Shoestrings & Daydreams

A Type-A Control Freak Walks Into a Blog...

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Mon, 26 Jul 2010 21:27:00 +0000

You can find Shoestrings & Daydreams at its new home, http://shoestringsanddaydreams.wordpress.com/

Glamour Magazine Saved My Life (Well, Sort Of)

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 23:12:00 +0000

It was just a small blemish in the middle of my forehead.

At least, that’s what I thought at first. In fact, I hardly noticed it at all. A week went by, then a month, and it was still there. Just a seemingly innocuous pink mark, mostly hidden by my bangs.

I probably wouldn’t have paid it much attention if it hadn’t been for the issue of Glamour Magazine someone left in the break room at work; I grabbed it on my way out of the office one day, having finished my book that morning on the train. Halfway between Philadelphia and my apartment I came across an article about skin cancer, and one of the graphics looked sort of, kind of, a little bit, pretty much exactly familiar.

“Look at my forehead,” I asked, nay, demanded of Scott as he sat in bed reading later that night. He, of course, obliged. “Does this mark on my forehead look like that mark in the magazine article?”

“Maybe,” he said, always rational. “But I’m not a dermatologist. Wait a little while, see if it goes away and if it doesn’t, make an appointment.”

So I waited. And while I waited, I of course Googled. Have you ever Googled skin cancer? Don’t do it. Seriously…don’t. Dr. Google will only show you pictures of Worst Case Scenarios. You Google basal cell carcinoma, Dr. Google will show you the scariest basal cell carcinoma around. If you just opened a new tab to Google skin cancer, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

With my newfound expertise in all things cancer, I went to my dermatology appointment (three months after noticing what I now think of as The Scary Blemish). The nurse entered the examination room, pulled out her clipboard, and had barely asked, “So why are you here toda…” when I blurted out something along the lines of, “soInoticedthismarkonmyforeheadafewmonthsagoandthenIreadaboutsignsofcancerinGlamourMagazineandIthoughtitshouldbecheckedout.Oh,andIthinkitcouldbebasalcellcarcinoma.”

Then I took a deep, shaky breath.

She moved me to a different examination room (probably the one where the put the people who are type-A spazzes convinced they have cancer, the room with calming blue walls and sedatives in the water), where the doctor removed The Scary Blemish to send it for testing. Diagnosis: it’s either keratosis (don’t ask Dr. Google for images of that either) or, as I suspected, basal cell carcinoma. Either way, he said he wasn’t worried about it, and I shouldn’t be worried either.

But there’s the rub. While I know from what I read and what he told me that a basal cell carcinoma is not anything compared to a malignant melanoma, it’s still really frightening to think that at 29 I may have some form – any form – of cancer. I know that with this type of cancer, removal is pretty much the entire battle, but still, it’s cancer, and the kind of cancer I've worked my entire adult life to avoid. I’m almost obsessive about sunscreen use and skin care. I keep a bottle of sunscreen in my desk at work, another in my purse, and have at least five at home, plus any makeup I use has SPF 15 or higher. I try to minimize outdoor activity between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m., when the sun is at its brightest. I’ve never even so much as set foot in a tanning salon, let alone used a tanning bed because I’m fully aware of the potential consequences. And for the past 6 years, I have had some form of swoopy bang covering my forehead (that was more of a "look" than a preventative measure, but hey, it seems like some protection). I thought I’d done good when it came to protecting myself. But here I am, waiting to see what that Scary Pink Blemish is. And if it is a basal cell carcinoma, does that mean no matter what precautions I take going forward I will find more Scary Pink Blemishes in the future?

It’s a long, rambly thought process, and I know there are logical and illogical facets to what’s running through my head at 15 squillion MPH right now. But to suspect and not know (especially for a type-A like me who Needs to Know Everything, Always) that’s the scariest part of all.

I have a follow-up in early October, which I expect is when I’ll find out what it was: keratosis or carcinoma.

Until then, I’m upping my SPF and keeping away from Google.

And I'm starting a subscription to Glamour. Because, hey, even if it didn’t literally save my life it broadened my awareness. I’m also betting it will have some really fun fall fashion tips.

I've Got a Bridge in Brooklyn I Can Sell Ya'

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 02:03:00 +0000

I never knew seasons before I moved to the East Coast.

I knew hot and dry, not so hot and dry, and the terror of driving San Diego freeways in the *occasional* rain. Before living in Philadelphia, I thought cold was 55 degrees.

