Tag Archives: 365 Project

Jackie, African Drum Extraordinaire.

28 May

I have a djembe sitting in my living room that’s been staring at my face for an entire year.

Today's word is "djembe".

I bought the African drum last summer, thanks to a movie I watched called The Visitor.  In it, a reserved professor of something-or-other returns to his apartment after a long business trip and finds squatters.  One of whom just happens to play the djembe.  Instead of kicking them out, he decides to let them stay.  He also becomes one heck of a djembe player.

That’s not really how my djembe story goes.

I watched a movie, bought a djembe, played it once or twice, and then put it on a shelf where it’s been staring at me ever since.  It’s my drum of good intentions.  One day I’ll get the tutorial DVD for it and I’ll learn how to lay down some slammin’ African beats.  Or maybe I’ll go join a drum circle someday and learn from other players. 

So djembe it is.  I think I need to renew my commitment to it.   I’m not sure where to fit it in with the whole day job/2 film projects/daily blog thing, but my golly I have to because the guilt and silliness is building up and I can’t take it anymore.

I always thought it would be super cool to have a hidden, strange talent.  Not like tying a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue (I’ve tried – it’s not working out for me), but like fiddling or playing the bagpipes or being one heck of a step dancer.   I think the djembe fits the bill just fine.  I’ll look like a somewhat normal person, but in actuality, I could be a djembe-playing fool.  I could go out to open mics and sit in parks and strike the hide so well that even Dave stares at me in awe, attracted to my ongoing quirkiness and strange new attempts at human tricks.   And besides – being a mean djembe player is probably the last step in my transition into being a hippie.  …Well, it’s either that or I stop showering.

I think I prefer the djembe. ♣

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The Death of Grumplepuss

27 May

I’ve been a grumplepuss lately.

I feel like about a month ago, someone came into my soul and took my natural cheeriness.  The ease with which I used to flash a smile and the light bounce I had to my feet have been switched out for a furrowed brow and forced conversation.

I remember feeling like this back in high school.  Back when I had a lot of nicknames that had to do with being chaste, sharp-tongued, and weird.

There are certainly perks to sudden lack of cheer.  Things are much more easily approached with logic rather than emotion. I’m one of the most emotional people I know, so if I can just stay in one gear for a while, I really get a lot done and it all makes a lot of sense. 

It’s all that up and down female business that gets in the way of good, logical work.

 I keep trying to shake things up a bit.  Maybe I need a new city or a new gig or a new experience.  Maybe I need to just do something ridiculous (mansion anyone?) or just eat less.  Or not eat at all.  Maybe I need to get my nails done or get a pedicure or go out for ice cream before I eat dinner just because I’m an adult and I can.

None of those things have worked.

I don’t mind cynical Jackie, it’s just been a while since she’s visited and I’m not sure I have much room for her to stick around these days.  I’ve really lightened up since her last visit and I’ve gotten a lot more responsible, too.  

Maybe it’s fake-it-til-you-make-it kinda thing.  I thought that for a while – maybe I just have to pretend that this isn’t happening and no one will notice that I’m incredibly grumpy and I won’t bring them down or make them ask questions.

That didn’t work at all.  In fact, I believe the correct term would be “backfire”.

So I’m off to the woods this weekend.  I’m going camping in West Virginia with some old friends to cook things over a campfire that were never intended to be.  I’m off to take trips in the forest and get lost. Maybe I’ll find cheery Jackie somewhere along the way.

Wood

It will be like this. Except probably not so awesome-looking.

Don’t worry: I’m autoposting.  There may not be Internet in the butt crack of West Virginia, but there sure will be daily posts regardless.  It’d be a shame for you to miss me while I’m gone.

See ya in a few. ♣

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Gettin’ My Nails Did

26 May

Yesterday I decided to go up the street from work and get my nails did.

This is epic.  I just recently acquired  my talons.   Never, ever have I ever in the past gone to have a manicure with my own nails.  I usually show up with irritated little nubs and ask them to glue fake ones on and slather it in paste and shellac until they don’t even look like they belong to a human.

Then I spend the rest of the week going about daily tasks with an added dose of difficulty.  Buttoning pants, typing, putting in contacts… how do beautiful people accomplish anything?  I usually get enraged and begin to rip off said fake talons within a few short days, throwing my money down the trash and completely ruining my once-unimpressive, now-torn-up-and-disturbing nails. But yesterday I went in to the nail place up the street from work and asked for a French Manicure.

