in your early twenties, is still a huge pain in the ass.
But am I glad she jumped into my car? If I knew then what I know now, I probably would have carried her inside.
Fantastic Drawing by Gemma Correll (she may love cats as much as me, and is a great illustrator)
Hello, fellow beginners! Guess what! I’m back in the good ol’ U.S. of A (actually for a couple of weeks now, though my backlog of Beginners’ posts may have made it seem otherwise…) but don’t worry, the travel posts don’t stop here. You see, in true wandering gypsy soul style, I’m already longing to hit the road again, and if not with my own two feet, then with my typing fingers and my trusty laptop. I’ve never spent Christmas abroad, but dear Lord, looking at these pictures of Christmas lights from around the world makes me wonder why not. There’s just something about Christmas lights that makes me feel warm and bubbly - I love the way they immediately bring magic and enchantment to an otherwise normal street. And even more so when that otherwise normal street just happens to be in a foreign country…
| Venice |
| Rio de Janeiro |
| Moscow |
| Barcelona |
| Shah Alam |
| Warsaw |
| Madrid |
I know that nobody remembers Thanksgiving by now, since most lapsed it in a haze of abnormally high levels of tryptophan, wine or other beverages, and post-familial get-together repression. Plus, the fact that the day right after Thanksgiving is the universal cue to start blasting Christmas music everywhere and fill aisle after aisle with cheaply-assembled, prepackaged, and entirely thoughtless gift sets isn’t helping to keep this day’s memory from further blurriness. Full bellies empty and all is sensually eclipsed by pine tree sap, twinkly lights, and yuletide “merriment”.
My 2012 Thanksgiving is hazy, not because of schnapps or spiked eggnog, not from my third helping of gravy-soaked bird flesh, but from the fact that the entire day sort of blended in with the other five days I spent in the hospital. My father had heart surgery and, to add to the suspense, had a complication with his lungs, which resulted in an unexpectedly longer stay.
I’m still processing a lot of information from that time – which is part of the reason it has taken me forever to post – but I can share a few of my observations. At least those that have stood the test of time and hindsight. That makes them debatably less valid than those caught in the moment, in the middle of the trenches or the hospital ward; seriously, though, do you expect a girl trying to support her nervous mother on top of her own scared self to whip out a notebook and start writing lengthy diary entries and shit? Gimme a break.
So here’s some (often upsetting) observations or lessons learned:
Don’t fucking smoke – My Dad was on the respirator for longer than expected because his lungs did not recover as quickly as expected/typical. We kept being asked if he smoked, as it was common for smokers (even past and infrequent smokers) to stay on the respirator (and, thus, in the ICU with A TUBE DOWN THEIR THROATS) for extended periods of time.
Seriously, if you are just starting to smoke: STOP. WHAT THE F- ARE YOU CRAZY OR JUST TOTALLY GODDAMN STUPID? The next time I see any of you start picking up the habit, I will slap your face in a downward motion starting at your forehead and make you look like Curly from the Three Stooges. I don’t care if I burn my hand on your cigarette in the process of slapping you. Nobody who sees this will ever sleep with you because you’ll look stupid as shit and the memory of you being owned in such a slapsticky and punk-ass manner will be indelibly in their memories. I might just film it and put it on YouTube to extend the range of decreased sexual interest. You’ll thank me when you don’t have long and miserable hospital stays or lung/throat/mouth/everything cancer and manage to keep your breath and bodily fluids from smelling or tasting like death. And, yes, I’m referring to spunk.
“Hey, baby, I taste terrible. Wanna get a – where are you going?”
I am fucking angry – The pretty unrelenting monologue happening in my head almost the entire time (mainly after I knew my father’s heart and lungs were finally working reasonably well and he was in the clear) was, “I can’t believe I’m 21 and I’m having parents that are already having these surgeries/health scares/hospital visits.” And before you accuse me of being the most self-centered person on Earth, I’m truly speaking from the angle that, for God’s sake, they’re too young to be having this happen and I’m too young to be close to losing a parent. And just like CGI Yoda said in that terrible Star Wars movie, that fear leads to anger, how DARE they not maintain themselves better and, in the case of my father, not pursue or cooperate with any preventative medical care. I knew I was going to be warming the seats of a surgery waiting room someday, but not this young.