It takes about 6 years of living in a region with four distinct seasons to really appreciate Perfect Weather. I’m not talking 72 and sunny, take-it-for-granted Southern California weather, but that crisp, on-the-verge-of-a-new season, mild sun, bright-blue skies weather that bookends summer.

Mother Nature had just crossed the threshold into summer on the hazy May evening Scott and I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge.

We strolled as the sun set, casting pale pinks and purples and soft golden whites across the skyline.

We stopped in the dusky shadows and admired the astounding beauty of the bridge itself, its twisting wire spider webs and brick arches, amazed at the feat that was its design and construction.

And on the other side...there was ice cream.

Adolescent Carrot

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Tue, 20 Jul 2010 20:55:00 +0000

It was then that he realized: He wasn't a baby carrot anymore.

Adventure in the Kitchen (Or: I Just Wanted an Excuse to Wear My Frilly Apron)

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 00:27:00 +0000

Scott loathes my rice cooker.

I added it to our wedding registry online and sort of neglected to tell him about it, thinking (foolishly) that he really wouldn't care if we got one. Whoops.

When we opened the big box delivered from Macy's, his reaction: "What is that?"

Me: "It's a rice cooker."

Him: "We have a rice cooker. It's called a pot. We have a few of them, in fact."
The thing is, I like to believe that he wouldn't hate the rice cooker so much if, well, if it didn't burn the rice every time I've used it. Every. Single. Time. I've tried everything: cooking larger batches of rice, adding extra water, keeping an eagle eye on it to make sure it's unplugged as soon as the little yellow light goes out. Nothing seems to work. After the rice is finished, a crunch brown layer coats the bottom of the pan. To top that off, somehow a milky white film covers the rest of the pot’s interior. This milky white film refuses to come off in the dishwasher. Scott is the family's Designated Dishwasher most nights; the milky white film that doesn't come off in the dishwasher is what irks him the most.

Why, you may be wondering, has she babbled on for many paragraphs about a rice cooker? Because the rice cooker has been a matter of ongoing contention since we got it (not a great quality in a WEDDING gift). I think it makes cooking rice easier (minus the small detail of burnt rice at the bottom) because you don't have to keep an eye on the stove. He says it makes rice cooking (and cleaning up after) more difficult, and that cooking rice on a stove is just as easy. Well, my friends, I'm here to admit to the whole world....

Scott was right.

This weekend, I decided to tackle a new recipe from Mark Bittman's "How to Cook Everything": Stir-Fried Spicy Beef with Basil. I served with sautéed mushrooms and, you guessed it, rice (white basmati rice, to be precise). I cooked the rice in a pot while prepping the entree (i.e. the rice was only minimally supervised), and ended up with a pot of fluffy white heaven.

The Stir-Fried Spicy Beef with Basil wasn't half bad either. I altered the recipe slightly, and left out the hot red pepper flakes (what can I say, I'm a wuss). I also, um, kind of overdid it with the lime. The recipe calls for juice of half a lime, which I interpreted as grab the reamer and juice the heck out of it. I think what Bittman actually meant was to squeeze the lime as best you can for SOME lime flavoring. The dish turned out quite limey, as you can imagine. Please don't make the same mistakes as me -- use lime sparingly.

Here's the recipe!

Stir-Fried Spicy Beef with Basil

1 1/2 pounds flank or sirloin steak
1/2 cup loosely packed fresh basil leaves
1 tablespoon of peanut oil, plus 1 teaspoon for marinating
1 1/2 tablespoons minced garlic
1/4 teaspoon hot red pepper flakes, or to taste
1 tablespoon soy sauce
Juice of 1/2 a lime

1) Slice the beef across the grain as thinly as you can; cut the slices into bite-sized pieces
2) Wash and dry the basil; if the leaves are large, chop them coarsely. If time permits, mix the beef, basil, and tsp of peanut oil in a bowl, cover, and refrigerate for an hour or so.
3) When you're ready to cook, have all the ingredients ready. If you have not yet done so, mix together the beef and basil. Heat a large skillet over high heat until it smokes, 3 or 4 minutes.
4) Lower the heat to medium and add the tablespoon of peanut oil. Swirl it around and add the garlic. Stir once or twice. As soon as the garlic begins to color, after bout 15 seconds, return the heat to high and add the beef-basil mixture. Stir quickly and add the red pepper. Stir frequently (but not constantly) just until the meat loses its red color, a minute or two longer. Add the soy sauce and lime juice, stir, turn off the heat, and serve immediately.