Doesn’t that sound fancy?  I have long enough nails to ask for French things.  That’s sexy.

Actually, there’s nothing at all sexy about it and going into nail salons in general stresses me out.  For one, there’s usually so many women gathered in one place, gabbing about women things that estrogen is dripping down the walls.  Two, I can’t for the life of me understand what the technicians are saying.  Even if English is their first language, I can’t get a sense of anything while their mouths are blocked by the face masks.   And it would be one thing if I just had to get through explaining what I wanted, but then they try to make my experience better by talking to me during the services, and I just have absolutely no idea what’s being said.  I like to contribute, and so I try.  I tend to keep responses general and ambiguous.  You know, something that could pretty much be an appropriate response to anything.   I nod and smile and say things like “Yeah, I know what you mean!”, “Right…”, and the all-encompassing “Yeah.”

During my most recent experience, the gentleman who was kind enough to whip my new nails into something presentable saw something on T.V. that got him excited and began to mumble on underneath his face mask, looking at me every so often for my enthusiastic confirmation.

He monologued for 5 minutes.

Five minutes is a long time to wait out not knowing what the hell someone is talking about.  There are a thousand things I could be unknowingly agreeing to with all my “rights” and “yeahs”.   He could’ve sold me a broken down inn down the street.  He could have taken me for a prostitute.  He could have told me he was going to go punch a baby in the face and I would have just kept nodding on, waiting for the pain to end.

Luckily, an update for “Dancing with the Stars” came on  the television, and it trumped whatever was previously on his mind.  With rapt attention, he stared ahead, getting the low-down on what was to be expected from the season finale.

I would have been able to contribute to the conversation he was about to have with himself if only I had T.V. like every other American ever.

But I don’t.

Note to self: watch T.V., practice “yes” phrases, then go get nails done. ♣

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The Morning After

25 May

It’s always kind of awkward the day after a Freshly Pressed post.  It’s like a one-night stand.  Should we acknowledge this happened and it was awesome but then recognize that we can’t keep going on like this?  Should we just ignore it and act casual?

…Should we cuddle?

I’ve always gone the casual route.   With Freshly Pressed, I mean – not with one-night stands.  I’ve actually never had one of those.  But since I’m going to keep plowing forward with this analogy I’ve worked up for us here, I guess that acting casual and ignoring our connection yesterday makes me kind of a player.  I like to consider myself an old-fashioned lady, so allow me to take a moment and send a big, fat, genuine bag of thanks to all you who are browsing my pages, commenting and liking the sweet bejeezus out of my blog, and considering starting Lollipop Tuesday streaks of your own (which I absolutely support).  I really appreciate you stopping by, and I will get back to the comments you leave.  Eventually.  I’d do it all at once, but I’m kind of doing this postaday2011 thing and it’s pretty time-consuming. I hope you can understand.

This came at a great time.  Although I was gearing up for my half-year anniversary of blogging every day, it’s pretty darn hard.  And this was a lovely pick-me-up.

Not to mention a great, unexpected karmic reward for trying something truly atrocious.

145 posts down, 220 posts to go. Onward! ♣

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7 Ways to Eat a Cricket

24 May
Cricket in close-up

This is actually a grasshopper. But let's face it, they're basically the same thing. Right? Right. Photo by ABremner/"scoobygirl" - Click the image to view their photostream.

This week, I celebrated Lollipop Tuesday by eating a cricket.  Sour cream and onion, to be exact.  Grossed out? So am I.   Don’t want to read on? I don’t blame you.  Don’t know what Lollipop Tuesday is?  Check out the top of the page to calm that burning sensation in your cerebrum.

As it turns out, I need quite a bit of convincing to chomp down on the thoracic exterior of a once-live, now-sour-cream-‘n’-onion cricket.  It took me nearly half an hour to throw it down the hatch.  Here are some of the reasonings my mind attempted during the excruciating limbo:

“I’m sure lots of people in other cultures eat bugs.  Yeah.  I’m sure I’ve seen it on a travel channel or something.  Lots of other countries have people who see this just like I see a banana.  A banana with legs and eyes and antenna.  …No.  no that’s not working.

Maybe there’s something on the box that will help me.  Like a breakdown of how darn healthy this is for me.  *gets box* Actually, it appears there’s only a diagram of the cricket.  Outlining all its bits and pieces.  