Bringing me closer to She-Hulk levels of wrath was that my father refused to heed doctors’ and nurses’ instructions just AFTER his surgery – even though he was in great pain and had disturbing tubes pumping fluid into and out of him. Like, holes in his torso and sides. And flaunting that you were not only not listening to trained medical staff but also ignoring the advice of your own family, well, that makes visions of sugarplums STRANGLING you in my head as it just increases the entire group’s risk of having to stay longer in the hospital from another complication. Which leads me to my next observation…
Your family is like a Timex watch – We take a licking. We keep on ticking. But it doesn’t mean that the abuse isn’t going to severely scratch or dent up the watch. Just because you are lucky enough to have people who love you unconditionally doesn’t mean you’re allowed to test this with pain and callousness. If you are endowed with a person or family who loves you relentlessly, don’t be a dick to them. There’s a special place in hell for you if you are one.
My older sibling won’t be around to help with my aging parents – Though I’ve always feared and known this, I didn’t, like, KNOW it until I was the only one showing up (a three hour flight, btw) to support both of my equally frazzled and scared parents through the prep, surgery, and part of the recovery of my father. My sibling was nowhere to be found the entire time. I suppose this is a valuable lesson, even if it ices my heart.
Provided I’m not forced to do a lot of chopping or am under time-pressure, I am a damn good cook – With some help from my mom and the instructions of my recovering dad, I made a pretty delicious rain-check Thanksgiving dinner.
In the end, I did have a lot to be thankful for: both of my parents are alive (for now). But how many “vacations” will I spend in hospital waiting rooms before I’m 30? When will bitter ejaculate be mentioned in anti-smoking PSAs?
So last week I saw the final installment of Twilight. If you’re like me, you ate the books up like it was the last poorly written piece of literary garbage you would ever get your hands on; you loved them and you’ve probably chosen a side. I, personally, am very much team Jacob. The reasons for which are three-fold. First, the hunger Edward has for Bella is super disturbing as is basically everything he does in regards to her. Second, as much as abandoning the one you love screams “perfect partner,” I prefer the relationships that are steady and not mind-numbingly dramatic. And finally, while the glitter thing is great, I prefer my men to bathe semi-regularly as opposed to crawling out of what I can only assume is a dumpster filled with cocaine; maybe it’s just me. But regardless of how I felt throughout the entire series of either the books or the movies, it’s over now and I’m kind of devastated.
To numb my devastation, I thought I’d put together a quick recap of the love story we’ve witnessed throughout the years.
We meet Bella. It becomes immediately evident that we should look to her lips for any sign of emotion; her eyes are lifeless.
Edward enters; it’s clear his emotion will be in his hair.
He has boundary/anger issues.
He leads Bella into the woods to show her a dark secret.
He has a serious glitter fetish, of which he is very ashamed.
They are now deeply in love.
Enter Jacob. He wears a wig to seem more stereotypically Native American.
This guy is creepy as shit.
Edward ditches Bella because creepy guy tried to eat her. He thinks she’ll be safer with fewer people to protect her from his glittery brethren.
Bella doesn’t move or shower for entire seasons.
Jacob’s wig is getting really uncomfortable and he throws a hissy fit.
So he takes it off, revealing to Bella that he’s more than just a wig; he has abs.
Jacob’s friends console Bella by showing her some abnormally large muffins, which aren’t very good.
Bella hates muffins, so she runs away to Italy.
She comes upon Edward, who has surrendered himself to the glitter.
Edward’s glitter dealer loves watching Edward shimmer. His peddlers are less impressed.
Bella’s dad has a mustache.
Edward is jealous of said mustache and thinks about glittering.
Jacob’s abs are no longer enough to compete with the glitter; he becomes a wolf and demands attention.
Meanwhile, this guy is still creepy as fuck.
And without his glitter, Edward’s anger is out of control. “WHY ARE THERE NO JACKETS???”
Bella takes him to a poorly lit meadow to help him calm down.
They get married.
This chick forgot to bring a gift.
Bella is about to have sex and gets super excited.
This is her sex face.
She touches her face and remembers the night before in the extreme close up.
In a turn for the realistic, Edward won’t have sex again until he’s bested at chess; he’s an excellent chess player.
Eventually she must have won because she’s knocked up.
And refuses to eat.
Wolf Jacob falls in love with the baby as an adult.
And somehow this guy got back in the house.
Bells flips out and attacks a stuffed animal while planking.
Meanwhile, more stereotypes appear.
Jacob hates that shit.
Edwards takes his cue to put the moves on his now fully recovered wife.
This chick is SHOCKED by Edward’s timing.
Everyone silently tells her to chill the fuck out.
Bella reassures Edward that they’re married now, so it’s totally okay for them to have sex whenever and wherever they want.
So they ditch their daughter and head to that meadow again.