Husband satisfaction grade: B
My satisfaction grade: B- (Would be better if not for the lime incident)

P.S. Hey, does anyone want a FREE rice cooker? It's guaranteed to burn with every use!

(This picture is evidence that I REALLY need to learn Photoshop. And that perhaps I should have cooked a dish with a little more color so it would be internet-image friendly.)

Citation: Bittman, Mark. 2008. How to cook everything: 2,000 simple recipes for great food. Hoboken, N.J.: Wiley.

These are My Obsessions

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 17:14:00 +0000

What I’m Watching
Is it healthy to love a T.V. show so much that you actually feel a skipped-heartbeat of sadness when the next disc doesn’t arrive on time from Netflix? That’s how I feel about The Wire. Yes, yes, yes, I know it’s a program that ended way back in 2008, but we the HBO-less (and now cable-less) only recently discovered it.

The Wire is Awesome.

Gritty and character driven, it depicts the seedy underbelly of society – and I’m not just talking drug dealers and criminals here; the politicians, union bosses, and police officers are all equally despicable. In fact, at times I have more respect for the program's criminal element because at least they're honest with the fact that, hey, they're criminals, doing illegal things and being generally terrible. It doesn't really feel like a "cop show," which is good because I don't tend to be the "cop show" type. For me, The Wire is more about flawed humanity/communities/systems than anything else. We’re just a couple of episodes into season two right now, so we’ll see if it continues to Totally Rock.

***

What I’m Reading

Here’s a note to fellow commuters: crying on the train has its benefits. Example: The business-suited, bespectacled investment-banker type with pungent coffee breath and no concept of personal space is likely to change seats once he sees your flushed complexion, dripping nose (whoops, forgot the travel-pack tissues again), and running mascara. If you’re averse to crying in public, I suggest you save “What is the What” by Dave Eggers for private at-home reading time. It is honest, touching, inspiring, and life-affirming, underscored by deep strains of melancholy. A must-read.

***

What I’m Eating

ZOMG – yes, this food item totally calls for an abbreviation I have never before used in life – Emerald Cocoa Roast Almonds in Dark Chocolate flavor are my new favorite snack. Try them, and they’ll be yours too (unless you're allergic to almonds, in which case I suggest you try a nice apple or maybe some string cheese). I like them around 2:30 in the afternoon, when my sugar craving really kicks in. They’re chocolate-y without the added sugar of a candy bar. And they have all those wonderful superfood health benefits. Almonds are still a superfood, right? Or is it blueberries this year? Or pomegranates? Anyway, someone suggested I try to make my own (these are on the pricier side, between $3.75 and $5 a package, depending on where you shop), but I think I'll make do with the pre-packaged kind for the time being. If you're looking for a recipe, I found one here.

Art for Life's Sake: The Barnes Foundation

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 18:21:00 +0000

For most of my life, I had no idea the Barnes Foundation existed. For the most part, or at least, as far as I can tell, if you’re not from the Philadelphia area and/or are not an art historian/uber-enthusiast, you probably have never heard of the Barnes Foundation either.

It's a shame, really, because the Barnes Foundation is home to one of the most significant collections of art in the United States, if not the world. Wait, let me pull from the Barnes Foundation website so I can get it JUST right:

“An extraordinary number of masterpieces by Renoir, Cézanne and Matisse provide a depth of work by these artists unavailable elsewhere.” -- Barnes Foundation Website (link below)

I love 19th and early 20th century art, particularly impressionist paintings. Love love love. Love. The use of colors, the textures of paint on the canvas, the way so many pieces remind me of reflected images on a pond after a pebble has upset the water's cool, glassy sheen. Love. Monet prints still hang on the walls of my childhood bedroom, and I recall my visit to Musee d’Orsay in Paris as an experience that moved me to my very core.

The collection at the Barnes is, well, it’s almost indescribable. Monet, Manet, El Greco, Seurat, Picasso, the list goes on and on. Each gallery hosts eclectic arrangements of paintings, furniture, brass pieces, and sculpture, layouts designed by Albert C. Barnes himself during the first half of the 20th century, intended to help visitors learn about the art – how movements, artists, and individual pieces are defined, and how art as a whole is an inseparable part of life.

But… and I hate to have a but here…imagine gazing at an El Greco and having to shift around the room in an effort to minimize the glare of the overhead lamp against the varnish of the painting, while also bumping elbows with other visitors sandwiched into a gallery that's just plain too small, despite the use of timed entry tickets. Consider, if you will, that this experience may be furthered marred by echoed whispers magnified by a seeming ten decibels by the room's poor acoustics. The building itself appears in need of some updating (or at least new curtains) and the layout of the space itself doesn’t lend to the best visitor experience.