Okay, look.  This is easy.  It’s 9:00pm, and I don’t have anything new for Lollipop Tuesday.  Nothing.  And it’s too late to go out and try to do something tonight so it’s cricket or bust.  Cricket or bust.  Cricket or bust.  Just do it.  Do it and blog it.  Bam.  Wham Bam Bam-o.  

No, I can’t. EEEEeeeewww look at it.  Look at iiiiiit.  Its little leg is poking out from the rest of it.  EW.

All right, JESUS! I SHOULD EAT THEM BECAUSE OF JESUS.  SAINT JOHN THE BAPTIST IS SAID TO HAVE LIVED ON LOCUSTS AND HONEY IN THE DESERT.  I CAN BE LIKE JOHN.

 FOR JESUS!!

No, I’m sorry, this is disgusting.  I can’t do this.  I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t.

Okay here we go.  I’ll turn it into a drink.  A Cricket Soco Shot.  Yeaaaah *goes and pours shot* Okay – new shot!  Crunch up the cricket as fast as you can, and shoot the Soco.  

…

…

Ew.  I can’t do this.  I can’t believe I’m actually going to do this.  This is disgusting.  All for a stinking blog.  A BLOG.  NO ONE’S EVEN GOING TO CARE.

All right, forget it.  Just forget it.  I’m just going to set an egg timer and when it goes off, I eat it.  Like Scattegories.  Okay.  *Tick tick tick …..* 

…

….

Okay this is unbearable.  5-4-3-2-1!”

 

And that’s when I did it.  I popped the cricket in my mouth, where I quickly crunched down on it and kicked it to the back right corner of my mouth.  My tongue in a frenzy to work to somehow chew it without tasting it, I was frozen in terror and got it lodged between my lip and teeth.  Mortified, my tongue scraped at my teeth, trying to work it to the back of my throat where my esophagus could take over and I could be released from my peril. 

Finally, it dislodged and I washed it back with a shot of Southern Comfort and disgust.  I quickly reached for my enormous glass of orange juice, which I stashed for such a crisis.  I guzzled the entire cup down in a blink and ran to the bathroom to rinse what I was sure were little cricket bits out from my mouth.

Haggard, I walked into the living room, where Dave made a remark about the irony of my egg timer being a ladybug.  And then something or other about the cricket being in my throat and wanting to crawl back up.

Today, I’m walking around with a lump in my throat, mulling over the atrocity that I swallowed the evening prior.  I imagine it swimming in my bowels, I imagine it running through the course of my digestive system, all the while a beady, black-eyed, cricket.    

Which, by the way, doesn’t taste as much like sour cream and onion as it does regret. ♠

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An Early Half-Anniversary Gift

23 May

Gift Box

Last  night I had one of those moments when you remember something embarrassing about yourself that you’d successfully repressed for years.  And I decided I would do you all the service of sharing it.

After all, you tune in time and time again.  I should reward you with some of my dark, inner secrets on occassion.

I actually have decided to use this opportunity to reveal a number of embarrassing factoids about myself.   We’re approaching 6 months together and you can consider it a sort of early half-anniversary gift.  You’re welcome.

1)  I had a teddy bear that wore a nightcap and long pajamas that I named Sherman.  When you pushed his paw, he sang a really lame song for which the lyrics were something like “Dream with me and sleep.  Bedtime is a magical time.”  Actually, that’s exactly what they were.  My older brothers devastated me one day by hanging him from my bedroom ceiling by a noose for me to discover when I flicked on the lights.

2) I was in love with an audiotape that came in a little pink box and was something about a girl and her raincoat.  It was narrated by Barbara Bush.  I played it over, and over, and over.

3) I was a Math 24 champion in my elementary school.  I was so super nerdy and intense about it that when I got to 6th grade no one would go against me to challenge the seat to go to the semi-finals. *Pushes up glasses*

4) When I was in elementary school, my friend and I used to do what we called “rain dances”, by stomping our feet in wild tribal-like dances and screaming ridiculous songs and nondescript noises and squawks.  When it finally rained, even if it was the next day, we basked in our obvious success.

5) My first cassette ever was a hand-me-down Ace of Base album from my brother.  I read through all the lyrics on the fold-up pamphlet on the inside and corrected them for grammar and spelling with an ink pen.  My brother was not pleased.

And there you are.  Five little slightly embarrassing facts from my past.  In the spirit of giving, what are the chances I can get you to share one in the comments?

C’mon – do it.  It’ll be fun. ♣

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I’m the Prettiest Girl at the Ball

22 May

I had everything planned so well for today.

