Stanley does boring stuff.

Oh, you guys. I'm so sorry.

Today, you see, is Thursday, which (because of its class-less and job-less nature) is my free day, which means that it's the day I do errand-type stuff. So today, Stanley's adventures were...less exciting.

For instance: this morning, Stanley helped me to...DO LAUNDRY! Hooray! Laundry is just SO EXCITING!


Um. And while we did laundry, Stanley helped me to...


learn about metadata! Specifically about MARC records, (Lib Sci Term o' te Day) which is a way for libraries to share cataloging they've done with other libraries, so librarians don't have to keep cataloging the same items over and over and over again. MARC stands for 'MAchine Readable Cataloging,' and is a way for catalog records (basically all the information about a certain item, including author, title, etc.) to be sent from computer to computer without getting all garbled and confused.

Yeah.

So, basically I'm pretty much lost when it comes to all this technical stuff. But some of it's getting through. With Stanley's help, of course.

After doing laundry, then hauling the full bag all the way back up the [cursecursecurse] FOUR flights of stairs, I settled down to do some more reading and promptly fell asleep for several hours. 'Twas nice. (Poor Stanley stayed squashed between the pages of my textbook.)

Later, my roommate reserved a Zip Car so we could go grocery shopping at NIGHT without having to walk all the way to the store and back with our fingers falling off from those grocery bags that cut off your circulation and. You know. It being dark. And cold. And stuff.

Cars are nice.

Particularly this red one, which was a rather appropriate color for Valentine's Day. Stanley was gentlemanly enough to open my door for me. (Which was pretty tricky for a flat fellow, lemme tell you.)


At the grocery store, Stanley admired the lovely display of eggplants, artichokes, cauliflower, and whatnot. (Unfortunately, I didn't buy any of this stuff. However, I did pick up some nice asparagus that was lovely and thin and will taste smashing after being broiled in a little olive oil and salt and pepper...mmmm...)


Yeah. So... That's about it, folks. I'm sorry the day was so boring, but that's just what Thursdays are usually like: laundry, sleep and food (although the order can vary a bit). Tomorrow's my last class for the week, and I've got to work on an assignment due tomorrow morning so I must leave you now. But cross your fingers (seriously--do it now) so that Stanley and I can do something a little more interesting next time.

Haaaaahhhhngry

Have you ever noticed how good food sounds?

It sounds really, really good.

Also, the eating of stuff.

Also, the consuming of edibles.

All. Goodness. And deliciousness.

Generating somethingorothers

So, I'm sitting here in my room and I want to write something for my blog because I haven't been exactly garrulous lately and it's been mainly due to vague feelings of almost-apathy hanging around like some sort of malignant-ish miasma and also not really having much to report, seeing as how I've been spending the majority of my days not working on the major projects that are due at the end of the semester and seriously catching up on my reading and

And.

Stuff.

Also, I buy this whole wheat bread that's really delicious and also it's interesting because it has these kind of broken up grains sprinkled all over the tops of the slices and so after I get finished eating my sandwiches or toast or whatever-something-that-involves-bread the plate has all these white bits of grain all over and if I moisten my finger (by plopping it in my mouth) and then use it to pick up all those bits of grain and them eat them they have a (not surprisingly) grain-type flavor but the texture's kind of interesting and also I think I'm weird.

Also, I like learning about libraries?

And also, I think I'm even stranger after midnight than usual.

Joyeux anniversaire, un peu tôt.

(Translation: Happy Birthday, a little early.)

Happy Birthday to ME! Early!

Today was a wonderful, marvelous, very good day. I went down to see my Uncle & Aunt down a ways southwest of Boston. I spent most of the time sitting in the kitchen, talking with my aunt and two girl cousins and enjoying the antics of the toddler daughters of said cousins. But I also spent some time outside, enjoying my Aunt & Uncle's beautiful yard, which you can see here:


And here:


(By the way, can I just confess that I find it amazing and wonderful that here in the east the un-landscaped bits of your yard turn into FOREST? How cool is that? You have to WEED freaking TREES. Haha! So cool!)