My visit to Musee D'Orsay remains so deeply ingrained in my heart not only for the scores and scores of beautiful pieces of artwork, but for the extraordinary style, the character, the appropriateness of the space itself. I remember it in my mind's eye as almost magical. The Barnes in comparison seems a bit, well, frumpy.

A visit to the Barnes Foundation made my 30 before 30 because the collection is on the move, or it will be, and I wanted to see the pieces in their original galleries as they were intended to be displayed. Currently, the collection is still housed at Barnes’ estate in Merion, Pennsylvania (which is about 10-15 minutes away from downtown Philadelphia, depending on traffic. And there is always traffic). A new building is under construction in Center City, Philadelphia, which will soon be the foundation’s permanent home.

Now, I am under the impression that when people think about art in Philadelphia, they think of Rocky Balboa, triumphantly running the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I hope that I’m wrong, but when I told people YEARS ago that I was moving to Philadelphia, they said, “oh, Rocky.” Actually, first they said, “WHY,” but that’s because I was leaving San Diego, California, and nobody can fathom leaving San Diego for Philadelphia. Except me, apparently. But Why I Love Philadelphia, well that's a different story for a different day. Where was I again? Oh yes. The Barnes Foundation’s relocation.

People I’ve spoken with say that they think of New York and the Met when they think of arts on the East Coast. Or they think about the National Gallery in Washington, D.C. They really don’t consider that Philadelphia is home to dozens of independent galleries, the Rodin Museum, Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, the robust collection at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, or the Barnes.

The move of the Barnes Foundation is controversial, yes, (you can do a Google if you want to learn more about THAT) and I’m not about to get political up in here, except to say that I think that the move is a positive development that will truly solidify Philadelphia as world-class arts destination – as well it should be.

They don't allow photographs in the Barnes Foundation galleries. So, I suppose I'll just leave you with a website: www.barnesfoundation.org.

I was going to end this post with a random picture of a kitten, but Scott suggested it wasn't the best idea.

Saying Goodbye to Bethenny and Her Other Desperate Friends

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 12:15:00 +0000

About a month ago, Scott and I decided to 86 cable.

You must be thinking, "Wait, what!?! Cut cable? But what about Mad Men? What about Millionaire Matchmaker? HGTV? How will you live without the petty bickering of the Desperate Housewives of New York City?"

Cable failed us. We briefly discussed cutting down to basic one night after flipping through all 200+ stations and browsing the On-Demand selections and discovering there was Absolutely Nothing to Watch. This happened a few times within a two week period. But I think the turning point for Scott was when he came into the living room one night and caught me enthralled in the depths of either Real Housewives of New York City, Real Housewives of New Jersey, or Bethenny Getting Married – it was something on Bravo – oh, don’t scoff, you know you secretly watch these programs too – AND LOVE THEM .

Him: “Why? Why? WHY do you watch this crap?”

Me: “Because there’s nothing else on.” (In my head: “And because it is THE MOST AWESOME CRAP IN THE WORLD.”)

The next day, we knocked our cable to the most basic of basic packages and we signed up for Netflix. Did you know you can now watch Netflix On-Demand through your Wii or Playstation? Because I didn’t. I'm guessing I'm one of the last people on earth who didn't know that. And all the options? We have watched more documentaries in the past month than we have in the past year. (Yes, we are nerds who watch documentaries about the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge on Saturday nights.)

The thing is, I realized this that I don’t miss cable. I don’t miss it at all. Mostly because we're watching The Wire which is my newest Favorite Show Ever, but also because I'm spending less staring vacantly at a screen. I don’t just flip it absently and zone out to whatever looks vaguely interesting *cough* Real Housewives *cough*. Although I did for a brief moment mourn the loss of getting to see Ramona making the crazy eyes every week. I guess I could just watch this , the walk that will haunt my dreams forever. Plus, that's why God invented Hulu, isn't it?

Everything I Know About Canada I Learned from “How I Met Your Mother”: Road Trip Day 2

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 00:21:00 +0000

Canada is different from America. Logically, we knew that -- it is a different country after all -- but I guess in a way we didn't really believe it.

Scott: "The green light is blinking. I don't know what that means. WHY is the green light blinking?"

Me: "I think it means you can turn left. You know, because the car in front of you turned left when the green light started blinking."

The little green crosswalk man is different in Canada too. In a good way. Isn't he SO CUTE!

