Posts Tagged ‘ManBear’

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Drowning in Life. And Stuff.

July 20, 2010

I had yesterday off work. I slept in, folded laundry, cuddled the PuppyKitten, played tennis with my friend, walked dogs, told my homance happy 25th birthday and generally reveled in having nothing to do.

I had yesterday off because starting today I have 10 solid days of work, 2 of which will be 10 hour days catering 2 different weddings.

After those 10 days is the ManBear’s birthday (a glorious friday off to sleep in and have lots of sex and drink and carouse and blowitup big) followed by another day of partying. Sunday will then be spent celebrating in a secret birthday style. Monday I get to work again. And Tuesday.

Tuesday I fly to Boston.

To meet up with Caitlin.

To drive to BlogHer.

To meet up with everyone.

Then days spent reveling and a flight home monday evening followed by work Tuesday morning.

I feel like I’ll need a vacation from my vacation!

But I am also so breathtakingly excited!

See you there?

Here is a picture TO JAZZ IT UP ZATARANS STYLE

Ichabod is not amewsed wif your innernets ramblins! MOAR GRAVY!

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a post

July 6, 2010

I have been very busy lately.

I say this not as an excuse, but as an explanation.

I have a hundred things to talk about, to share; thousands of words to rush out to explain the wonderful things I’ve been doing – the things off my life list, the exploits of my hobo and his lady friend, the party with the guy in the dress, crafts. I want to explain how crappy work is being, and how good at the same time. I want to tell you about the thing my sister is doing, and the way the ManBear looks at me. I want to tell you how I feel fat and beautiful and tired and clever. I want to tell you how much I love my life, my man, my cat, my friends, the world.

Instead, for now, for this brief moment i have to breathe and collect, I’ll tell you about all the things I want to tell you about.

Life is really, really good.

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Girl Talk Thursday – Time Savers

May 20, 2010

I feel no shame in admitting that I use time savers.

The shame is more in the fact that  I don’t use them because I’m BUSY or IMPORTANT and don’t have TIME to do things.

Instead the shame rests solely on the fact that I am butt-ass LAZY.

So I will give you my “Top Five Time-savers I Could Not / Will Not Live Without (In No Particular Order)”  or “TFTSICNWNLW(INPO)” because acronyms are cool and will totally save you time.

Though it’s not one of my TFTSICNWNLW(INPO). Because that’s just silly.

1. CARDIGANS!. I cannot shout this loud enough for you to understand how much time cardigans! save me.

Have to get ready for work in 10 minutes because I slept in until 7:40am and have to leave the house by 7:50am to get to work by 8:05am and pretend I am on time? Throw on a (hopefully) clean t-shirt or top and cover it with a Cardigan!. Maybe add a scarf to Jaunt It Up!

I own maybe 6 or 7 cardigans! and (try to) rotate them, though I’ve been known to wear the same one 5 out of 7 days. And I don’t even care.

2. Slip on flats.

At any given time I own between 3 and 7 pairs. Currently I have a pair of dark green, a pair of red, and two pairs of black (one smooth, one suede-y). In addition, I have a pair with a candy print and a strap, a pair with cut-outs shaped like flowers, and a “fancy” pair with ~JEWELS~ (not to be confused with JULES) on their sides.

Flats are awesome for multiple reasons – quick to put on, good for pants or dresses, quick to take off, cute!, and pretty affordable.

I am currently coveting these:

3. SHREDDED CHEESE!

wait.

There we go.

Ok. Shredded cheese. My time and life saver.

It’s 8:30pm. We haven’t made dinner. We don’t want to.

What have we got? CHEESE. PRE SHREDDED. A MILLION OPTIONS ARE OPEN TO US! And we wont skin our knuckles off trying to shred our Costco block of cheddar!

Top 3 things that are quick to make and DELISHUS

-Quesadillas – we always have tortillas in the house. Because otherwise you are Un-American. Or something. (Usually we go for Quesadillas with veggies and maybe, if we are feeling industrious, some meat thrown in).

-Breakfast nachos – eggs, bacon, shredded cheese, bell peppers, onions, sometimes potatoes over chips. Bake or broil for 2 – 5 minutes, or until cheese is gooey. Not the most healthy but delicious and easy.