And also, I found a pansy growing in a crack between some stone steps. Yeah. So. Here's a picture of it.

Aaaaaand, speaking of flowers, here's my happy early birthday present:


But the best (early) birthday present of all? Knowing you all are here, reading my blog, being my friends. Awwwww.

No, not really. Really it was the Black Forest Chocolate Cake with Fresh Raspberries. (It was so good, I HAD to capitalize it.) And I have one piece left over. And to save my pancreas, I'm not going to eat it tonight. No, no. That pleasure will wait until after church tomorrow. Oh, the joy of anticipation!

Little discoveries

Today I realized that licking batter from electric beaters (after unplugging, necessarily) is still as sublime an experience as it was when I was 7.

And about 30 seconds ago I realized that eating the cooked results of said batter (sugar-free, whole wheat cookies with REAL chocolate chips) is pretty darn sublime too.

Edit: And also, there's nothing quite like burning one's tongue in the pursuit of deliciousness.

If I could have my way,

My days would be spent in eating peanut-butter and jam sandwiches on this really deliciously thick and spongy (and inexpensive, thank goodness) whole-wheat bread.

Because I just love them. Because they are filled with delicious peanut-buttery goodness. And that sugar-free strawberry jam I bought the other day?

An incarnation of delight itself.

So, with the silly young king I say, "How about a peanut-butter sandwich?" Wish you could join me for one. Or several.

Does this make me weird or merely just quirky?

Today I thought up the most excellent blog topic; it was one of those topics that generate thought, discussion and links to your blog from prominent websites. It was even a little controversial and thus would generate even more thought, discussion and links than usual.

At least. I think it was controversial.

The trouble is, of course, that I can't remember what it was.

And so, naturally, the blog topic I'm stuck with is that, for some reason, I find the combination of Triscuits and lemon-flavored no-sugar-added yogurt so tasty I may finish the entire box here in one sitting.

And that is all.

Links, anyone?

And two generous servings of diet-breakers later...

I was invited to dinner today. I was a little nervous about the whole thing, which felt a little like a first date when you don't really know the person who's taking you out. Fortunately, all persons involved were female which lessened the tension potential considerably.

There were three girls at the dinner and we all kind of pitched in with the prep work. Hesitant to discuss my dietary restrictions (I guess because they're self-imposed, and I didn't want to cause any kind of inconvenience) I failed to mention that the potato dish I was assigned to prepare was something I really shouldn't be eating. And those two cartons of ice cream bought specifically for the dinner were not things I should be eating either. Nor the M&Ms there for snacking.

So, because of my failure to mention said minor details, and in an effort to appear relatively normal, and to, like, not be rude, I decided to eat the smallest possible portion of both the potato dish and the ice cream. (Yah. Real sacrifice, I know.)

The problem is, both were really, really, really delicious. I had forgotten how...just...you swallow potato and it kind of sits there pleasantly in your throat before moving its solid way down your esophagus and.

And.

Oh. My.

Ice cream? I mean, the real kind with real sugar and, like, these brownie bits and fudge swirls? So delectable I nearly went into a dead faint there on the kitchen floor. I had really forgotten, I mean really forgotten how wonderfully deliciousgoodnessly it sat there on your tongue while it sang sweet songs to your taste buds of love and flowers and that it was the only thing you had ever wanted and it wanted you and you were united now and everything was beautiful...

I.

Oh.

So.

Tomorrow I will return to my diet. I'm seriously not about to give this all up, particularly since I'm so near the 100lb loss mark. But is it wrong to feel that there was something nice about being able to take a break, however brief, from the rigors of said diet? Was I wrong to feast upon a few bits of potato? To relish my two little scoops of ice cream?

Well, yes. Yes, I was wrong.

But I don't regret it. No, not even a little.

Why does delicious creamy goodness have to hurt so much?

Today, while trying to fill up the time between the tour we took of the Longfellow home and Institute, my roommate (an awesome gal) and I decided to stop by an ice cream parlor not far from one of the stops on the T.