We crossed Rainbow Bridge with minimal hassle, hit the Ontario Visitor’s Center for directions (our road atlas, even though I was by then atlas-reading proficient, is U.S.A. specific. And by the way, wow, they were REALLY nice in there!), and headed to Niagara-on-the-Lake – a village in Ontario’s wine country that we were told would be similar to Lambertville, NJ, one of our favorite Philadelphia-region places to visit.

After a lovely lunch on the patio at Zee’s Grill (lobster salad and a glass of local Riesling for me, an albacore tuna wrap for Scott, all of it fabulous) at the very end of the main drag, we ventured down the road for a touch of shopping. Or so we thought.

If you’re planning to visit Niagara-on-the-Lake – which really is very sweet and charming – keep in mind it is also bustling on a gorgeous sunny summer afternoon. Like really bustling. Like as comparable to Rockafeller Center two weeks before Christmas-bustling as a small town can get. I had just enough time to grab a double scoop of Rolocoaster ice cream (that would be chocolate and caramel flavored ice cream with Rolos in it. And yes it WAS as good as it sounds), before Scott decided the crushing sea of humanity was too much to handle and ushered me back to the car.

About an hour or so later (I fell asleep in the car at one point), we arrived in Toronto.

Observations:

Toronto is very clean.

Toronto’s waterside walkways are packed with tourists on the weekends. And the vendors charge extortionate prices for cans of soda.

If you’re going to Toronto on a day the Queen of England is set to arrive (which we were), it may be difficult to vehiculary move though the city.

People in Canada really do say “eh” or “ay” however it is spelled.

If you don’t have a plan in Toronto and you are anything like us, you will go, take lots of pictures of the CN Tower, wander absently around the city for a while, try to use the free map they give you at the visitor's bureau to find exciting stuff to do, learn that the free map they give you at the visitor's bureau is about as useful as a map from 1952, discover Yonge Street, be slightly overwhelmed by the number of people on Yonge Street, realize that it’s 8:30 and still super light outside and you're exhausted from the previous activities of the day (Niagara Falls and Niagara-on-the-Lake), decide you’re tired, drive to your hotel, turn in for the night, and about a week later, write a really long run-on sentence summing up what you did when you were in Toronto.

Oh, did I mention how AMAZING Rolocoaster ice cream is? I would make a special trip back to Canada for Rolocoaster ice cream. I did mention it? OK, good.

Confessions of an Undomestic Goddess

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 17:27:00 +0000

I’m kind of a cluttered person when it comes to my living space, or at least I used to be. OK, I still am, but I'm better monitored these days. I like piles. Please let me clarify that I am a great CLEANER (I love the smell of cleaning products…mmmm…Lemon Pledge), but I am a bit messy. Lucky for me, I married to a bit of a neat freak. It is kind of awesome. For me. Probably not quite so much for him. It’s a good thing he thinks I’m cute, I guess.

We moved in May. I learned where the vacuum is stored last week.

I haven’t done laundry since before we got married (January 2010). The only time I’ve visited the laundry room in our new building was when we first moved in and were transporting boxes to the storage locker.

I’m not allowed to load the dishwasher because apparently I do it wrong.

One day when I was still at work, Scott cleaned out my car. He found a receipt from 2003 jammed under one of the seats. He has taken it upon himself to ensure my car is clutter free going forward, I think the receipt incident inspired him.

We air-dry our clothes (which is SO economical and green of us). Last weekend, I tried to help hang towels. Scott handed me three washcloths and sent me to hang them on the towel rack in the bedroom. When I came back and tried to "help" some more, he told me it was OK. So I got back to playing Super Mario Bros Wii and thinking about how lucky I am to never have to do laundry.

Compatibility Testing: The Road Trip, Day 1

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 12:31:00 +0000

When Scott and I decided to embark on a mini-adventure road trip to Niagara Falls and Toronto over Fourth of July weekend, we didn’t really consider what being in a car together for very long stretches of time actually means.

You know that portion of the the wedding vows (we went traditional with those) during which you commit to each other for better or worse? On a road trip, there are certainly betters and worses. Let me just say that nothing tests the stability of a brand-spanking new marriage like a three-day road trip. Not that the road trip was bad per se, it’s just that, erm, I’d never really USED a road atlas before, and somewhere around Scranton, PA (where Scott and I recited lyrics to "Lazy Scranton" ad nauseam) I learned that I was reading the map wrong.