You will be missed Twilight. Was that not the way you guys remember it?
Band: Horse Feathers (check them out here!)
Date: Wednesday, December 12th @ 8pm
Location: The Independent in San Francisco
Price: $13 In advance / $15 at the door (the latter might not guarantee a ticket though)
I have seen Horse Feathers twice so far and I can confidently say that they are a gem among the likes of indie folk bands. Yes, full of emotion but also wonderful. The Oregon-based band is headed by Justin Ringle and vocally accompanied by the whole band - Nathan Crockett, Dustin Dybvig, Lauren Vidal, and Angie Kuzma - four incredibly talented percussion, string, and pretty much every-type-of-instrument players. I’m not much of a fan of twang in my music, but they balance their folky style with great additions like the saw mixed with deep tones from the cello and upbeat tambourine runs. Think Damien Rice meets Bon Iver meets the recently popularized Lumineers.
I first saw Horse Feathers at a small restaurant/bar called The Crepe Place in Santa Cruz, CA, which they frequent at least twice a year (if you are unable to see their show this month, definitely look for them in Santa Cruz). Not only did I find their music enchanting, they also seemed like really humble people. A charming crew of five! I think it might be an Oregon music thing or something. Both times I saw them their opening bands were great, I especially thought their tour with Y La Bamba was a double whammy of awesome music. I highly recommend seeing them live, and even coming early to check out their opening act. Seeing this group makes for a really great mellow and fun evening out on the town.
If you’re coming into San Francisco and would like a recommendation for dinner near the venue that night, some tasty places include: The Little Chihuahua, Little Star Pizza, and Nopa, if you’re willing to wait 8 years for a table.
See you at the show!
P.S. I should probably introduce myself. Hi! My name is Orlie. I’m an SF based artist and designer who fancies good small venue concerts, cats, tasty treats, and the perfect brew of coffee. Check back for my posts on local art, music, and doodles from the everyday life of a beginner!
They say every journey begins with a single step. A step down a road, or up a mountain, or towards a person we could someday love. But sometimes, that step is a step up into a bus, where we sit back, relax, and let somebody else’s steps (or rather, the turning of wheels) carry us on our way.
I, however, hate buses. Buses are not like trains with straight routes and clearly marked stops: buses wind their way in and out of narrow streets, pick up and drop off people on unmarked street corners, are distinguished by numbers not destinations, and are very rarely faster than your own car, a taxi, or (in some busy cities) your own two feet.
Last week, for example, I had been told to take bus 27 to the city park. So I waited at the appropriate street corner for what seemed like hours watching pretty much every number in the known universe go by except 27. So when 27a finally came around, I got on. Sure, it wasn’t exactly what I had been told, but how different could it be? It’s not like there was a bus 26 or 28 (yeah, I exaggerated about the whole “known universe” thing, what about it?) so if they had added a completely new route, why not use one of those numbers?
How wrong I was… Within twenty minutes I was completely lost, saw no landmarks nearby or in the distance with which to use to get my bearings, was far away from any sort of main highway AND completely alone. Just me and the bus driver.
Feeling extremely embarrassed, but not wanting to accidentally end up at his house because it turns out the bus was going out of service for the lunch hour, I went up and asked him if he could please kindly directly me to the nearest main highway where I might be able to catch a taxi (or maybe even the real bus 27) to where I had originally wanted to go. He assured me he would be going back the same route we had just come up, so if I wanted to wait, he could drop me off back down there. You know…where I had started. Not wanting to prolong this awkward conversation any longer nor really caring where I ended up at this point, I agreed and sat back to enjoy the rest of the ride.
And it really was beautiful. Had I not gotten lost I would never have seen the quaint streets of Colonia Esmeralda or the cute pony in someone’s front yard. The beautiful view of the volcano, nor the cute little boy who sat next to me for part of the ride. Buses often take you to places you never would have seen otherwise, and give you a “real taste” of the city in which you live. Also, had I not gotten lost, I would never have gotten the free Coke-a-Cola the bus driver bought for me, the poor lost little güera, on our way back down the mountain.
6 peso bus ticket + 8 peso soda + free tour of Colima? I’d say I did pretty well for myself that day.
Image Source: 1961 Bus Photo
1. Tomato Beet Salad via Martha Stewart
2. Lovely Kendi via Kendi Everyday
3. DIY envelopes via fellow fellow
4. Stylish gent via The Sartorialist
5. Absolut poster via Designspiration
6. Blood Orange Margarita via Annie’s Eats
7. Instagram camera via Designspiration
Featured image via Kendi Everyday