I was going to get up real early, eat an awesome breakfast, put on a face mask and paint my nails, and then casually wander over to the hair salon to get my hair did.  Since I always attempt to do something awesome to my hair and I always fail miserably, I was pretty sure this fail-proof plan would ensure that I would be absolutely ravishing for the wedding I am to attend in 3 hours.

I did actually wake up at 7, but I didn’t have breakfast.  I just decided to move from the couch to the bed.   How I ended up on the couch, I don’t really remember.  It was a wild night.

When I woke again, it was 11:00am.  I suddenly realized that I had not purchased a wedding gift, made a hair appointment, shaved my legs, eaten breakfast, or written a blog post.  I have 3 hours to make all of these things happen, and there is some sort of Orthodox Jew parade right outside my apartment that’s blocking access to anything in the world until noon.  I’ve lived in the thick of the Jewish community  in my city for two years now and I’ve yet to see a parade.  Naturally, they would start today.  

So I’m down to two hours.  Two hours I will have to accomplish all of these things. 

I’m going to have to forgo the hair appointment.  And perhaps shaving my legs.  Nothing’s worse than sitting through a long wedding ceremony with pantyhose creeping up my bum.  No, I’m going to have to shave the legs.  Definitely.

So maybe no breakfast and no hair appointment.  That should give me enough time to shave. I’ll throw on some really awesome face paint so that everyone is distracted from my terrible hair.

I keep thinking about how weddings are supposed to be so romantic and that Dave will look over to me during the ceremony and imagine something in the foreseeable future.  But then I think about how I should have gotten up at 7 today and made that happen for myself.  Because when he looks over to me, he’s going to get an eye full of this:

Nothing begs ‘Always and Forever’ like unshaven legs and quiet desperation. ♣

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I Think I’m Gonna Gag

21 May

Image is a genuine replica of the box laying before me. Courtesy of Da Yoopers Catalog - click the image to go buy your very own Lollipop Tuesday challenge.

Right now as I sit here, there is a box of crickets sitting on my coffee table, staring me in the face.

 Sour Cream and Onion, to be specific.

It’s there because Dave loves me and when he recently took a trip to Nashville just for the heck of it, he saw them and thought he’d do me a favor for a Lollipop Tuesday.   He was in Nashville.  He could have brought back boots, a country music CD, a butt cheek with a the smeared, faded signature of a country starlet, or a shirt that said “My boyfriend went to Nashville and all I got was this lousy t-shirt”.   But he remembered that I’ve been hunting for something repulsive to eat for one of my Lollipop Tuesdays (suggested by some of my not-so-easily-pleased readers), and lugged back a box of crickets.   That’s love.

I am petrified with fear.

I can just imagine their crunchy back legs rolling around in my mouth as I masticate them.  I can imagine their once-upon-a-time summer song.  The late nights I stayed in bed, happy to hear them causing a ruckus in my backyard.  I don’t know if I can do this.

Unfortunately, I think I’m going to have to.  I already have one Lollipop Tuesday I’m putting off until I “feel up to it”, which is the lovely poll I took a few weeks ago on whether or not I had to repeat my open mic session due to light attendance that particular evening. And because 51.16% of you are cold and heartless, you voted a do-over.    So that’s still on the to-do list.

The last thing I need in addition to my overwhelming guilt and fear to do another open mic is a box of crickets staring me in the face.

Dave says they’re like chips.  “Just think of them as little chips”, he says.  But they’re not chips.  They’re insects.  And I can see their eyes.

They’ll be staring into my soul while I sleep at night. ♣

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I’m an Official Urban Biker Warrior

20 May
Bike lane placement

Photo by Richard Masoner. Click to scoot on over to his photostream.

Yesterday, I officially became an urban biker.

You see, although this summer will mark my first full year as a bike-owner, there are a number of things one must do in order to be officially canonized into the urban biking community.  Besides getting a cool bike, good gear, hauling a huge bag full of personal wipes, a change of clothes, and a real pair of sneakers, it also really helps your street cred if you get hit by a truck.

Yesterday, I got myself some street cred.

I’ve only had two accidents in my life in which I’ve been the driver.  The first time, I was in a car and was sideswiped by an oversized black truck.  The second time was yesterday, when I was sideswiped by an oversized red truck.  I seem to have a blind spot on my left side that’s only affected by oversized trucks of both color and non-color.   Apparently, they’re my commuting Kryptonite.   I wish my Kryptonite was something less massive.  And less painful.

