In the past 96 hours, I:

• Played Baggo. Poorly.
• Swam in a friend’s backyard pool between shots of whiskey.
• Talked shit (not that I’m proud).
• Earned approximately 13 mosquito bites, two of which are in unmentionable locations.
• Pulled weeds after a storm / muddied my gardening gloves.
• Smiled at approximately 20 strangers/passersby.
• Cried.
• Scrubbed a toilet.
• Ate three burritos (2 frozen, one fresh).
• Read poetry under a tree in my backyard.
• Jogged to new music from an old friend.
• Relished in every succulent bite of two peaches and four plums.
• Mowed the lawn (I can’t stop talking about it).
• Missed everyone I’ve ever known.
• Hugged and kissed my parents.
• Played in a Euchre tournament (and got Euchred twice).
• Wrote three thoughtful emails.
• Watched two movies (I’m Not There and Batman Begins) / Wanted to be Cate Blanchett
• Used three band-aids.
• Ran on empty for far too long.
• Got soap in my eyes.

This is making me happy today–if not for the pyrotechnics and the music, than for the amazingly inspirational dancing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IcgfdtkcIW0

The government doesn’t want me to embed this, so the link will have to do.

Holly should likely receive a Nobel Peace Prize.

You know that someecard that says “It feels like a Tuesday”? If you do, then you undoubtedly laughed when you read it because you know how atrocious Tuesdays can be: it’s the day after Monday that is worse than Monday (who knew it was possible), because it’s as far away from the weekend as you can possible be (at least Monday was preceded by a weekend day…lucky bastard).

Well today’s Tuesday. And today, I definitely had a bad case of the Tuesdaybooday. There was really only one cure for this: Holly’s home cookin’.

Now, for those of you who aren’t lucky enough to know Holly, she’s pretty much the greatest woman to over walk the earth, and she’s an A M A Z I N G chef. Incredible, even. And if you mix Holly’s food with a little bit (or a lot bit) of wine, you have the perfect antidote to Tuesdaybooday.

I, unfortunately, am not lucky enough to live in Denver to have Holly feed me directly, but she is graciously penning her own Bible of food goodliness with a blog of her own. So this evening, Tyler and I made Lettuce Wraps a la H-pants (as seen on her blog!).

Now, I’ve never had much luck with tempeh, but my goddess, were these delicious. And really simple to make, too. It smelled amazing, looked beautiful, and tasted divine. Just like Holly (oohhhh snap!)! We even went so far as to grill up some teriyaki-infused tofu, veggies and some scrumptchiliadumpcious corn on the cob.

I’m completely healed of my affliction now, thanks to Holly and a bottle of Yellowtail. So Holls, what’s your cure for Wednesdaysuckday?

The “W” in “Wisconsin” clearly stands for “Wild.”

This past weekend, I went to Wisconsin for a wedding.  Now, I’ve never been to Wisconsin, so I didn’t really know what to expect–but I certainly didn’t anticipate walking into a butter-worshiping beer garden.  Because that’s what Wisoncsin is: a butter-worshiping beer garden.

You would think Wisconsin was all about the cheese–but you think incorrectly, fool!  Cheese is great, of course, who doesn’t like cheese?  But it’s the butter, my friend, the butter that makes life worth living for the Wisconsinners.

You know how some Asian restaurants have that “Drunken Noodle” dish which is basically a broth with noodles in it?  Well, that’s pretty much like every meal in Wisoncsin, except replace noodles with any meal or dish, and replace the broth in which it swims with butter.  And let me tell you, it’s delectable.

And how could you NOT be the happiest person on earth if everything you eat involves copious amounts of butter?  And on top of all that–they also have copious amounts of BEER! Wisconsinners love their BEER!  Home of the Beast, PBR, and countless others–it’s literally a beer-drinkers Mecca (close second to Colorado, of course!).

We stayed in a fancy Best Western.  You didn’t think Best Westerns could be fancy, did you?  Well guess what–in Wisconsin, all your wildest dreams are realities; fancy Best Westerns barely scratch the surface of Wisconsin’s wonders.

The mini TVs at every booth in the bar!  The man blatantly drinking a bottle of beer during the continental breakfast service at 9am!  The glorious accents that are endearingly akin Yooper accents!  The perfectly-shaped balls of butter–literally, balls of butter–to enjoy with your bread!  And the flowing beer, my god, the flowing beer!