I went in expecting to have to watch in benign envy as said roommate consumed some delicious-looking concoction or other. However, to my joy, we discovered that the parlor had a vanilla that had no added sugar. Needless to say, the consumption of said ice cream was a divine experience. You can witness my joy for yourself here:


Alas, my joy was shortlived. For behold, as soon as my digestive tract got hold of this delectable substance (and seriously--the stuff was delicious) it began to complain, at first with mild muttered words, but soon with threats and imprecations that should never have been said in a church, let alone in the presence of a Young Lady of Good Character (i.e. me).

So I've spent the past three hours or so trying to decide whether I regretted eating said ice cream or not. I've come to the conclusion that I don't regret eating it. But I don't think I'll ever do so again.

A high tolerance for repetition

I've realized over the past...well, goodness. It's been almost exactly nine months, hasn't it? Anyway. I've realized over the past nine months or so that I have an extremely high tolerance for repetition in meals.

Allow me to explain.

Every morning for roughly the past nine months (although not quite that long--it took me a while to develop the meal) I have been eating the same thing for breakfast. With very little exception, (perhaps once a month or so), I eat an omelete made of eggs (obviously, people) beaten together with a generous helping of salsa (preferably fresh or very chunky--essentially just a convenient way to get tomatoes, onions and peppers all together at once). I have, until recently when I actually had to start paying for my own food, been adding cheese and Canadian bacon to said meal but I found that my finances (as well as limited fridge space) no longer accomodate such luxuries.

However, I have, since coming to Boston, found myself eating essentially the same thing at every meal, not just breakfast. And I really haven't minded all that much.

This has led me to conclude a couple of things about myself.

1. I am boring. Seriously, people. You cannot eat the same thing every day (and not minding it) without starting to get the lingering suspicion that you're just not that interesting an individual.

2. I am easy to please. I tend to like things and then continue liking them for a long time. I like spaghetti. I have liked it since I was in diapers (ask me about the spaghetti story sometime) and I still like it now and I especially like it when I make up this particular sauce and eat it with whole wheat noodles. I also like simple, cheap foods. I don't care what's in the hot dog or that it's a generic brand. I'm actually pretty much okay with eating most anything. Except seafood. So far.

3. I am a girl of routines. I think this is actually a product of my desire for efficiency rather than anything else. I love things to take as little effort as possible, so I arrange my life in order to accomodate this. If it means eating an omelete every morning because I know I can make it quickly and I know exactly which utensils I'll need and which ingredients and how long it will take, well, then I'll make an omelete instead of, say, a fruit salad with crepes, even if a fruit salad with crepes sounds a lot more interesting. And, like, delicious. (Man. That does sound good.)

Of course, all of this does not entirely preclude experimentation or variation; it just means that such things happen rarely and only when I have lots of energy and time. (And really, let's be honest, folks. Once you're past about eight years old those two things almost never come together.)

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some spaghetti noodles to boil.

Rather than the 1000 words,

let me just show you how darn adaptable I am:



And before you ask, "Wait--is that what I think it is? Is Lizardbreath cooking in the bathroom?" let me prove to you that yes, indeed, I did cook in the bathroom this morning:


Seriously. A toilet. And an electric frying thing. You can't get any more 'cooking in the bathroom'-ish than that.

However, so that you all don't think I make a habit of this, or that I'm doing it for fun, let me just explain that my parents are getting the hardwood floors in their kitchen, dining area & entryway all sanded & refinished so they can get their house on the market.

So. The kitchen is off-limits, our fridge is in the mudroom and our cooking takes place in the bathroom. Good times, folks. Good times.


And also it means that those are my scrambled eggs with cheese & salsa on the washing machine.

I just feel darn weird.

Cough Drops: an Unexpected Ambrosia

So, I've only recently (i.e. within the past two days) finally weaned myself off of cough drops. Who knew those little lozenges could be so addictive?