-Groiled Cheese – not grilled (though also delicious) but GROILED. Lightly toasted bread, fresh smushed garlic* spread on the toast, a slice of lunch meat (i go turkey) a slice of tomato or tomato sauce, topped with some shredded cheese. Broil for 2 – 5 minutes or until cheese is as melted as you want it. Eat like an open-faced sandwich.

*I usually microwave a couple of tablespoons of butter and mix in the garlic so it’s a GARLIC BUTTER. You can also prepare this butter ahead of time and store it in the fridge or freezer for a while to be used on whatever you please. Add more or less garlic to your taste.

4. Not Washing My Hair

Most people do some variation on this, but I have a system that saves me more time that I expected it to when I first worked it out.(Please note: I shower in the morning 90% of the time so my hair is usually wet daily and works for me.)

Day 1: Wash hair. Condition. Style/Wear/Etc.

Day 2: Ignore hair in shower. Style/Wear/Etc.

Day 3: Condition. Style/Wear/Etc.

Day 4: Ignore hair again. Style/Wear/Etc.

By day 4, the natural oils and the condition work together to overpower whatever goo you’ve put in your hair in the first place and I have no problem waiting that long to wash my hair. Plus, styling it gets easier because I fight with it less and put in less effort. TWO FOLD TIME SAVER!

Add in the time you save IN THE SHOWER washing it (it’s only like 3 minutes but man, that can be a LONG time!) and it becomes THREE-FOLD!

5. Roller Color Eye Shadow

Maybelline makes this roll-on eye shadow that my mom and I found at a Longs a few years ago. It’s quick and easy and saves me worrying about make-up in the morning. It’s enough for me to feel like I’ve put effort in without being a pain-in-the-ass.

I don’t use a pink (mine is a softer, lighter color that doesn’t appear to be on their list?) but highly recommend it if you ever bother with eye make up.

(I’m including a #6 that used to be #5 cause I remembered what #5 was supposed to be.)

6. Making my boyfriend drive me to work every morning

I almost used a different one but I think this really is one of the biggest. I didn’t want to put it in, because it’s not really that I make him drive me to work.

It was actually his idea. It wakes him up early enough to be on time to work in another town, and lets us have a little extra morning together time.

Plus I don’t have to leave the house 15 minutes earlier than normal to get to the bus stop in time to be on time to work. And I hate the bus.

If I didn’t get that ride every morning, my routine would be completely off and I wouldn’t have nearly as much time to get ready in the morning.

Time saver! And sleep saver! And sanity saver! Woo!

So those are the TFTSICNWNLW(INPO) that save ME time.

How about you?

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McCrystle

May 14, 2010

The Manbear asked, based on GTTs Teacher theme, if I would post something he wrote about his favorite teacher. Which, um, duh.

In my years of schooling I’ve had quite a few teachers who stood out as wonderful, a few who stood out as terrible, and a lot were too average to remember clearly. There is one, however that stands out in my mind far above all the rest.

I only ever had one class with him. It was my Senior year of High School and in all honesty I don’t remember a whole lot of the content of the class. The class was titled Conflict in the Modern World, and as you might guess, it covered the various wars, revolutions, genocides and uprisings happening around the globe. Lots of talk about Africa, Asia, Latin America and the Middle East and the historical setting in which these modern conflicts were happening. What made the class though, and why I still consider it one of the most important moments in my educational history, was the teacher: Mr. Patrick McCrystle:

crystle.jpg

Mr. McCrystle took his job as an educator very seriously but considered his job to be comprehensive, not topical. He made sure that we were not just learning about the struggles in Myanmar and Sudan, but also that we were learning what it meant to be responsible, thinking, adult men.

Going into his classroom was always an exercise in the unexpected. Most often we’d sit down and hear about something that was in line with the course description, but there were days, oh those glorious days!, when he’d pull one of the empty desks to the front of the class, turn it around and set himself right on top of it. These were the days where I really learned.

One day, perched awkwardly on the top of that desk he read “The Laughing Man” from J. D. Salinger’s Nine Stories. Then discussed it with us, asked our views, talked about similarities in our own lives and used it to connect with us personally.