I had an excellent time–better than I could have imagined.  The drive wasn’t even terrible.  It was actually moderately fun.  Wisconsin is hilly and verdant–and happy cows do, indeed, spot the terrain.

Honestly, it was like Michigan, but cooler.  Even the rough parts of Milwaukee seemed somewhat more pleasant than the rough parts of Detroit.  It’s almost as if Wisconsin is the fun, lovable older brother that Michigan aspires to be like when he grows up.  And I was sad to go.

I did learn, though, that there is one big difference between Wisconsin and Michigan: Wisconsinners call water fountain “bubblers.”  When I heard that tidbit, I said, “Oh, we call water bongs ‘bubblers’ in Michigan, but not water fountains.”  I even did a “bubbler” hand motion–if you can imagine it.  My mom would have been proud.

Time to snuggle up to my nice, long post.

It has been some time since I have posted, and I have a few items I’ve been itching to discuss on my dear old blogbaby.

In no particular order, these items are:

• The Dalai Lama/The Pope
• Battlestar Galactica
• R.Kelly

And believe it or not, they are all connected.

Take Back the Night (and whistle tips).

Honest to goodness, there is nothing like a good, old-fashioned rally and march–which is why I was more than happy to participate in Ann Arbor’s 30th Take Back the Night–an annual event dedicated to bring awareness (and an end) to violence against women, children, and families.

It was cold, it was rainy, and it was altogether very Michigan out, but that didn’t stop a solid group of aware individuals (babies and puppies included!) from marching through the streets of A2 with homemade drums, signs, and chants to get the word out that violence must end.

I can’t describe the feeling of being united with a group of otherwise strangers as we literally stopped traffic to march through the hustling and bustling town to bring extreme attention to ourselves and the cause. People stop and stare, and I have to say I’m happy for it. Because they should stop and stare. If someone were to say, WTF are these people doing? they in turn have to ask WTF is going on with our world?

You know, I kinda felt like Bub Rub and Lil’ Sis that night–and I do not say this to minimize the gravity or importance of the rally or the march. Everyone in their town complained about the noise made by their whistle tips. And you know what they said? It’s like an alarm clock. They should be up making breakfast anyway.

And you know what? We’re like an alarm clock, too.

We need to get out in the streets and cause a scene every once in awhile. We need to have public displays of agitation in order to wake other people up. We need to air out our dirty laundry to get it clean, and we need to encourage others to do the same.

While the whistle tips are just for decoration, Take Back the Night is just for awareness. So consider this your wake up call, world. Whoo Whoo!

Suburban Life: It ain’t just for mamas with strollers anymore!

If there be one thing I love, it’s a nice stroll through my endearing ‘hood.

It’s so suburban, you’d think it would bother me–considering you can’t walk two feet without being knocked down by a power-walking mama hustling down the sidewalk with a stroller the size of a small elephant–but it doesn’t bother me in the least.  Usually.

First of all, it smells delectably homey around these parts. “Homey”–in case you are wondering–smells like barbecues, laundry sheets, grass, and the occasional, sobering scent of smoke.  And people’s homes, in so many ways, are like little reflections of their souls. I passed by a house that had a least three dozen wind chimes sprinkled around the windows and eaves. Then there’s the house with these totaly bizzare metal sculptures sprouting from the lawn.

Old women in sweatpants holding babies in driveways, kids riding bicycles daredevil-style, and that gloriously old man riding his turquoise Vespa up and down the street like a mother effin’ bat outta hell.

A poem exists in every inch of this place.

So yesterday, I was so high on all of it that I decided to venture out a second time, but this time on my bike.  Not just any old bike, but my bright red (and, ahem, rusty) city cruiser.  Oh yeah, it’s a one-speed.  I walked it up to the gas station up the street, filled the tires with airs, and took ol’ Bessie for a spin.

My hope was that I looked utterly chic and adorable just like all those utterly chic and adorable girlcyclers featured in Copenhagen Cycle Chic .  As far as I’m concerned, Berkley, Michigan has the potential to be just as hip as Copenhagen–and I am more than happy to be the person to prove it.

And you know what, I think I did.  That is, until my tire exploded as I was wheeling Bessie back in to her cozy garage home.  What’s with me and tires?!

