We've never really been St. Patrick's Day Celebrating People. I've rarely gone out of my way to be seen wearing green. We aren't a couple who has ever been a "let's go out to a bar!" duo (even on non-holiday evenings). Once before in our decade living here we did venture out with some friends during the day o'vert, but from what I remember the most wondrous part of that evening was my first giant avocado burrito from La Bamba's on the way home.
This year, we did tiptoe out early(ish) in the evening, mostly to join in with Girls' Pint Out, which I recently found out about through a friend. This newly-formed group of ladies gets together a few times a month to socialize & prove that women do not have to merely sip white wine at dinner parties. They visit cool places and sample craft beer. It's something out of my typical circle of activity, but I like how diverse the range of women is and it's nice to have a the option of a new non-business-network group to congregate with occasionally.
Here are some pics (taken with poor pocket camera) from the evening, where we walked to three different spots within a local neighborhood (boys were invited along on this night, too):
A pitcher of water infused with sliced lemons.
Being warm & insulated during a snowstorm.
A fluffy cat who kept reminding me to pick him up and nuzzle his face.
My ugly, ugly bread machine loaf of olive & feta cheese "Greek Style Bread". It was flat, flat, flat, but I snacked on it all week long.
oh, dear...
As it became clear I needed a trim desperately, I had to take on the task of finding a stylist to start fresh with again (my last cut being during our vacation in New York, and not quite yet jet-setty enough to whisk off whenever I please and all). I got Twitter input, consulted a few of my hair goddess friends (ahem Sarah ahem), decided to be brave, and then two hours before my appointment got a staggering case of The Bok Bok Boks (that's chicken language, my friends). I decided I'd just get my layers shaped up and sidle off quietly hoping everyone I'd bothered and pleaded with for hair opinions would maybe just not notice.
BUT.
Turns out, this new stylist I found...he's not afraid. In fact, he kind of took one look at me and the candy-ass photos of mediocrity I brought with me and suggested I go for it. He had a sample photo of his own from his recent training session with Nick Arrojo (oops, did you drop a name, there?) which was much more brave than what I was prepared for by the time I came in. He said, "let's try this, but a little longer and less bold, and see how you like it". And also, "can we curl it?" Um, yes. And, yes. Thank you, Greg, of g.michael Salon. Thank you for making the transition quite painless and, might I even say, not sucktastic in the least.
We typically don't pay a lot of attention to Halloween here in the SarcomiHaus. Sure, it's nice to see the neighborhood children dressed up when they come knocking on the door, but as a standard Mr. S. and I barely otherwise acknowledge the holiday. For some reason, this year I had an impulse to stop into the Halloween superstore driving by it a few days prior. I was thinking it might be fun to get Mr. S. a wig or mask since he would be walking around with his brother and two of our nieces to trick-or-treat.
Well, what began as a quick errand resulted in me wandering aisles of smelly plastic and giant hats, placing a disoriented call to my mother discussing the merits of foam viking armor versus pirate patches, and in the end I had a wig for each of us with only a vague idea about how it was all going to come together with clothes we had in our closets. After all, I personally haven't dressed in any costume for Halloween since I was 18 or 19 years old, and I think the same can be said for Mr. S as well. The results were, well...
This venture into the world of dress-up managed to terrorize our 13-year old cat. He scurried and crouched and hid stubbornly under the bed and refused to come out until we looked like ourselves again. He completely had no idea who we were. Of course, the dogs didn't realize anything at all was out of the ordinary - BIG GIGANTIC DERRR SHOCKER. (Please ignore disgusting skanky firehose dog toy in the photo below.) I whipped off that wig and dug into a pile of makeup remover wipes within 5 minutes of the end of the treat-dispersing. (And yes, that IS a George Foreman grill behind me, yo. Grilled cheese melts away stiletto boot pain, my friends. Also, Boot Hate is probably the cause of the look on my face.)
I myself have a complicated relationship with summertime. I love it; I always feel like I am coming a little bit more alive when the sun starts blazing and the flowers are exploding. On the other hand, of all the seasons, I always seem to come out of it with the sense that I completely missed it somehow. I wouldn't doubt this is something a lot of you share on some level; maybe it has to do with our childhood calendar, where summer was always this vast and endless expanse of fun and popsicles and chlorine.
(terrycloth, yo.)
About a week ago one of the little boys across the street asked if we could bring one of our dogs out to say hello. While Mr. Sarcomical took Ricky over to be the ambassador, I snuck a photo through our front door. I thought their body language and expressions were so cute. Kids in summer, WITH puppies...
It seems Mr. Sarcomical & I haven't had much luck so far this year of grabbing fully onto summer. We have yet to attend a festival or fair, have not taken a picnic anywhere, and haven't hiked, biked, picked or played. That's okay; I know we'll find a way to cram some of that in before it's all over. On the other hand, something we have managed to do that I love about warm days is people-watch and meander the sidewalks downtown.
We saw a few more of these pairs downtown that day, obviously on a photo scavenger hunt. Kind of fun, I thought.
We've only been to the Chatterbox a few times, but I love it. It's a super-tiny spot, just one row of tables, a bar, and barely enough room in front for the live (mostly jazz) artists performing there to pile in and play.
(...see Lucille Ball up there?)
I love murky summer night skies...
We're trying to plan some sort of outdoor adventure in the next couple of weekends, but in the meantime we'll go for long walks after dinner peeking into lit windows in the neighborhood and then cuddle into the couch together watching a bit of bad television...with this guy barreling his way between us, of course. (Ricky gets all the pooch press today, I suppose.)
"What, ith sthomething wrong with my fathce? Why are you stharing at me like that?"
Stop laughing. Seriously. How rude.
Okay, so I may not currently be in supreme shape. It is true I am not yet buff, but I completely plan to be in the next several months. Like...maybe Lauren Graham buff, not Jessica Biel buff. Jessica's arms terrify me. Plus, let's stick with the plausible.
Well, this lack of perfected physique may cause you to question my statement above. As could a few other tiny details, I suppose. Such as:
However.
There is another part of me that gets very VERY pumped about feeling empowered and entirely too excited and braggarty (today, that is a word) when I see a new muscle pop out. I have a vehement sense of justice and always wanted to solve crimes. I can be cocky and tough (not that the two necessarily have to go together); it's just not a side of me I've nurtured much I suppose. Sometimes I think I could possibly have rocked a badge like nobody's business.
I mean, you totally get that I'd want to be the Mariska Hargitay cop, right? Not the local beat cop, no. I'm imagining myself with a sexy short shag, and endless array of cropped jackets, a tough attitude, pouty lips and a hot-as-hell partner, dramatically solving crimes with my mind AND my bod.
Oh, did I forget to say that?
technorati tags: NaBloPoMo
I think we all have that thing. Actually, most of us probably have a FEW of them. You know, what you do when you suddenly find yourself in the house completely alone - the spouse just headed out on a trip, the kids are off to sleep over at their friends' houses, your roommate actually got a boyfriend and has somewhere else to go for the weekend - you're alone not just for an hour or two, but HOURS AND HOURS. And now, you finally have a chance to be completely selfish and do what you save for those moments when no one is there to criticize, observe, interrupt, or judge.
What do you do?
Me? You want to know what I do before you answer?
I love to put on the most relaxing clothes I own, and then usually do one or more of the following:
Those are a few things I may do. Now, give me one or two of yours.
technorati tags: NaBloPoMo
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