He told us of his travels. Of running the bulls (and nearly dying) in Pamplona with one of his closest friends. Being the last through the gate, mere yards in front of the first bull and the shower of flowers and money that rained on them from the onlooking crowd. Of visiting Northern Ireland during The Struggles and trying to get some official IRA literature. Ducking into a half-sized door at the end of an alley and walking a long, narrow, dimly-lit hallway to a small waiting room; the only other occupant a large, rough man who looked very frightened and who’s knee had obviously been shot at some point in the past. Stories about a life well lived, if not lived wisely.

Another day he spent lampooning the Church of Scientology, explaining its roots, crazy, money-driven, sometimes murderous practices and the utterly interesting and insane life of the religion’s founder L. Ron Hubbard.

-scientology.jpg

The day that most stands out was one he spent talking about fatherhood. I went to an all-male, Jesuit College Prep school, and Mr. McCrystle though it was important for all of us young men, many of whom would likely one day be fathers ourselves, to know something of fatherhood.

First he told stories about his own father, an F.B.I. agent and hardass of a man. His father would often show up to his soccer games and, not thinking of how other people would react, remove his jacket. There he would stand on the sideline on a sunny summer day, yelling encouragement to the kids, criticism at the refs, all with his holstered sidearm strapped securely under his arm. Mr. McCrystal, then only Patrick, would note the 15 feet of empty space space surrounding his father and would run to the sideline and plead with him to put his coat back on.

He also talked about himself as a father and about his young daughters. At that time they were probably about 4 and 6 years old, and Mr. McCrystle seemed to be doing a very fine job of raising them.

There was a rule in his house: you could play with any toys you liked throughout the day, but before you went to bed you had to put them away. It wasn’t something that he or his wife made habit of reminding them; the girls knew they had to clean up, so they either would or they wouldn’t. If they didn’t clean up though, then the parents would. If the parents had to though, the toys would get put away in a different closet and were unavailable for use the next day. The girl’s often complained, but they didn’t get their toys that day. Its just the way it worked.

The sword cut both ways though. On more than one occasion Mr. McCrystal would change into his running shorts and go to the closet for his running shoes and not find them there. “Has anyone seen my running shoes?” “You didn’t put them away last night, Daddy! You can’t have them back ‘till tomorrow!” He wouldn’t demand his daughters return his shoes. He wouldn’t find some other shoes to run in. He’d change back into his day clothes and not go running that evening because even though he’s the one who made them, he too had to follow the rules of the house.

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Trying to explain Nate, My Hobo, My Brother.

April 16, 2010

Nate: dear Kat

I’m seriously considering joining the French foreign legion

What are your thoughts?

Me: you don’t speak French

Nate is a boy. In every sense of the world, Nate is a boy. At 22 he hasn’t grown past the age of 13 mentally. Not in the idiot sense, because somehow Nate is really smart. But no, Nate is 13, still trying to look up skirts and down shirts, valiantly struggling to find a “centering experience” and his drive. He has been homeless and broke, worked as a photographer, a ski-lift operator, an escort. He choreographs and costumes elaborate dance routines with his best friends. He violently rejects the Mormonism his family (tried) to raise him in. He tries to hide the white-knight complex he devotes solely to people he decides are worth loving, but doesn’t always succeed.

Luckily for me, I’m one of those people. The day I realized that’s what he was doing, my heart was happy because I knew that no matter what happened, I would have Nate forever.

Our relationship is one of the weirder ones I’ve had in my life. The quick and dirty of it is that I met him at a party and he was my rebound the evolved into something all the more odd due to his prior rebound status. Nate and I used each other physically and emotionally and we both knew it.

I got over the ex, and Nate moved on as well. And lost his housing. And moved in with me. My Hobo. The Hobo of My Heart.

Around the same time, and partially because I felt Nate having a place to live was more important that my housemates xenophobia being respected, I had a huge falling out with my best friend from college. She refused to acknowledge her depression had anything to do with the fact that we were spending less time together (read: ANY), and I was less than delicate. (It didn’t / doesn’t help that she works for my ex either.) So I looked for places to live while Nate looked for places to work.

