My first impressions of Disney’s Frozen were positive, although not glowing. While it didn’t leave me with the same dreamy wonder of Beauty and the Beast, or even the madcap zip of Tangled, I enjoyed its premise and the ingenuitive way that it placed more importance on the relationship between two sisters than on romantic subplots. While it wasn’t my favorite Disney movie, something about Frozen crept its way into my heart and stayed there. Now almost two months after its premiere, the film is still on my mind, and I think I’m beginning to understand the reasons why. Continue reading
My week has been so bad it’s actually gone the other way and is now awesome. I’m not sure why my mood has remained buoyant despite the load of bull I’ve been dealing with, but I’m actually in a great mood. All the stuff that’s happened is on the minor end of the tragedy spectrum, so consequently in list form, it’s fantastic! This week:
- My AC broke.
- A dustpan fell off the wall and hit me in the head.
- I managed to destroy the company website on my lunch break (….I did fix it, eventually).
- I had a flat tire.
- …twice. (Different tires.)
- When tossing a paper towel into the trashcan, I missed. This isn’t surprising because I don’t have game. I then leaned over to pick up the paper towel and put it in the trashcan only to lose my balance (?!?) and fall, knocking my head against the computer and potentially damaging the fan inside. I don’t know, it’s making an angry whirring noise. Also, I have a lump on my head.
- A little kid ran into me at the library and took a tumble. Poor thing! But he looked at me like I was Satan and waaaailed and I felt awful.
- Scratched the floor something awful when moving furniture. It’s time to buy a new rug!
- Scalded myself on the popcorn maker.
- I have a doctor’s appointment. For women’s troubles. Oooooh.
- Got cable and internet installed in my apartment. Both didn’t work on Day One. Got them fixed. Now the DVR isn’t working.
What you need to understand is that all of these things happened in TWO DAYS. TWO.
Surely I’m good now. Right? RIGHT?
While some of my friends struggle with cooking, and some think cooking involves heathen magic and they want no part of it, I’ve always prided myself on my ability to bake. My cookies, cupcakes, and cakes are always fluffy, lightweight, and delicious. I’m not a fussy cook or a decorative cook; if it involves making layers and piping frosting I’m not interested. But the actual act of baking – not the presentation – that is so zen to me. And I’m versed enough in baking by now that I’ve tackled more-complex items. Box cake mix is like doing push-ups the girl way and only for n00bs (incidentally, I should note here that I always do push-ups the girl way, and anyone who says that they don’t count can kiss my cake-box).
So when my mother requested that I make a particular strawberry cake today made with cake mix as a base, I sighed internally before setting to it. Cake mix is filled with so many additives and questionable ingredients, but it’s Mother’s Day, and whatever Mom wanted, Mom would get. I’d made this particular strawberry cake many times before. It’s brainless and delicious, a light pink sponge cake topped with cool, fluffy frosting. A perfect antidote to the heavy humidity lurking outside. I put together the ingredients and cooked it a few minutes over, because our oven in our new house isn’t quite familiar to us. Better to be safe than sorry, right?
But the cake came out beautifully. I let it cool, frosted it, and then when it came time to eat it, Mom got the first slice.
That was a mistake. I should’ve sneaked a bite before she got near it. Because my cake tasted like Strawberry Shortcake had mated with a gummy bear and then laid out in the sun for a few days to dry out.
What happened? What happened? I survived cooking the entirety of the freaking Milk Bar cookbook but a recipe based off a cake mix threw me down? This cake was so terrible even my autistic brother wouldn’t eat it, and he literally eats his own shit if we don’t watch him closely enough. It was so violently, densely, nastily pink in the middle, it looked like the worst-case-scenario result of a prostrate exam.
The nearest thing I can figure is that maybe the box mix was old. Maybe I didn’t cook it long enough, even with the extra 4 minutes I threw in. Because somehow it was both too moist and… hard. How do cakes get hard? (Pervs, don’t answer that.)
I just don’t know what happened, but I’m never going to hear the end of my colossal failure. My first major baking fuck-up just had to happen as my entire family watched. Isn’t that the way of it? At least I was able to keep secret the time I managed to set the blender on fire with hamburger meat. But my parents have been crowing about my dazzling disaster all day, my Dad miming grotesque stomach pains (he had a few bites before giving up consuming the disgusting mush).
Baking, we’re through. We had a nice ride, and I really thought I got you. But clearly, I didn’t know you at all. If you ever want to see about getting back together again, I’m going to be at Nothing But Bundts, drowning my sorrows in a vat of cream cheese frosting.
