Redux

Remember that time I said we were back?

In March?

Approximately five months ago?

Yeah, that didn’t work out so well. Lots of things intervened, but the primary instigator was an old friend I like to call laziness. Seriously, y’all: Blogging is hard. I write words all day long, and while my 9-5 (ha!) musings don’t typically cover subjects related to rug-disposal and basic human anatomy, it’s tough to want to come home and spend another thirty minutes with my keyboard.

As such, I’ve decided to abandon the “good blogger” initiative. Daily posts? Please. Weekly posts? I think not! I’ll blog when and where I want, and this blog’s getting back to its roots:

Shame. Schadenfreude. Shenanigans.

To get us started, here’s a quick overview of the last 150 days:

1. I tried to make chorizo.* I ended up melting my cheap Swedish tupperware onto our über-classy flat-top stove.

2. I tried to eat said chorizo, but the plastic-related chemicals were too overpowering. That’s the last time I buy food-related items from IKEA.

3. In order to share this momentous event with you, I saved the melted tupperware — the part I hadn’t ingested — for a future photo session. Which never happened. See the discussion of my failure to be a “good blogger” above.

4. We moved! Into a fabulous old house with wood floors and a giant yard. The air conditioning was broken on the day we hauled our stuff over, and we weren’t able to get the gas turned on for approximately 10 days after that. Never fear — all systems are now go, as evidenced by the $240 electric bill we received this week.

5. I fake-moved to the Midwest, where I’ve been staying periodically for work. The Minnesotans have been teaching me about the wonders of Walleye and the Mall of America. Thus far, I’ve avoided telling them to pry my queso and Neiman’s out of my cold, dead hands. We’ll see how long that lasts.

Thomas Jefferson reportedly said that the “most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do.” I’ve now spent more than 350 saying nothing at all, so I believe it’s time to take my leave.

See you next time.

Maybe.

* My computer kept suggesting that I’d misspelled “chorizo,” so I decided to see what it thought I should write instead. Answer: Horizon? The Midwesterners aren’t the only ones who need more Tex-Mex. This MacBook’s clearly in need of a proper education.

Ugh, Pinterest.

Listen, y’all. I love Pinterest just as much as the next girl. It lets me keep track of pretty dresses and fun artwork and ridiculous cat-related things Anna sends my way. However, as the months have gone by, I’ve learned that the key to successful Pinterest-usage involves limiting your time with the site to:

1. Pinning things yourself; and
2. Looking at pins from your existing friends.

Things start breaking down when you click on “everything” and suddenly become aware of the general inanity plaguing our population. For example:

This was pinned multiple times today. Multiple. Now, I’m the first to admit that science is not my strong suit, but anyone who had to sit through sixth grade health class should be able to identify the blatant disregard for basic human anatomy on display above. Throw in the inherent cultural imperialism, and things get even dicier. Which is why I prefer to stick to gems like this:

That, ladies and gentleman, is a Transformers-themed engagement ring. Pinned by Anna. I rest my case.

UPDATE: What the hell, world?

Great. Now I’m going to have nightmares.

Where have all the boy bands gone?

This evening, Anna turned on a Backstreet Boys Pandora station in the hopes that it would inspire us to get some housework done. After a few minutes of listening to Savage Garden and burning the frittata I’d previously been so excited to make, we had the following exchange.

Me: “Duuude. Why doesn’t anyone sing us love songs?”

Anna (judgmental face included, natch): “Because they know better.”

And with that … we’re ba-ack!

Get Pinspired

I know, I know. It has been over 50 days since I posted anything of substance on this here blog. For shame.

I wish I had some kind of legitimate excuse for my absence, but all that comes to mind is the same thing I’ve been harping on since we first carved out this little corner of the Internet: we’re trainwrecks! We got distracted with school and work and football and candy and totally dropped the ball. I’d like to promise that it will never happen again, but I’m going on vacation in 10 days and have no intention of interrupting my pasta-eating adventures for this. Have you guys ever tasted authentic tortelli? It beats blog updating every time.

Anyway, I haven’t been completely neglectful on the home front. Thanks to the Pinterest Challenge,  which was started by Young House Love and Bower Power, I recently joined the Pinterest-obsessed denizens of the world in an effort to actually pull myself together and make one of the 3.8 bajillion things I’ve pinned.