And I found an apartment with a housemate ok with the fact that I had a hobo coming with me.

And I started dating the ManBear and Nate continued dating an odd collection of women with dreadlocks and lesbians, of co-op living hippies and bitch-faced blondes.

And we went out to the bars. And we drank and we laughed. And Nate took pictures, and I bought his alcohol and food. And he got a job and brought home pie, and discovered the wonders of Bourbon. And I had a fight over nothing with the ManBear and drunkenly cried at the bar on a Tuesday, and went to the bathroom. And the bartender asked Nate if his sister was ok.

And then I had a brother.

And people tell us how much we look alike (we don’t) and how they can tell we are great friends (we are). They don’t flinch when I mention I grew up in Oakland minutes after Nate finishes stories about growing up in Utah’s winter. They never make the connection.

And we grin at each other, sharing in our private joke, and continue on our way.

Oh his birthday, I baked him a Chocolate Bourbon Cake, drenched in bourbon glaze. He ate almost half of it and was tanked.

“I didn’t realize you meant it had that much bourbon in it.”

Some people who know us think our relationship now is creepy. “You’ve slept together and now you’re siblings?”

But it’s different than that. The important points of our relationship aren’t the sex. Our relationship is about being there for each other, and we are. I go to him with problems as often as I go to the ManBear or to Meghan or my actual sister. He comes to me more than his family.

We are a little, odd, incestuous family of our own.

I had a dream, months ago. Before Nate moved back to Utah, dated a girl he found on craigslist, and launched a career-based website.  Before he decided he needed a centering experience in his life and that the best option was the French Foreign Legion.

I dreamed that Nate was in my wedding, years from now. He was one of my bridesmaids, dressed in a lovely gown, tucked at the end of the line. He picked it out himself.

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Lets talk about drinkin.

April 8, 2010

Alternate title: endless ramblings discussing my drunkenness last night.

This past week has brought about quite a few lightbulb moments for friends of mine.

Erica‘s is one of the biggest, in my opinion, and I’m naturally quite proud of her. (Im just going to call her Penney from now on since thats what I call her and I keep confusing myself trying to call her Erica in this post. MY LIFE IS SO HARD)

So to celebrate, we got shit-faced in the middle of the afternoon.

You know, because we’re adults.

And thats what adults do.

Right?

We met at The 515 downtown for cocktails and snackies.

Given the fact that we hadn’t seen each other in a while it was pretty exciting. Don’t judge us.

*I would like to note at this time, that I am not a tequila drinker. At all. It either makes me very very angry/honest or very very bitchy/honest. Yesterday was no different. Sorry Mom.

I sat down just as the dick-waiter (hes not an ACTUAL penis, just a dick-ish person) asked if we were ready to order.

No, no I think we need a LITTLE more time THANK YOU I HAVE JUST SAT DOWN I STILL HAVE ONE ARM IN THE SLEEVE OF MY JACKET FOR CHRIST SAKE

Enter the drink list.

A FOUR PAGE list of fancy drinks, wine, beers in the bottle and on tap, champagne cocktails and more.

I dont like wine.

I dont like beer.

I dont want a champagne cocktail. (DONT FUCK WITH MY BUBBLES AND MAKE THEM FRUITY THANK YOU I LIKE THEM DRY)

Mixed drinks it is!

Then Penney looks casually over and says “…so the happy hours drinks are…”

She is trying to get me in trouble, i can just tell.

We both settled on The 515 Signature.

Like 10 kinds of tequila*, a sugar rim and some other stuff.

HOLY SHIT TASTY.

and STRONG. so so strong.

we ordered a few appetizers (a lambjoun (grilled lamb and feta on flat bread – YUM), some sweet potato FRITES (why do you have to be so fancy 515!?)) too and nom-ed down.

I was VERY GLAD this morning to have had the forethought to say YES to Penneys suggestion of snackies.

I often say “Give me vodka. I can take it like a champ!” The same cannot be said for tequila, as I’ve stated.

Instead of anger, this time, I became very bitchy. Well snarky. Lets not exaggerate my meanness, shall we?