It all started when I got sick. Then, I got a cough that followed said sickness which produced a state of affairs in my throat and lungs that prevented me from talking or singing or breathing longer than roughly 30 seconds without breaking into chest-cracking convulsory coughing fits.

Not fun stuff.

So, to prevent said coughing fits I began sucking upon large quantities of cough drops (sugar-free, of course). Within only a few days, I was a cough drop junkie. It was all I could do not to raid my parents' cash drawer in search of the funds to feed my habit.

I went one day last week without cough drops at all and managed to startle numerous people who would have spent an otherwise pleasantly sedate day staring at paintings and discussing brushstrokes with their erudite companions.

However, my lungs appear to be pretty much back to normal, and while my throat still feels rather dry, I think this is mainly due to my transition from Illinois humidity back to Utah lack-thereof.

So cough drops are dropped. Not quite cold turkey, but it's pretty close.

(There are times though when I still dream of that eucalyptus-laced goodness. Mmmm.)

New Motivations

I hate not exercising when I'm sick.

Of course, this is a new discovery, since I've never been a person who thought exercise was at all desirable in any form ever.

But now I am.

So.

Today, despite that cough that just WON'T go away, I got up early, laced on my tattered sneakers and exercised for the first time since getting sick on Saturday. And, I've kind of half regretted it, because the coughing has been worse today, and I've felt utterly junky tired, like an 'Oh, I think I'm getting sick' type of tired, except it turns into 'Wait, I've suddenly realized that I just was sick, therefore this must be me recovering from being sick' type of tired.

Unfortunately, going without exercising tomorrow is simply not an option, because I've been feeling blehFATblah again, and the only cure for that (over a period of months and months) is to jam as much as I can to excellent Coldplay tunes and climb up the hills in my hometown while trying not to pass out because the air is so thin. (Great fun, that, actually.)

Oh, and also I avoid sweet things as if they're snake venom, which is really difficult to do when someone brings delectable and delightful English treats to our Middlemarch book club (Oh, fie, fie! Why dost thou tempt me thus?) which I force myself to refrain from eating and yet cannot resist numerous backwards longing glances.

I will now comfort myself with yet another sugar-free cough drop.

Mmm! Black Cherry!

It's snowing pizzas!

For those of you who like the thought of whole wheat anything, and for those of you who have wondered all your lives what exactly an uncooked whole wheat pizza with mozzerella, Canadian bacon, tomatoes and assorted bell peppers (not to mention a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese) would look like, I have graciously uploaded the photo to the left. Mmm.

For those of you who have wondered what exactly a cooked version of the same pizza would look like, gaze on this little beaut:















Okay--so the lighting's weird. Okay, so the peppers are all kind of scattered haphazardly and okay, so not everyone likes Parmesan cheese.

But I will persist in believing that my pizza was delicious.


Oh, and while I'm on the subject, isn't October just a little bit early for snow? I mean, I thought El Nino was supposed to bring us a mild winter this time around, so how can it have snowed here already??? For evidence, brace yourself for yet another picture:

(My front lawn this early evening)

And this one (my strangely elongated hand holding a fistful of (very cold) snow...in, like, freaking OCTOBER):

Weeeelll, I guess that's enough pictures for today. I could show you a closeup of those gorgeous tomatoes on the pizza, and I could show you a picture of my tennis shoe (which I am now wearing instead of the flip-flops) crunching down the powdery white stuff, but I won't. Not unless you beg. Really hard.

Why Whole Wheat Flour is Super-Oopity-Duper

Ahem.

So when I say I'm going to post on my blog sometime later that day, what I really mean is that if I were a less flawed version of a human being, I would post later that day in accordance with my less-flawed and more-perfecto way of doing things. I would not delay something I said I would do; I would not gaze at my lappy with apathy and turn (yet again) to flipping the channels on the tv set, watching a steady stream of mundanity flow by.

I would post, by gum.

Alas. I am not as perfecto as I would wish.

So, in accordance with my rather more-flawed way of doing things, I am posting about whole wheat flour today, dutifully (nay--blissfully) ignoring the promise I made to talk about it, oh, um, three or so days ago.