In my case, it was a Christmas stocking for Boone. Yes, I know it’s barely November. Indeed, I am aware that we are talking about a D-O-G. But seriously, y’all – Booner will need a stocking come Christmastime (it’d be rude to leave him out), and the cheapest ones online were way too expensive for my taste. Enter: crafting!

I’m not going to say this was easy. It took about seven hours from start to finish (including material sourcing and pizza eating breaks), and it’d be silly to pretend there were no curse words or tears strewn about throughout the process. In the end, though, the magical Martha skills of my dear friend Erin and my shameless obsession with all things Boone pulled together to result in what I think is a pretty impressive Christmas Miracle. Behold:

I know it looks good, but don’t get any ideas. What with the fabric shopping and the hours of manual labor, I’m not super convinced this was cheaper than picking one up at Crate & Barrel. That said, it’s definitely got a lock-down on the cuteness scale. Take that, seasonal catalog!

Oh, and for those of you who thought our trainwreckitude was limited to falling behind on blogging and getting overly excited about trick-or-treaters dressed as Pocahontas, here’s a picture of the “costume” we forced the Boonedog into for Halloween. See that look in his eyes? I’m scared.

Edit: Bad blogger! I found my original inspiration picture here, and Erin sourced a super-handy tutorial here. There’s no way I could have figured this one out on my own.

Get in my bookshelf

Last week, I took myself down to to the local bookstore and made three fantastically exciting purchases:

1. A collection of Icelandic sagas;
2. Clash of Kings, the second book in George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Fire and Ice series (commonly known as “those Game of Thrones books” by you neophytes); and
3. Surprised by Joy, a memoir by the always fabulous – if slightly contentious – C. S. Lewis.

As if you needed any further evidence of my truly incredible nerdiness, please note: I actually called ahead and put the first of these on hold. Wow.

While my dear blogger friend (we hang out in real life, too) Mac was serenading a certain Gym Butter (that’s his official name, it’s no big deal), I alternated cleaning my apartment with reading fantasy fiction and laughing at Khal and Khaleesi jokes on Gawker.com. While the “trainwreck” portion of my life seems to be pretty obvious, I really need to work on that “twentysomething” part. Oy vey.

To be fair, I followed that up with a pretty epic Longhorns football game on Saturday, complete with some smuggled in Tito’s and a quality queso-fueled after party. But still, where did I find myself on Sunday afternoon?

Curled up on the couch with the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, wondering how many hundreds of pages I could devour before I had to start work again on Monday.

Ah, well. Maybe one day I’ll find my very own Gym Butter, and he’ll know exactly what I’m talking about when I tell him I’ve decided to measure any future men against a fictional warrior named Khal Drogo. Trainwreck averted. Right?

On parenthood (of the puppy variety)

Here’s the thing: I know this blog is supposed to be about the inherent trainwreck-itude associated with life as a twentysomething, but sometimes that madness spreads to other members of our household. Specifically: to Boone.

The puppy dog was in top form last night. He swiped a paper towel, jumped on a houseguest, and then – in a truly impressive coup de grâce – managed to ingest half a tube of cortisone cream. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: “le sigh.” Despite my immediate hysteria, he turned out fine. But dude … seriously?

It’s a good thing he’s cute.

Procrastination station

When you start a blog, there are lots of rules you’re supposed to follow. “Establish a regular posting schedule,” they say. “Don’t make your posts too long.” “Publish new entries during peak usage hours.” Believe it or not, I’m actually trying to follow these rules. We post on a semi-regular schedule, and I’m proud to say none of my posts have exceeded 500 words. That said, being a good blogger is hard! Which is why I find myself writing this particular entry at 10:30 on a Tuesday night. Peak usage hour? I think not.

I wish I could say this kind of procrastination is outside the norm, but we all know that’s not true. When it comes to non-essential activities (basically, those that don’t involve work or Boone-care), it frequently takes me a little while to pull myself together.

Take, for example, last Sunday. We’ve had an old table sitting in our living room for a few weeks waiting for me to figure out what to do with it, and I thought this weekend would be a good time to start. I’m sort of convinced the little bugger has a face, so I decided to begin its rehabilitation by removing the weirdly proportioned drop leaves and go from there.