And Penney and I had an amazing conversation about serial killer babies, ex-boyfriends, current boyfriends, housing changes, kittens and shotgun weddings.

And we were each only one drink in.

Peniswaiter: Do you want another?

Penney: YES.

Peniswaiter: and you?

Me: uhh… well…..

Penney: Do—

Me: OK I GUESS SO THERE IS SO MUCH PRESSURE

Penney: — it!

Peniswaiter: wat-evur.

I should have said no.

The man next to us politely asked his waiter if he could move.

Anywhere.

He took the farthest seat away.

Penney: I have never felt SO GUILTY.

Me: You are clearly not Jew-y enough.

Penney: NEITHER ARE YOU

The first three drinks (My first and Penney’s two) were brought out in what Penney calls BUCKETS. My second drink is what I can only kindly call a bathtub.

I still dont understand why they were different, but Penney told me that places run out of buckets a lot so WHATEVER, i thought, and drank.

A little later we stumbled home where out awesome conversation continued, incorporating ho-abortion, swearing in front of babies, exes, exes having ho-abortions as the reason for their shotgun weddings, how im not enough of a jew, housemates, and sex.

We arrived at her house (a six block walk) just after I had called the Manbear to PLEASE COME GET ME IM DRUNK OK THANK YOU I LOVE YOU BYE.

I may have done the following things: flopped on her couch, admired her fancy clean carpet, flopped on her bed, flopped on her floor, tried to open the screen door for the Manbear despite it being latched shut, bitten her cat, hit her cat with a cat toy while trying to play, flopped on the Manbear, rolled around on the floor, demanded a dinner of CRACKERS when we got home, rejected the idea of a real meal, talked about having to pee (a lot).

At no point did I feel embarrassed, i would like to point out. Because Penney and the Manbear are people I feel 100% ok doing stupid things like this around. ITS CALLED FRIENDSHIP OK.

When we got home I flopped on the floor, cuddled the ‘bod (aka CLUNG DESPERATELY TO MY CAT AS HE TRIED TO GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME), rolled around on the carpet, drunkenly responded to my dads text about baseball with an IM DRUNK comment, had the following text conversation with Penney:

P: I thought I was sober but I an clearly still drunk. Love it!

Me: Meee tooo! trying to teach jesse to swim without water. ITS HARD TO DO

P: Lol you are amazing

P:I just used the word concurrently in a text. I may have even used it properly. Weird.

Me:drunkdrunkyayyyyyiloveoyuuuu

Yes. I tried to teach Manbear to swim.

In bed.

It really was pretty hard because I kept feeling like I was going to fall over while I was swimming.

Then I fell asleep.

It was about 9pm.

Me: May or may not have passed out at 9.30 last night without eating

P: Haha! i was out at 10.30. I had cookies?

Me: Never got my crackers!

What Im trying to say is – you TOTALLY WANT TO HANG OUT WITH ME.

And I want crackers.

*probably only three but i cant find a drink menu online to save my life!

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Iron Boyfriend America

March 4, 2010

The ManBear and I have an evening right before bed routine. It’s low key and simple and burns off a little bit of extra energy.

NO IT IS NOT SEX OK*

(*that’s a different post)

First pajamas and glasses of water and telling Ichabod (at least twice) to hush his pie and stop eating plastic (no really we have to do that shit like EVERY NIGHT. That or listen to him poop and scratch around in his liter box. ugh.). ANYWAY, after all that, after climbing into bed and fighting off gropey-hands mcgee BECAUSE I AM TIRED THATS WHY I AM GOING TO BED IS 2 TIMES A NIGHT NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU HOLY SHIT MAN we talk.

Not like “How was your day.” “It was good how was yours.” “mine was good too.” No, ours is weird random things like “I have a peanut and its next to my heart and its full of love for you” and “MY PEANUT IS MADE OF CORN” and “I AM LEAVING YOU FOR ICHABOD HE WILL BE A BETTER BOYFRIEND CAUSE HES NICE AND HE LOVES ME.”

Which leads to this handy chart:

What woman could resist?! I mean COME ON!

Clearly, the beard wins.

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