...

...

...

So, that whole wheat flour, huh? Pretty nifty stuff!

Actually, I'm really rather excited about whole wheat flour at the moment. You see, I've sworn off (at least for the forseeable future) refined white flour & all the attendant easy-digestibleness thereof. So whole wheat flour has become my semi-staple, my way of eating lovely bready foods like...bread...and........dough. Actually, the only thing I've made so far with said whole wheat (hereafter referred to as "ww") flour is some (or is it 'was some') ww pizza dough, to which I added toppings like fistfuls of mozzerella, sliced tomatoes and (mmm) triangles of Canadian bacon. Yummy! (Is it just me, or is the word 'yummy' a trifle too...perky?)

I hope to soon go on (ooo...a split infinitive) to ww bread (in loaf format) and ww rolls, soon to be followed by ww chocolate chip cookies (sweetened with Splenda) and ww brownies and other delectable artificially sweetened bits of not-so-decadent-decadence.

And perhaps, perhaps in a very long while, I'll feel prepared to make and bake and eat a lovely, dark, whole wheat chocolate cake, that will be mine...all my own...in memory of that cake I never had.

Mmmmmmmmmm. How I long for that delicious whole wheat chocolate cake. And I won't share. No, not one bit.

Well, maybe just a little.

I want it! No, I don't!

Okay. There is a huge ol' half-consumed chocolate cake sitting on the counter, and I want it. I want it bad.

So, you have to help me to convince myself how much I do NOT want this chocolate cake, because seriously I have been working hard the last two weeks and I don't want to blow it on a delicious slice of melt-in-your-mouth gooey crumbly chocolatey (did I mention delicious)...cake...

Okay. So, I don't really want this cake, except I do, but I really don't. Instead, I will content myself with some cauliflower. Or some sauteed peppers. Or some...er....celery. Yeah. Yum.

Aaaaaahhhhhh..... (Erm, that's supposed to be a long sigh...)

Oh, help.

If Beth can cook...

So can you! (Oh, come on. You knew that was coming.)

Truth be told, I'm pleased as pickles with myself this evening. I'm trying to incorporate more vegetables into my diet, so I experimented tonight and produced some veeeeery tasty results. (Mmmm...delicious results...)

So, firstly I threw some sirloin-type steaks into the pan & started them a-cookin', then I tossed some olive oil into another pan, added garlic (and heat) and let that sit (but only briefly). Then, I added in orange & green peppers (which I had handily cut up beforehand) and let those sautee for a spell. (Mmm...delicious sauteeing...)

After the peppers had cooked for a bit (and also after having flipped the steaks a couple of times) I added in some diced tomatos & sprinkled in some basil & oregano. (Mmm...delicious sprinkling...)

I let everything cook a bit longer until the veggies were tender but still slightly firm & the steak was only slightly rare (which is the way I like it, okay people???). Then I sat down to eat, after sampling a pepper (or two) and giving a pepper to my mom to sample too. (Mmm...delicious moms...er...no, I mean: Mmmm....delicious samples...)

And I ATE it! I DID! And it was TASTY!

And I'm still smiling smugly at my sauteeing ability (even though it's hardly anything to crow about) and feeling vaguely empowered. Cooking will do that for you, you know. Ah, yes.

Now for the dishes. DARN.

P.S. I would have included a picture of my minor triumph, but unfortunately, as I mentioned before, it's been et.

Of Haircuts and Happy Birthdays

I had a good day today.

Without going into too much detail, let's just say that I got a good haircut (my opinion of which is, of course, subject to my attempts to style it tomorrow morning...) and I got to buy books (two novels by Ursula LeGuin, plus Bleak House and Middlemarch) and eat LOTS of Italian-style food (mmm...delicious Italian-style food...) in which marinara sauce figured a prominent role.