Nothing irreversible, and we never REALLY got lost, but for a few tense minutes there may have been hint of testiness, a smidge of snapping, perhaps a teensey bit of pouting, and now I personally believe that this trip is concrete evidence that at least one of us needs some kind of smart phone, if only for access to Google Maps. At the end of it all, though, we got where we were going and came out of our trip with a once-in-a-lifetime experience (thanks, in large part, to the fact that Scott has the patience of Job). I think that if you can survive a road trip with your significant other with minimal bickering, then you are on the right path (pardon my pun) to a long and happy marriage. Go us!

And guess what, I can read a map correctly now!

******

Do you want to know what a road trip from Philadelphia to Niagara Falls looks like? Well, I’m sorry to tease you with the hope of photos, but we didn’t take any pictures of the journey itself. We took the long route to Buffalo, NY (via PA Route 6 across northern Pennsylvania) because it was supposed to be more scenic (which it was, but not as scenic as we had expected). We spent, oh, about five hours behind trucks, driving through small towns, some adorably quaint, some just…erm…rustic. We saw the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania (we didn’t realize we passed through it until we saw signs indicating the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania was now behind us. “Oh, so it’s really just a forest,” I observed). We meandered past lots of cows, meadows, fields, and through the passes of seemingly endless mountains (I guess that’s why they’re called the Endless Mountains. Insight!)

As we approached Buffalo in the early evening, Scott’s mother called with what I think was the Most Brilliant Idea of the Day. While you’re in Buffalo, she suggested, why don’t you eat at the restaurant where buffalo wings were invented.

Can you say OMG brilliant?

I ate my first buffalo wing ever (although in Buffalo, I think they just refer to them as chicken wings). And my second. There's something almost poetic about eating one's first buffalo wing at the bar in which they were invented, don't you think?

They.
Were.
Glorious.

Not too spicy, crispy and tender at the same time, tangy, and with a smidge of blue cheese dressing they were absolutely perfect. I probably would have eaten a third, but Scott was devouring the rest of the platter like he was about to be sent to the Gulag and would be forced to subsist on gruel for the rest of his life. I was afraid he’d bite me if my hand ventured too close to his food.

Because I love him, I will not post the terribly unflattering photo of him noshing on aforementioned buffalo wings. That one I will save for blackmail later on.

This Day is Bananas

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 20:12:00 +0000

Every so often, I will walk into my office’s break room and find a banana on the table, sitting innocently, just…there. Today was one of those days.

A few months back, finding a banana on the break room table was a weekly occurrence. In fact, one of the bananas was accompanied by a note: “Eat me! I’m a banana.”

There is no real point to sharing this on my blog (hello random), except I find the banana mystery strangely perplexing. Who is this mysterious banana dropper? What is wrong with the bananas that they have been abandoned in the break room? Does the banana dropper think that some of us in the office are potassium deficient, leaving bananas as a public service?

Also, is the banana dropper the same person who left a Barbara Streisand CD on the break room table one day, with a post-it noting: “FREE!”

Make Sure to Wear Your Waterproof Mascara

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 18:42:00 +0000

A slow, steady mist rises in the distance, obscuring the view of the city on the other side.

"Is that from the falls," we wonder? Indeed, it is our first clue that the Niagara Falls are just moments away. (You know, that and all the signs announcing Niagara Falls! This way!)

We hear them before we see them, a low thundering static sound, drowning the voices of the other tourists. Over the ledge we catch the first glimpse, a cloudy white cascade of foam, sunlight throwing rainbows into the spray.

Words I Never Thought I'd Say...

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 11:28:00 +0000

Last night, Scott and I stayed at the Motel 6 near the Buffalo, NY Airport.

I haven't stayed in a Motel 6 in ages, and I didn't come in expecting much so I won't spend much time discussing its merits (or lack thereof). If you're in the mood for a road trip to Buffalo (come on, I know you are!), here's the best I can do in terms of a review. It's quiet, it's convenient, there's free morning coffee in the lobby, and the TV remote control is bolted to the bedside table.

Oh, and apparently management at the Motel 6 near the Buffalo Airport doesn't mind wrinkly guests, because the room is iron and ironing board free.

You may be asking yourself, "Why oh why did Susan just spend the night at the Motel 6 near the Buffalo Airport?" The answer is that list you see to the right -- my 30 before 30 list. That list, in fact is why I started this blog in the first place.

My 30 before 30 list really wasn't devised because I'm turning 30 next February (takes deep slow breaths, OK maybe it is a little bit). The deadline is more motivational than anything else. I got to a point a few months back where I was tired of thinking, "hey I should really do that," promptly forgetting whatever it was I thought I should do, doing nothing at all for a while, and then months later thinking to myself, "hey I should really do that, " at which point the cycle started all over again. So, one night, in a fit of "my life needs more adventure and I'm going to do something about it!" I wrote this list.

