I Must Live In DC Now...

...because I don't see why we don't have statehood and I'm obsessed with reading Politico. Also, I understand why Sarah Palin excluding an index from her bestseller/me-fest Going Rogue was a big "Eff U" to Washington (Hint, when I see people at Barnes and Noble downtown in the Political section, they're always looking through the index to find their own names...)

But also, I really want some other magazine subscriptions. Because, you see, Politico is available for free outside every Metro station and Ikea has these magazine holders so cheap and also I just love getting mail. And the magazines I love (at least the top two) are almost non-profits, at least number 1 is, so me getting a subscription is almost like giving a generous donation in my own name...

Links later, I'm almost out of battery.

DC, Take 2

I left Florida on June 21 (or thereabouts) with a Honda Civic full of clothes, a sewing machine, a yoga mat and a teenaged brother. My bike was strapped to the back precariously, leading said brother to nervously turn around every time he heard a noise of any kind while we barreled up I-95. I had, in my wallet, a debit card connected to a bank account newly fat with my old job's severance package. I had a welcoming home in Northern Virginia ready to house me as long as I needed.

But what I wanted was DC.

I moved into the wrong apartment, spent too much money, and struggled for a few months.

Then I got a job, met a boy, and found a new apartment.

And now I'm exactly where I want to be.

My new roommates, henceforth referred to as "Matt" and "Emily" (because those are their names) are the kinds of friends I miss from Florida, but my more immediately relevant DC versions.

I live in Columbia Heights and I work in Arlington (nanny life once again for me, thankfully).

My boyfriend forces me to leave the house several times a week, and take advantage of the many (I think) world-class, low-cost (relatively speaking) wonders that the District has to offer, from a production of Full Circle at the Woolly Mammoth Theater, The Mountain Goats at 9:30 Club, a trip to the National Zoo (on the day a deer leaped into the Lion's den, literally, no less), and this Thursday, a discounted "young professionals" performance of As You Like It.

In other news, I have a very special visitor, Ms. Louise from DeLand, coming December 8-12. I'm so grateful to have a wonderful home to which I can welcome her.

I really miss my family, though. I'm going to be home in DeLand from December 25-30, but it's going to be tricky finding the Flumflums, since they'll be in Ft. Myers. I will make it happen, though.

I'm Stealing My Sister's Life...

for my own sinister blogging purposes.

I think distance is making me more obsessed with my niece. That, and the fact that, as Marthe pointed out, Mira is now the age Bronwyn was when we were all hanging out in earnest. It makes my heart ache in a good way. As Mira says, "Auntie is Mira's auntie forever?"

So I'm stealing this because it's funny, and points out a fact which has been argued many times, basically that I'm the proud Auntie of a future dictator. It's from my sister's Facebook.


Sister: Mira's been wanting an official "preschool teacher" nametag for the past few days--"with my picture AND M-I-R-A on it." We finally made one to her satisfaction last night, and, when she woke up this morning, she threw it on and wanted to go to school immediately. No diaper change, no breakfast, nothing. I think she might try to put someone in timeout today.

Friend: What she turning into ... Little Robert Mugabi???? Let me guess her name tag said "Her Excellency, President for Life, Field Marshal Al Hadji Doctor[B] Mira Idi Amin Dada Flumflum, VC,[C] DSO, MC, Conqueror of the British Empire".


I'm moving so soon. Maybe then I'll have the drive to make this blog what it was originally intended to be: a collection of crafts and recipes and whatnot, and not just me bitching about all kinds of mess.

Auntie Have a Trouble

Have I mentioned lately that I LOVE MY NIECE??!!?? Enough to use such atrocious exclamation-point-and-question-mark-repetitive punctuation, and enough to update about her before I am back in DC and able to upload the pictures.
She's sassy and funny and has a genuine sense of humor, which she gets from her parents. She's friendly and likes to hang out, and she's genuinely good company. Not "good company for a two-year-old," just plain good company. Quotes from my all-too-brief time spent with her this week:

"Hey, Auntie. You look different. Your hair looks different." (said casually, as if she were my coworker or something.)

"I'm a bunny! I'm a bunny! I'm a bunny!" Repeated loudly at the restaurant.

"I need some noodles, please." When the waiter asked us what we wanted to drink.

And more. PIctures later, from my trip to Florida.

Sea Vista, also, COMPLAINING!