Point is, I don’t think there is anything more beautiful than a stroller mama, a house covered in windchimes, an old man on a Vespa, and a chic girlcycler sincerely coexisting with each other.  It really doesn’t get hipper than that.  So Suburban Life–this martini with two bleu cheese-stuff olives is for you.

I like Ann Arbor, or The fun of fun.

Last night, I decided to pretend just a little bit that I was still in college.  Just a little bit.

I headed to pretty, little Ann Arbor and found myself on the endearingly cluttered and filthy porch of Jack’s co-op.   I drank beer, jumped on couches, participated in group sing-a-longs, and danced my little heart away–sometimes even with an orange life saver (and I don’t mean the candy) as my dance partner.

It was utterly silly.  I was utterly silly.  Unabashedly silly, even.

Sometimes I find myself so caught up in the grownupness of my life–work, bills, responsibility, goals–that I often forget to just act like a fool and have a gigglefest.  Yes!–a gigglefest: to just up and dance on a porch and let everything else in the world melt away–if only for a night.

I guess it wasn’t so much that I was pretending to be in college as it was letting that very important side of me come out to play.  Just as it’s not to so much that I miss college as it is that I miss having a serious, serious amount of fun more or less built in to my life.

If fun is built in, though, it almost cheapens it.   Part of the fun of fun is the search, discovery, and creation of it.  And last night a searched, discovered, and created it with effin’ flying colors.

Of course, it’s not difficult when you go back to your college town and hang out with a bunch of funkyfresh folks, but there’s nothing wrong with going back to your roots–especially when they’re such colorful, tasty roots.

Going north: a homemade retreat (just like mom used to make!)

I always read about these marvelous retreats where you head to the mountains to sit in silence in robes to think, pray, meditate, and drink tea. They all sound so delicious and, inevitably, deliciously expensive. I have yearned to take part in one of these retreats, but alas, a young girl paying her student loans and credit cards such as myself doesn’t exactly have a sack of money in her closet just burning to be spent on a retreat weekend.

So I created my own. It’s easy, really–and we Michiganders are incredibly blessed to have a remarkable and peaceful place at our fingertips (literally). Up north. Praise the goddesses above, because Tyler’s family has a marvelous, cozy place on Spider Lake in Traverse City that served as the locale of the homemade retreat.

The recipe is simple:

• 1 part Art (canvases and paint will do the trick, as will journaling, reading, and photography–for this recipe, we used it all!)
• 4 parts Delicious Food (it’s good to try new recipes while on your retreat–you have all the time in the world, so savor every moment of preparing and eating)
• 1 part Games (not just any ol’ games, but a 1000 piece puzzle–it’s pure zen)
• 2 heaping cups of Mindfulness (live deliberately like Thoreau would have wanted you to)
• 3 parts Relaxation (laziness and snuggliness comes highly recommended)
• Adventures and Curiosity to taste (our choice was a visit to a frozen Lake Michigan and a moderately-illicit tour of the abandoned/renovated State Hospital grounds)

Take a Friday off of work, pack your bags, and bake for three days. And voila! Your very own homemade retreat, piping-hot and jam-packed with gooey goodness.*

*Results may vary. This recipe does not require high-altitude conversion.

I hates yous, white castles!

Seriously, who eats White Castle? That junk is straight up SICK. Every time I pass the White Castle on the corner of 13 and Coolidge on my way to Whole Foods (a place where I can get REAL, HONEST FOOD), I have a serious gag reflex from the gross stench permeating from the eerily white walls.

And what’s up with it being White CASTLE? Are they trying to convince the general public that eating that slimeyass food makes you royalty? I’ve never met the Queen of England, but I have a feeling she doesn’t eat that mess. I bet she eats petit fours with her pinky up. Yeah, I bet that’s exactly what she does. She’s so damn classy!

Ugh, and whenever someone eats White Castle, you can smell it on them for at least four days afterward. The stench of nonmeat and grilled onions lingers. And I have a theory that eating too much White Castle will cause jaundice. Think about it–I really wouldn’t be surprised.

And don’t even get me started on the “Crave Case”–40 MFing burgers? How is that legal? They’re passing out heart attacks at the drive-thru–with a side of vomit–and people are lining up for that shit. Literally.

WHO EATS THIS ABOMINATION?

(I do).

Garbalogist are people who study and investigate cultures through what they throw out. The purpose? Trash doesn’t lie, but people do.