Halloweenie

I own four Martha Stewart Living Magazines devoted to Thanksgiving. Two Everyday Food.  And one special Holiday Issue. What does this say about me? 1. I love Martha Stewart. 2. I love Thanksgiving, and Halloween.

What to know what I did with this love?

Yes. I am that awesome. And to follow, a picture of one of my cats, Lolita, hiding between the wall and the file cabinet because she’s scared of the vacuum. Do you see how her butt is all squared off because she’s amoeba-like and shape shifts to fit into tight spaces?

Five things I hate

1. Being your safe fat friend.

How to explain this? When straight folks get together to shenaniganize, they are driven by their heteronormativity to attempt to flirt and couple off with members of the opposite sex. When you are fat, and a lady, straight men (not all, but many) will treat you like the landing pad or safe haven between whomever they are chatting up. Let’s be clear. I do not want to be chatted up, but I also hate being the person you deign to talk to when there isn’t any “real” game around. Basically, it’s sizest and obnoxious.

2. Frat-y college douchebags

You were not cool in high school. You are not cool now.  They glory days, if they ever really were, are over. Let it go and get a real life. Seriously.

3. Allergies and asthma

I think these are pretty self explanatory.

4. People who butcher good songs at karaoke

Most people don’t have the ability or the necessary bravado to perform the following songs: Black Velvet, I Will Survive, anything by Prince, most hip hop,  melodramatic love and break up ballads. Lots of other songs I’ve since forgotten.

5. When your bread doesn’t rise

This is not a euphemism. Good flour is expensive. And yeast is finicky. It makes for a sensitive combo.

i’ve been busy

When you only work approximately 10 hours a week, you have a lot more time for baking. In addition to the items below, there have been some kick ass brownies, banana nut muffins, and blackberry crumb bars.  If you have some time this summer, check out any of these amazing recipes and make yourself something. Your mouth will thank you later.

mother’s day cakers from Sky High Cakes

donuts per Joy the Baker

plain and simple bread from Jamie Oliver’s Naked Chef

Buying a house is hard, y’all.

Did you know it costs one pint of urine, 3 lbs of skin, and the promise of your first born to rent a one bedroom apartment in Ann Arbor? So OK. It costs like 800$. Which feels like an awful lot more for someone who pays a quarter of that to live in a 3 bedroom, 3 level, 1.5 bath HOUSE in Flint. Because it’s so redonkadonk expensive, I’ve been looking into buying a condo instead. Condo so I don’t have to do any yard or maintenance work. I don’t shovel snow and I’m not really at all handy.

First I contacted a mortgage broker to see if and what I could afford. I can’t afford much, but I’d still rather buy something and build equity than rent and just throw away money. Then I contacted a Realtor and went to visit some places. Despite it being a “buyer’s market”, the places in AA are still fairly pricey because there’s such a demand for housing in what is essentially an overgrown college town. So the places that are in my price range as well as nice are fairly limited. I saw one place I really really liked.

Annoying, the place I liked is part of an association that is being converted from a co-op to an condo. While outside banks are certainly acceptable, there are two groups that are specifically handling the turn over and it could be easier all around if I secured my mortgage through them. So I need to re-apply with a new company before I can make an offer. Not that I’m necessarily going to, as it’s only the one place I like and I’ve only looked around for a bit. Granted, I liked it a lot. But still. Shouldn’t it take longer or something?

And what really kills me is all  the paperwork. I hate it. And talking on the phone. Growing up is hard. For reals. Hopefully, the next time I post (you know, in a month if this pattern holds), I’ll have more news on the home front.

On a completely unrelated note, I made donuts. They were delicious. More on that later.

Remember that time I went to Disney World?

Yeah. It was totally awesome and totally bizarre. There was this whole part of me that was swept up in the fantasy and the consumerism of it all (as indicated by the mouse ears now gracing my hat stand) and the other part of me was deeply curious and concerned regarding the problematics of the fantasy around race and class in particular. As a feminist, I’m long acquainted with the some of the gender politics in Disney productions and generally, I’m not supportive of those politics. But I also grew up around Disney, so it’s hard to dissociate the joy of Cinderella’s castle from memories of watching the film with my little brother when we were kids.