I’m sure my story mimics those of several urban bikers – I was minding my own business on the far right side of the road, with enough room for someone to pass me carefully on my left.   But since most people are on the phone, eating food, and reading a magazine while they drive these days, they often tend to miss bikers.  And since I was pretty focused on how wet my underwear was getting from the rain splashing up to my bike seat and working its way into my butt, only something like a truck slam could pull me out of my concern for not having packed an extra pair of underwear that morning.

Unfortunately, I’m pretty darn sure this guy did see me and just tried to squeeze past by pushing me off the road.  But since there wasn’t anywhere for me to go, I instead got hit by his sideview mirror and the back of his truck bed.  Luckily, I maintained my balance enough after the hit that instead of falling into the steady traffic coming from behind, I popped up onto the curb and nursed my wounds.

But the dude didn’t stop.

That’s the truly annoying part.  I’m lugging around an enormous bag of gear and will pedal up a storm to get to work on time so that I can wipe down in the bathroom and transform from a dirty street rat into a presentable office worker.  I’m attempting to buy less gas, save roadkill, and slowly whittle off the enormous gelatinous donut of fat that currently insulates my middle section.  I’m really trying to do a few good things here that are actually rather inconvenient and difficult and you can’t even be bothered to pull over and see whether or not you’ve maimed me.

But hey –  I’m just fine.  And I’m pretty stoked to have had my first run-in with traffic be one in which I’m not severely harmed.  How often can one be officially inducted into the Urban Biker Society with a vehicle collision that doesn’t involve a ridiculously painful and unsightly road rash?  I mean, I almost feel like I can’t really be canonized unless I’ve got unsightly sores and aches that trouble me for months.  But I’ll take the street cred. After all, I survived a truck.  A truck!

I am an urban bike warrior; hear me roar. ♣

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Not the Momma

19 May

Photo by "pinprick". Click to go to their photostream.

Pretty much everyone I know is married, pregnant, or gearing up to become one of those.

I’m starting to feel like a fish pulling away from the school.  Even the hottest of the hot popular girls are settling down into low, protruding bellies and one-woman men (or so we hope).  I figure I’ll wait around a while.  Besides, when else in my life am I going to watch all the people who were gorgeous and skinny my entire life get all big and motherly?  The idea that somewhere right now, half the members of the prom court are wearing stretchy pants and pushing strollers is a dose of awesome I’ll drink down a few more times, thankyouverymuch.

Not because there’s anything wrong with that, but because it’s nice to know they’re human.

There is also something very strange about watching it all happen on Facebook.    As if the pressures of the mid-twenties (don’t laugh) aren’t difficult enough without the phenomenon of social networking making it possible to track every other person’s life in relation to yours.   My Facebook mini-feed is getting flooded with tales of motherhood, questions on pregnancy, complaints about pain in places I didn’t know could throb, and pictures of it all to boot.

I’m beginning to think leaving Facebook might be a good life decision right now.

You know it’s funny – I’ve always been kind of resolved to be a housewife and pop out babies and live like a little family nestled in a big, open house with a dog.  The dog is important.    But here I am at a time where everyone else is settling into homes, popping out little dependents, and swooning over their newlywed status and I’m in my apartment eating a grilled cheese at 9:00pm, playing video games and browsing the web next to my cats.

I also happen to be wearing stretchy pants but that’s neither here nor there.

Should I still choose to go the way of the baby/husband deal, I am more than happy to take my time.  After all, once you’ve got either of them, you’ve got them for life.  So what’s the hurry?   I’m not Amish and I’m not from the 50’s, so I think it’s a pretty good time for me to mess around in corporate America, enjoy my noisy apartment, and spend my time fantasizing about hiking the Appalachian Trail or going out every week to see what sort of nonsense I can get into so that I can blog about it.

The only hard part will be all my friends that are new moms telling me how incredibly rewarding it is and how I can’t really know selflessness until I’ve looked into the eyes of my child and all that business.  I’m sure it’s all lovely and true, but I’m not about to be pressured into being responsible for another human being.  I just got out of credit card debt for the first time in 5 years.  I’m not exactly gearing up to start investing in baby formula and tuition savings accounts.

And when I want to play with a baby, I can just call up either of my brothers.  Because in three months, I will be an aunt twice over.  

Aunt.  That sounds much better than mom. ♣

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