However, there is one thing that would have made my birthday perfect: if my nephew had been born today. Now, he's got only a little over two hours to make the date, and I have a feeling he...well...he just won't make it. My poor younger sister has been longing for this baby to pop out for many days now and my nephew is just being stubborn. (Methinks he likes the womb.)

So, while it would have been cool to share a birthday with my sister's kid, still it'll be fun to just share August as a birthday month with him. You know, it's kind of funny--I arrived rather early into the world (I was actually born 19 days early, which means I was due on September...lemme think here...*counts days on her calendar*...September 12th) and this baby seems determined to stick it out in his mother's abdomen for as long as possible.

Okay--I'm exaggerating. The kid's actually not due until August 31st, but we're all still anxious to see him anyway, and find out whether he resembles my sister or her husband more and whether or not he'll be bald for the first year or so of his life, and whether he'll be a towhead like his parents. (Genetically speaking, it's pretty likely.)

Anyway--huh. Kind of diverged on my topic here. So, long & short of it: Good Birthday. Good Haircut. Gooooooood cake. Good night.

(Oh--and about Boston...I want to get out there more than ever, but I'm still uncertain about how I'd do it all, and I'm uncertain about the timing, and I'm REALLY uncertain about my own ability to handle a move like that. So. We'll see. Oh, and I just found out that some MSN study has found Boston to be one of the top 5 drunkest cities in the US. Go figure. But then, maybe I'd help even it out a little. You know--with my absolute non-drunkenness?)

Pesto and Smarties

Fear not, noble readers, lest you fear from the above title that I have committed a candy cuisine travesty. Rest assured, I did not eat my smarties with pesto.

And while we're on the subject, can I just say that smarties really are nothing like antacid tablets? Oh, sure. They may have that same chewable dissolve-y-ness, they may both have that same kind of powdery exterior, but oh, my friend. Smarties unfortunately lack that peculiar anti-acid power that antacids seem to carry in abundance. (Lucky antacids. All the smarties wish they had that power.)

I found this to my sorrow this evening, where, as I sat at my computer, trying to come up with fabulous designs for stuff, which I'm still acutally not very good at, and no I will not go into more detail than that, I found that that Turkey & Basil & Pesto sandwich I had for lunch had caused an uproar in my stomach. No, not a sick, yucky uproar, but a burning sensation in my lower esophagus, which caused me to clench the sides of my chair with my white-knuckled fists and declare soberly, "I can't believe I ate the whole thing."

And now I only have smarties to cure me. Sigh. But the pesto was worth it. Oh, so worth it. Ohhhhhhh yeah. And the smarties t'aint bad neither.

Well I just had one of the darned pleasantest lunches EVER.

It's not often that you can feel justified in taking an entire day off of work just to go to lunch with your family. And, actually, today was not one of those times. However, I DID feel justified because I took the day off to go to my sister's graduation from college, and we stopped and had lunch afterwards. (Happy circumstance!)

The wait was long. Actually, it was really rather horrendous. You see, when we got there, they (those poor, harried restaurant employees) told us that the wait would be about 45-50 minutes. So, my dad put our name down on the list, and we trekked over to a nearby bookstore and browsed for about 20 minutes before trekking back to the restaurant where my mom was sure we'd be seated relatively soon. An hour and ten minutes later, we finally got our table.

The good thing is, the wait was utterly and completely worth it. We got the patio table, and with a near-cloudless sky, and springishly breezes blowing, even the setting by itself was ideal. Then, when our good-looking waiter (my brother-in-law's cousin, by chance) brought us our crusty baguettes and smooth, white butter to spread upon them, along with endless glasses of strawberry lemonade and heaping platters of ceasar salad, followed shortly thereafter by our fabulous main dishes, (mine of course being chicken parmesean--LOVE that stuff), and while the conversation throughout all of this was lively and entertaining, and ranged from observing that wisp of cloud that became a large cloud, and whether that other wisp of cloud would become a large cloud too, and how genetically, my brother-in-law and his waiter-cousin could be considered half-brothers because their mothers are identical twins, I could not help but think that this was one of the best lunches I had ever had.

And so it was. The end.