Le sigh. I know it’s contradictory. But I also think it’s naive and simplistic to imagine that anything, any cultural production, is all bad or all good. Disney, like Oprah for example (thanks for the biscuits, lady) is a complex monster that is beyond the scope of little ol’ me to analyze in full. Suffice to say, I went. I had fun. I thought long and hard about why I had fun, and what it meant to support a company that propogates, at best, uncomfortable social norms.

In other news, my paleness defies the sun. A picture of my legs at the beginning of the trip:

And a picture after 5 days of sun:

commence with the woo-ing

When I applied to graduate school, I never dreamed that I would get into three different schools. I seriously thought I would be accepted at one place, and that is where I would go. So it’s still a complete shock that I’ve been accepted University of Minnesota Minneapolis, Feminist Studies, University of California LA, Women’s Studies, and University of Michigan Ann Arbor, American Culture.  Each offered a different financial package, and each invited me to visit the program and campus for a bit.

I went to Ann Arbor first. I have reservations about Ann Arbor, not because of the funding or the program, but because I’ve lived in Michigan for most of my life, and I’d like to not live here. Also, I am really concerned about the absence of a thriving queer culture in AA, whereas I know I’ll find one in LA or Mnnpls. The visit went well. I met some very interesting people, and did end up doing some fun things (lesbian toga, anyone?) , but it was all a little hazy because I developed a cold a couple days before I went.  Here is me and my potential AA cohort, posing in front of a weirdo spinning cube on campus. We look so fresh and cute.

Next, I visited UCLA. Sadly, I was not impressed by the funding or the program. That is to say, the money didn’t compare, and I got the sense that there was some in-fighting within the department, as is often the case with women’s studies type spaces. There’s always tension between old guard and new guard, and there’s always the threat of the department getting cut because they exist on the periphery of most academic programs. There were some cool folks, but I didn’t really gel with my potential cohort, and only felt like I would be happy working with one faculty member (dangerous odds for a grad student). I was suprised to find the west coast beautiful, though. I stood in the ocean and it was surreal and moving in every cheesy way the movies suggest.

Finally, I visited Minneapolis. This was the visit Iwas most excited about because I already actually know some people in the city, and was looking forward to hanging out with people I already knew, and cutting down on the level of schmooze (which irritates me after approximately five minutes). I did have a great time in Minneapolis, and really would love to live in the city. Alas, the program, faculty and financial package just weren’t enought to make it happen. Though, if I go to another Big Ten School, I can do a semester to a year there on an scholar exchange program.

So I’m going to Ann Arbor. Weird. At least three other people in the above picture are also going, so I think it’ll be good. Onto house hunting.

the house is on fire

My housemate and I, we love a party. We especially love a housewarming party. I get super excited about all the things I can cook, and he gets excited about how people will leave beer and alcohol at our house. So we’ve had 3, technically four housewarmings. Housewarming beta took place before we moved in, while the house was still being built. Housewarming 1.0 took place the day after we moved in. It involved exhaustion, bud light, and kitchen dance parties.

The second was a little later in November, involved much more pre-pared food, more bud light, and maybe more kitchen dancing.

recently, we had housewarming 3.0. This also involved lots of prepared food, bud light, but sadly, no kitchen dancing. I tried to make a tart. It turned out pretty, but the shell broke during assembly, and this made me angry.

On this particular day, I was not in the best of moods. In fact, I would have happily gouged the eyes out of my roommate’s brother, even though he was an innocent bystander (collateral damage). There’s no one reason why I was upset; suffice to say, it was a perfect storm of hangover, bad shopping, bad kitchen-ing, stupid ex boyfriend loneliness, and taco bell. I’d like to say my mood changed completely when this showed up at my door…

…and I was certainly uplifted, but it didn’t last long. Sometimes you just need to be pissed off and wait for it to fade. Some advice: do not put on polar bear heads if you are claustrophobic.