I decided to post it this week after my friend Catherine posted her list on Facebook. And another blog I read has a similar list posted as well. I figured if anything, this is an opportunity for me to keep a record of my "adventures," even if the concept is anything but original at this point.

So back to Buffalo. This weekend, we're taking a somewhat impromptu road trip to Niagara Falls, a trip we've been talking about taking since we spent three hours one Saturday night last fall watching a documentary about said falls (because we're cool like that -- that's how we roll).

One last word about the Motel 6 near the Buffalo Airport -- even though the coffee is free, don't drink it. Trust me, I will never steer you wrong when it comes to coffee.

Life: Reflections in the Blue Glow of a Computer Screen

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 12:46:00 +0000

Did you ever think how much LIFE is online?

We record our lives on line, communicate with each other online, meet new friends/boyfriends/girlfriends/spouses online. I spend at least eight hours a day with my eyes fixed on a screen, a blinking cursor, a bright search box. (OK, sometimes I look away, you now, when my vision gets blurry.)

Some of my most significant life moments happened when I was sitting in front of a computer.
Amongst the tubes and transmissions, the wires and wavelengths, and whatever else goes on that connects one part of the Internet to the person on the other side of the screen, somewhere tangled in there, is my life, or so it seems.

I have gotten news of new lives beginning and lives ending. I have experienced with friends the joys of planning weddings and the pain and anxiety of contemplating divorce. It is through e-mail that I first learned about where I come from biologically, and also through e-mail that I received first contact from the man who would become my husband. I can Google myself and discover -- by golly, I really DO exist -- along with several other Googlegangers. I have sent messages into the world, commented on news stories, and even written articles myself – and they’re all out there, somewhere.

The Internet went down in my neighborhood for about 48 hours after a powerful storm swept the Philadelphia region last week, and during that time I felt out of touch, almost displaced, not realizing until that time quite how much I rely on the World Wide Web as part of my everyday life. My connection to the world was severed, and I would almost go so far as to say I felt like a little piece of myself had been disconnected too.

Does anyone else feel that way?

For My 29-Year-Old Friends

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 14:28:00 +0000

List of Things We are Too Old For*

Baby-doll mini dresses
Anything non-accessory from Urban Outfitters, and most accessories as well
Neon trendy Ray-Ban Sunglasses
Anything glitter
Mary Janes (under most circumstances)
Colorful/over-adorned Barrettes & hair accessories
Items of clothing/accessories with animals on them
Abercrombie & Fitch, Aeropostale, American Eagle Outfitters, Charlotte Russe, Forever 21, etc.
Florescent tights/leggings
Tube Tops or tops that reveal our midriffs
Brightly colored eye makeup
Experimental hair color (ie. blue, pink, orange)
Calling out hungover from beer or hard liquor consumption (wine is borderline, but at least a *bit* more mature)
MTV
Loud bars (Two words: Moderate Volume)

List of Things We May be Too Old for but I Can’t Come to Terms With Yet

Chuck Taylors

List of Things I Used to Hate but Now I Like, Probably Because I’m Getting Old

Lily Pulitzer
Jack Johnson
Ann Taylor (the REAL Ann Taylor, not just the Loft)
*some* Vera Bradley
Stuff that is monogrammed (but only in moderation)

*This list is subject to change. Items may be added at will. Some exceptions may occur due to circumstance.

This Grand Adventure We Call Life: Musings

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 13:38:00 +0000

When I was 26, I went through an inspirational quotation magnets phase. Did you know there was such a thing? I think it typically coincides with the “I’m 16 and nobody understands what I’m going through” phase. I’m probably a late bloomer.

They all feature a similar theme: Life’s a journey, not a destination.

I see them every day, and every day I feel like I forget.

“Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting, ‘holy shit…what a ride!” – George Carlin

I get caught up in the:

When I move up the career ladder.
When I finish grad school.
When we buy a house.
When we have a baby.

Rather than the:

Today, the blooms on the hydrangea bush outside my office door were a deep, cobalt blue – a color I don’t think I have ever seen in nature before. Just stunning.

Every night, Scott sets the timer on the coffee pot so that when I wake up in the morning, I don’t have to worry about scooping and brewing. (I still haven’t learned how to use the timer.)

The movie I’ve been DYING to see just arrived from Netflix!