Cooper wasn’t too happy about it – he appreciates the table’s wide top and proximity to exciting things like light-switches – but we try and pretend he’s not the boss in this house. With that in mind, I got to work. I spent a super productive twenty minutes unscrewing the left leaf’s support before running into a bit of a roadblock: one of the screws was so tiny and old that there seemed to be no way to get it out. Shoot!

Luckily, I had no intention of having my Sunday afternoon productivity streak foiled by a stupid drop leaf table and its googly eyes. So, until I could wrangle the good folks at Home Depot to walk me through that one, I decided to try my hand at updating another old piece of woodwork: this gigantic mirror, which I thought might make a good addition to the bare area over our couch.

I quickly spread out some drop-cloth and went to town with the same turquoise paint used on our now-infamous star, and the mirror makeover was underway. I’m pleased to say that it was without major incident, although Cooper did manage to break out of confinement and sprinkle some lovely blue pawprints in a trail from my paint site to Anna’s bathroom. I know you’re not supposed to use Windex to clean up these type of things, but you better believe I did! Look at the title of this blog, kids. Are you really surprised?

Anyway, I managed to complete the mirror before the day was through. We haven’t actually hung it above the couch yet, but it’s been a big hit so far. Just check out this picture of Boone’s first encounter with our living room’s newest accessory. Cute, right?

As a final note, I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that this post is actually clocking in at about 520 words. Bad blogger. Bad!

Does it count as a trainwreck if it’s actually a car?

Last Thursday, I had to make a sheepish call to a family friend, David, and announce that I’d wrecked my car. “Are you OK?” he asked, panic rising in his voice. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” I sighed. “I wasn’t even in it.”

Let’s back up, shall we? Earlier that morning, I’d rushed out of the house to make it downtown for an early meeting. Running late, I decided to save time by parking in the visitors’ lot instead of driving down to the parking garage and taking the elevator back up.

With ten minutes left before the meeting, I parked the car, locked the door and began to walk toward my building. Then, in the corner of my eye, I noticed that something looking suspiciously like my car seemed to be rolling away. Wheeling around, I discovered that it was in fact my car and that it was picking up speed with every millisecond. Holy shemoligans! I ran after my little Corolla, sprinting toward it in my work dress and heels in a wild effort to stop what was certain to be nothing short of a total catastrophe.

In case you’re not grasping the full ridiculousness of the situation, let me spell it out:

• Car: Rolling away.
• Me: Running helplessly after it, trying shamelessly to unlock the door and climb in before all hell breaks loose.
• Everyone else: Stopping, staring and pointing at that foolish girl who couldn’t even manage to park her car correctly.

Pathetic.

As you may have guessed, my efforts to catch the runaway Toyota were not successful. Instead of stopping at the curb in its path, my little four-door slammed – with surprising force, I might add – straight into a concrete barrier and iron lamppost leading to the Four Seasons parking garage. The right side of my bumper practically fell off, and dirt, wiring and shards of glass flew all over the adjoining streets.

As I later found out, my emergency brake had failed (I drive a stick shift). So, while this wasn’t technically my fault, it definitely goes down as a solid 11 on the 1-10 scale of tranwreckitude I keep tacked up in my office.

The best part? I didn’t even make it to my meeting. I called my boss before calling the cops or our building manager (welcome to the world of communication consultants, folks), but ended up having to reschedule for an hour later.

Ouch.

(N)ash(e)ville

A few weeks ago, Anna and I were enjoying some Vinho Verde and Alex Trebek when we realized it was high time we had some kind of roommate vacation. After all, Anna’s about to start grad school, and I like vacation just as much as the next girl. As I’d been itching to go back to Nashville and we both wanted to visit Asheville, North Carolina, a plan was born. I’d like to tell you we thought it through a bit further, but that’s pretty much it. I mean, look at Alex’s face. He obviously approved, and what more do you need?

Last Saturday, we set off. We were lucky enough to grab a free nonstop from Austin to Nashville (thanks to Rapid Rewards) and a discounted car rental (via USAA), so we were feeling fairly triumphant. That lasted until about 90 minutes after we landed, when our first trainwreck moment struck. What, you thought we’d make it longer than that? Amateur.