In the Kitchen with My Mother

The second time I make bread, I recognize the yeasty smell as one associated with my mother, who made pita bread at home when we were young. Older now, her hands hurt from the kneading and she no longer does it by hand.  Instead, she combines all the ingredients in her Kitchen Aid (a gift from her daughters a couple mother’s days ago) and let’s its sleek “S” hook do the hard work.

My relationship with my mother is strained for any number of trivial reasons, but it’s always been the kitchen that brings us together. Whether rolling grape leaves or making Easter cookies or meat pies, my sisters and I would gather around the largest counter and work in assembly line fashion under our mother’s direction.

Under her tutelage, we created delicious things. Under the guise of cooking, we created bonds and memories not so easily forsaken. When I think of what it might be like to be without my family, I recognize the moments in the kitchen, the sultry smell of bread baking as the ones I would miss most.

Like so many families, my family sees food as love.  Perhaps it’s this emotion and connectivity that draws me to baking and cooking now. There’s no reward like the meal enjoyed, or the pastry savored.  Perhaps, like my mother who cooked everyday for years, I make bread or cupcakes or lasagna as a way of saying “Yes. I love you. Yes.”

“happy valentimes!”

I stuck by my promise to go about business as usual this v-day. But because the day clearly hates me, I got into a car accident on my way home from the grocery store. Sigh. I’m fine but my car is a little jacked and needs work done. Otherwise, this weekend I made bread and lasagna, cleaned the house, made googly eyes at my favorite bartender, and just generally meandered about. It was nice.

In other news, PostSecret was great this week! It usually is around holidays. Here are my favorites.

this is how i feel about my favorite bartender. he's the dreamiest.

oz and willow. i loves BtVS. if you're not nervous, it probably doesn't matter.

how i often feel when i realize i care about someone.

Everyday is the 14th

I know it’s a consumer holiday. I know it’s commercial. I know it’s heteronormative. I know. But I love Valentine’s Day. Love it. I’ve sent out cards every year for years. I love it when I am single. I love it when I am coupled.

Valentine’s Day, however, does not love me back. Single or coupled, my recollections of Valentine’s Day are often dark and miserable. It never goes the way I want. I build it up and it crashes down. So this year, I am doing nothing. I am not making Valentine’s. I am not going on a date, or having a single’s dinner. I am going to move about my Saturday, business as usual. I am going to throw clay at the studio. Make dinner. Have drinks with friends. No hearts or red or candy. Just me and my everyday life. Fine.

I did, however, go see He’s Just Not That Into You today. And yesterday I visited Longway Planetarium for an event called “Poetry Under the Stars”. These incidents, combined with my already over the top sentimentality, have resulted in the following poem. I apologize in advance for the pretentious numbering.

I.
Under the domed ceiling of the planetarium
the galaxy is much smaller.
My head is tilted back
and gazing I want to be lost in its orbit
but Orion’s belt, the only constellation
I recognize rotates through again
and again and I am still here,
sinking in this space without you—

or with you, really, since
by Orion’s count, we are that close.

II.
On Valentine’s Day we woke
to a snow day: each child’s adolescent fantasy
but our adult reality and so like children
we were blissful in bed, the sheets warm
and inviting sex or simply sleep.

Sleeping with you was never easy;
tossing and turning, your body sharp,
angular. I woke often to the sound
of the alarm you slept through—
watched your slow breath,
nudged you softly until you woke.

Yes. I did love you.

III.
I had a dream stamps cost 52 cents
and it shocked me. The change wouldn’t have mattered,
but the effort you couldn’t afford.
In either case, you sent no letters
in the waking world.

IV.
You walked me home.
You brought me lilacs.
You left notes on my mirror.
You left.

V.
Back in the planetarium
the night sky is littered
with stars and Orion is smug—
near eternity to hunt his quarry.
Orion is the new cupid.
His silly arrow perched on the bow,
Waiting for the precise second,
the exact moment when the strike is fatal.

Or I am Orion and we will both
fade sooner than expected,
exhausted from waiting.

VI.
In winter I miss you most,
though fall is also difficult.
And spring. Perhaps summer.

The seasons mellow or intensify
an unforgivable truth:

Yes. I still love you.