My new apartment has central air and is mere moments away from the train station -- on foot!

I’m trying to make this my mid-year’s resolution – to remember what I have instead of dwelling on what I want/will have/feel is missing. It’s difficult sometimes when I’m stressed, or tired, or my hair Just Won’t Cooperate, but I’m making an effort.

Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Wed, 05 May 2010 14:07:00 +0000

I’m moving.

And moving, as you may know, just plain sucks.

I’m past the point of meticulous organization and box labeling, and have resorted to throwing all non-breakables into oversized blue Ikea bags. For a moment by my closet I pause. The bedroom is a mess. My shoes are everywhere. It’s déjà vu all over again.

I’ve thought this before. I stood in this very place, looked down at a smiling, earnest face, a man on one knee, holding a ring.

And my initial thought at that moment was this: The bedroom is a mess. My shoes are everywhere. He’s proposing and my shoes are EVERYWHERE.

For the first time in my life I was speechless.

An antique ring in a black velvet box. A man on one knee. Shoes everywhere. Nine months later my heart still flutters at the memory.

Four simple words: Will You Marry Me.

A turning point – I guess this is growing up.

The Grand Master of Tetris: The Post in Which I get Competitive with my Husband

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Tue, 04 May 2010 15:14:00 +0000

Somewhere between the two-left footedness of childhood, the apathy of adolescence and my life today, I became a very competitive person.

I think maybe it’s because I was never very good at sports; I didn’t score many (OK, any) goals or runs or points or whatever you get when you kick, throw, hit or run after a ball. I didn’t ever play to win. Apparently, now in my grownup life, that has come back to haunt me. I tackle Scrabble with a vengeance, murder my opponents in LIFE, and my hippos are way hungrier than anyone else’s.

But my weird, relatively new-found obsession with wining came to a head last night. With Tetris.

In a past life (when I was in college) I played Tetris almost daily. It helped me clear my mind, re-focus, and get ready for whatever lay ahead. It was relaxing, fun, and somewhat mindless. And may I add, I was pretty damn kick-ass at Tetris, if I do say so myself. In fact, my high scores would speak to that, if I still had my high scores and if my version of the game could talk.

Last night, I got the itch. It was time. Tetris – I have returned.

I pulled out the laptop, cracked my knuckles, logged on to www.freetetris.org, and started flipping, dropping, and building walls. I was doing well. Until … I got heckled. By my husband. Who told me how he’d beat both versions of the game. How his high “score” (number of lines) was around 130. “What’s the most lines you’ve gotten,” he asked, mockingly. “Have you ever gotten a Tetris before?” He questioned, QUESTIONED my Tetris prowess! I gritted my teeth, and clicked the arrows on the keyboard like a madwoman. Game over after 57 lines. Game over after 59 lines. Game over after 53 lines.

Time ticked by, and I kept telling myself, just one more game. I must make it to 130 lines. I must win.

Bedtime rolled around and I had made it up to 79 lines. Frustrated, I flipped the laptop shut, curled up into bed, and closed my eyes, only to see dropping squares, lines, and those weird step things that come in two different colors. Adrenalin pumping, I paced the apartment.

I will not play Tetris in the dark at midnight. I will not play Tetris in the dark at midnight.

I caved.

High score: 115. Such a waste. Scott’s won this round.

But my competitive side would like to step up right now and announce, loudly, to the blogosphere: I kick his ass at Scrabble every time we play.

Where "We" Came From: The Post in Which I Wax Poetic About Relationships and Make you Vomit a Little in Your Mouth

noreply@blogger.com (Susan) — Tue, 04 May 2010 12:45:00 +0000

On very rare occasions, we as people are lucky enough to meet another individual around whom we immediately feel completely and totally comfortable. You trip over curbs or accidentally spit when you talk or make an inappropriate comment at the worst possible time and it doesn’t matter. After a few short weeks, you really can’t imagine your life without that person involved in some huge way … and even have trouble remembering your life before him or her. That’s how you know you’ve found a best friend. Or future spouse.

My relationship with Scott is like that.

(Yes, I can hear you retching. Believe me, I never thought I'd be such a sap.)

While we don’t see eye to eye on everything (he doesn’t like cake….yeah …. I know), for the most part we share similar values and goals. We both love theme parks, reading, biking, hiking, and exploring the world around us.

This blog is a bit of a mix. You know, like kitchen sink cookies, with everything thrown in for taste, texture, or just because you have it in your pantry. Confused? Stick with me, I'll do my best to at the very least entertain you.