I work out sporadically. I’m told that my lack of routine is a hindrance toward progress, but since working out is strictly based on the factors of guilt, boredom, and whether or not I can fit into my “average day” pants, workouts simply aren’t something that happens with any regularity. For those of you wondering what I mean by “average day” pants, here is a brief caveat: I have about three times too many pants in my closet. One-third of them are too little, ranging from “could lose 5 pounds” to “sausage casing tight”. One-third of them are too big for those days of lounging around or for days I feel huge. And one-third of them are just right. This Goldilocksian approach to fashion has made for a bursting closet, but there’s something optimistic about staring at a size 6 and going “I could probably… feasibly… get into that… if I took out my ribcage and ate nothing but leeks…” Continue reading
With the first day of May comes a lot of biggies: getting my new apartment, going to Yellowstone on vacation, and turning 30.
I think I’m supposed to express horror or guilt or something desperate about the pending number. I will no longer be in my 20s. Those days are gone. Soon, I’ll be in my 30s, and all the things that I’m supposedly behind on – marrying, having kids – really start to count.
Let me be perfectly clear: the first person who approaches me to talk about my ticking biological clock is going to shredded like taco beef.
Babies are cute. Marriages seem cool. But whatever attitude of “meh” I had about joining either institution hasn’t faded with time (like approximately 33,000 people assured me it would). Ladies, you feel me? How many times have we been told “you say that now, but…” or “it’s different when it’s your own” with regards to children and getting settled and God help us, anything that goes against a social norm? It’s the most maddening sensation in the world, because it implies that they know my mind far better than I do. It’s also terrifying because it implies that my body is programmed to betray me, to want these things when I haven’t pined away a single moment in my entire life.
So no, I don’t really care about turning 30 so much as I dread the upped onslaught of “when are you going to get married?” and “BABIES!” that will surely escalate in my direction. Talks of my age I can handle – what-the-fuck-EVER, I’m hot – but all this double-talk about mysterious future changes just makes me want to hide in a fallout shelter until reproduction is impossible and I look like Iggy Pop.
I was recently challenged to write down my Top Ten Favorite Songs Ever by a friend. “I can’t!” I whined, “the computer with all my music is broken so I don’t think I’ll remember all the songs I want to!” To which the perfectly reasonable response was “Good, if you don’t remember them, then they can’t count as your favorites.”
That Draconian philosophy aside, here is my Top Ten List of Favorite Songs Ever Probably, in no particular order because that shit is madness: Continue reading
“Stupid contractors… “HAR HAR WE DON’T KNOW HOW TO MEASURE THINGS LOL”. So here we are, all moved in to the new house, and we don’t have a single goddamn mirror. For how long? Ohhhhhhh I dunno. A month? NO BIG. Okay, this can’t be that hard, right? I put on makeup every day; I don’t need a mirror. I’m like BRUCE WILLIS. Does HE need a mirror to put on his mascara? Hell, no! He can do that shit with his hands tied behind his back and Russians shooting at him. So this ain’t no thang. I can do this.
All right, we’ll start easy and work our way up to the big leagues. Foundation. I’ll just put on a little, I guess, because I don’t want to look all cakey. All right. See, this is easy! I think. I’d better check my progress in the tiny useless mirror on my powder compact… see… all good here… nothing awry, all’s we— JESUS FUCKING CHRIST! What IS that? WHAT IS THAT? Is that a… is that a zit? Aw, crap, I need concealer for this. Ughhhhh undereye circles, WHY. Okay, focus. Concealer. Man, this shit’s thick. I’ll have to blend it to make this work out. Is that blended properly? I can’t tell with this crappy hand mirror. Sir Zits-A-Lot you’d better sit DOOOWWWWN. I tired of zits on my motherfuckin’ plane. God, I guess that’s blended.
Blush, now, so I don’t look like a plague victim. Jeez. I guess I’ll go light pink? If I don’t blend that it won’t be so bad. This brush should be okay. I’ll just dab a little on— there. That’s okay.
Eyeliner? Do I dare…? I DARE. One-two-three-Cleopatra. Bam! I’M THE MAKEUP QUEEN! BRING IT ON, MASCARA. COME TO ME, LIPSTICK. Bring me your NARS, bring me your Urban Decay, bring me your huddled Smashbox yearning to be on my face! NOTHING CAN STOP ME!
Oh man, running late… time to go to work!”
[ Sees self in mirror at work ]
“OH MY GOD.”