When I last visited the Grand Ole Opry, it was held at the Ryman in downtown Nashville. As I’d apparently left my thinking cap at home, I assumed that’s still where the shows were located. Lies! After taking a bumper-to-bumper tour of downtown and paying $10 for parking, we arrived at the Ryman to learn that the Opry actually takes place at Opryland, a Disneyland-esque metropolis some twenty minutes away. Scheissebombs. It’s a good thing we have that southern charm thing going on, because we managed to sweet talk the parking attendant into giving us back our ten-spot and made it to Opryland in what I assume to be a record 17 minutes. And y’all, it was totally worth it. The Oak Ridge Boys were being inducted into the Opry family that night, and we were treated to some epic renditions of Elvira and Amazing Grace. Fantastic, obviously.

The next day, we headed to Asheville. In true roomie fashion, the trip wasn’t without a few hilarious speedbumps. To wit: we encountered a very stoic Tennessean gas-station attendant, who remained solidly (and quite vertically) asleep outside his shop throughout our visit (he’d apparently remembered to lock the door before drifting off, so we didn’t stay for long). We also managed to find our way to a gas station with no gas and a Lowe’s parking lot that did NOT lead back to the highway. Whoops. Once in Asheville, we fell in love. The embroidered orange cat on our bed was hysterical (and sadly reminiscent of a certain Coo-a-Loo back home), and the city itself was gorgeous. We also decided to tour the Blue Ridge Parkway, which had some seriously amazing views and prompted Anna into taking more than a few humorous pictures, on which I’m not even going to attempt to comment. This girl is awesome.

The trip was a great antidote to the hot Texas summer and an ideal way to reboot our engines before fall kicks into high gear. We even managed to run into a semi-toothless, banjo-wielding gentleman at a mountaintop overview. Perfection.

Our cat is named after the King of Thieves

When we got our eldest cat, Cooper, we weren’t sure what to call him. On the car ride from the shelter to the pet store, I suggested Quinn. “Too girly,” replied Anna. “What about Finn?” I asked, hoping that would solve the problem. Anna didn’t even bat an eye: “Too Glee.”

Over the next few days, we played around with a number of options. Some were regal; some were ridiculous. None quite seemed to capture his reckless personality (which, for the record, has only grown more outlandish with age).

Then, while curled up on the couch with my favorite Saturday reading, it came to me: Cooper. As in George Cooper, the roguish and romantic King of Thieves in Tamora Pierce’s seminal – to me, at least – Song of the Lioness Quartet.

For those of you who may be unfamiliar with these books, here’s a brief introduction:

Alanna of Trebond wants to be a knight, so she pretends to be a boy to train at the palace. Throughout the course of the series, she learns valuable lessons about magic, love, war and friendship. If that doesn’t get you, just look at that cover – how could you not read something with a visual like that?

The Song of the Lioness books may be recommended for kids ages 10 and up, but I still tear through them at least once a year. I can’t help it, y’all: I love young-adult fiction. Harry Potter, the Hunger Games, Graceling – I eat that stuff up. Which is especially hysterical when you consider my other tastes in reading material. Yup – In one small section of our bookshelf, you can find F. Scott Fitzgerald, James Joyce, Bob Woodward and vampire-loving Stephenie Meyer. (The Amish book is Anna’s, and I take no responsibility for that.)

Listen, growing up is hard to do. I may have a 401K and wear heels to work, but the His Dark Materials books really cheer me up after a long day at the office. I currently do and always will love Katniss, Katsa, Alanna and Eleanor of Frell. I probably shouldn’t admit that in public, but it’s true.

Here’s my point: If you don’t know who any of the above characters are, get on it. Horse Soldiers and the Wind-Up Bird Chronicle may be excellent, but they’ve got nothing on seeing the world through the eyes of an adventurous 15 year-old.

Oh, P.S.: Sure, I’ve read Twilight. No, I didn’t love it. And yes, I will absolutely punch your lights out if you try and compare it to the greatness that is Harry Potter. Ahem.

Note: The Alanna: The First Adventure cover art is courtesy of the Plaid Pladd blog (although it’s really Google Images, if we’re being honest).