Sea Vista in the summer is the ultimate holy-shit-I'm-a-grownup experience. Add to this the fact that the only reason I even went for the first time as an adult was because a (the harsh light of day would expose as overly) muscley dude who hit on my mercilessly at a bar/music venue the night before asked me to meet him and his buddies there the next afternoon. It's hard, when the sun and the breeze and my work schedule are just so, to persuade me not to drink in the daytime on a beach, and since I chose to interpret his voicemail as sweet rather than cloying – or worse, as that patronizing man-vein of communication which phrases everything in the tone of a joke you couldn't possibly be expected to get – the invitation seemed enjoyable if not altogether promising.
His name started with a D and had an easy-to-jump-to nickname form, but that's as specifically as I can remember.
All the archetypes were there: The still-hot-thanks-to-Atkins, unfathomably drunk married woman in her I've-still-got-it Victoria's Secret bikini. Her appalling husband. Spring Break college soccer girl with a sweet smile and sun damage. Frat boys competing with auto mechanics for the affections/attentions of age vague, sleepy townie women. Girls annoyed at the bleach and cutoffs bartendress over their huge tabs. Frozen drinks cost more. Your boyfriend/those guys put their Budweisers on your tab. But he's not my boyfriend. He said he was, sorry Darlin'. Staff doesn't care whether or not he spent Spring Break introducing you to his mother.
There are children everywhere. Scaly, rough Florida children with bangs like me. The pool is an amoeba of bodies. It moves and breathes. Splash splash splash. You can't see the bodies for the froth. Someone will shriek “Mommy!” and someone else will yell “Bitch!”and who knows, they could be yelling toward the same lazy grin, the same vodka soaked brain in a skull on a neck lolling absently to the beat of a nümetal anger anthem.
At Sea Vista, as an adult, I am the lone hipster. The proud collector of kitsch. My breasts and stomach make men tell me how much they love my tattoos. Never “tattoos.” Always “ink.” Always “does your boyfriend let you out alone looking like that?” I'm sweet, polite, if only to advertise my relative sobriety as a warning. Once I'm drunk, I'm misguidedly trying to teach them a thing or two about the world and equality. My breasts and my stomach can only hold their attentions for so long.
I need a partner in crime for these excursions. A beautiful girlfriend called in as backup, getting drunk and laughing about how much we love one another and our marvelous friendship. Kitsch will abound. We'll probably drink Coors. We will wade into the ocean, bottles of dark brown glass in hand, and hold our other hands even after the water is deep enough that the gesture ceases to work as an advertisement of how little we need men. The salt and grit will make me feel clean and grainy. The grains of sand will scratch my back deliciously on the sleepy sunset ride home.



Everytime I try to sit down to write, I end up making shopping lists or diet plans or budgets or some other kind of bullshit list. Remember back when me coming to DC was supposed to a transformative experience for my writing? For that matter, remember the trip to Miami? The semesters off of school? I think I need to fess up that it's completely possible I'm just not a very good writer. Or rather, I'm not very good at coming up with ideas to write.

August Is My Jam - Part I

First off, happy birthday to this man:

He's my papa, and he's the big five-three today. Also, he has two albums coming out this month! Two! In one month! August just might end up being your jam!



I'm housesitting this week at the Thompson's house for their delightfully old dog, Clifford. He's my good friend.



There is also a lovely garden, and the Thompsons told me to pick what I could find. So obviously, I will be making fresh basil pesto with tomato and cucumber bruschetta.



I finally concluded my long search to find udon noodles in a grocery store. At Wegman's in Fairfax, they come in individual packages (fully cooked!) for $.99 so I bought three. Also, I painted my fingernails and toenails red because, as I said, August is my jam.



My favorite kind of yoga to do is Kundalini. The RaviAna DVDs are really helpful and weird (a lot of fire breathing, glandular work, holding your fingers in certain ways while moving your arms rapidly), and even better, at times laugh-inducingly dirrrrrty (they keep telling you to "flex your sex organ," the lady's nipples are constantly visible, and, as my sister points out, her face usually makes one think she might be having an orgasm). I'm doing yoga or pilates every single day in August. This housesitting thing is extra-cozy, especially since I can do the yoga comfortably in my swimsuit.


But still, maybe the best part of housesitting is reading a book in a hammock.

Do Fairies Like Peanuts?

So the family I'm staying with, which consists just perfectly of Erich, Lisa, and their daughter Terra, have some visitors of the winged variety. Erich bought some fairy dust (I believe it was mail-order) and helped Terra sprinkle it outside, hoping to attract some fairy friends. He also accidentally spilled some inside, just inside the doggy door, which has led to some interesting gifts being left in the yard and in the house.

I guess it's common knowledge that fairies have problems with perspective (I don't even know if they have depth perception), so in their charmingly misguided way, they think Erich (who is, in fact, 6'6") is a giant. So they left him what they assumed was an appropriately sized gift of a coffee cup, undoubtedly forged by their own ceramicsmith. Pictured, it is next to a regular sized coffee cup for comparison's sake. Also, there's the pretty chair the fairies left in Terra's window garden.






Now for peanuts.

I thought I'd share, in the unavoidably arrogant way of someone who presumes to post her own recipes (like y'all couldn't think of this on your own!), my favorite afternoon snack. It's hard for me to remember to eat full meals, I'm more of a grazer, so I take some time after babysitting each afternoon to make a "meal" big enough to support me taking all my vitamins without nausea. It's my fattiest food of the day, because lots of vitamins need that and that is awesome.

So I mix together in a big bowl, the following:

1-2 cups whole wheat cooked penne pasta
bigass spoonful of peanut butter (preferably unsweetened, but Jiffy is okay)
about a teaspoon each of chipotle chili powder and curry powder (to taste)
a splash of soymilk
a splash of hot water leftover from cooking the pasta
handful of roasted, unsalted, shelled peanuts

It's a lot cheaper than using the store-bought peanut sauce (and don't be fooled, it doesn't taste the same, but it does taste just as good). Today I made it spicier than usual (be careful), so it was perfect paired with a glass of unsweetened, iced mint tea.




And I didn't forget, book blurbs are coming later.