Don’t judge me by the design yet, a new look is still to come. But from now on I will be posting to www.strictlyforpleasure.com.
The Pleasure of Counting? October 18, 2008
A few years ago, while working at a local bookstore, I happened upon a book called An Exaltation of Larks by none other than James Lipton, of Inside the Actor’s Studio fame.
This quirky little book (“a classic anthology of collective nouns,” as exciting as that may sound) piqued my interest, and sat upon my designated section of our “staff picks” shelf until the sad, sad day when someone bought it right out from under me.
I hadn’t thought about that book again until today, and decided to look up a bit of the priceless knowledge it once bestowed upon me, and share it with you here. You know, just in case you’ve ever wanted to know how to categorize a grouping of say, magpies. (The answer is tidings, by the way.)
———-
A bevy of quail
A bouquet of pheasants [when flushed]
A brood of hens
A building of rooks
A cast of hawks [or falcons]
A charm of finches
A colony of penguins
A company of parrots
A congregation of plovers
A cover of coots
A covey of partridges [or grouse or ptarmigans]
A deceit of lapwings
A descent of woodpeckers
A dissimulation of birds
A dole of doves
An exaltation of larks
A fall of woodcocks
A flight of swallows [or doves, goshawks, or cormorants]
A gaggle of geese [wild or domesticated]
A host of sparrows
A kettle of hawks [riding a thermal]
A murmuration of starlings
A murder of crows
A muster of storks
A nye of pheasants [on the ground]
An ostentation of peacocks
A paddling of ducks [on the water]
A parliament of owls
A party of jays
A peep of chickens
A pitying of turtledoves
A raft of ducks
A rafter of turkeys
A siege of herons
A skein of geese [in flight]
A sord of mallards
A spring of teal
A tidings of magpies
A trip of dotterel
An unkindness of ravens
A watch of nightingales
A wedge of swans [or geese, flying in a "V"]
A wisp of snipe
—
There. Never say this blog didn’t attempt to be educational.
Guilty Pleasures: In Defense of Bubble Baths September 26, 2008
You know, I’m not even going to call this a guilty pleasure. I have no feelings of remorse about it, because after a long day – and there have been a few of those lately – the only fool-proof way of setting my mood straight when I get home is a long, hot bath. And I’m talking loooong. Like, soaking long enough to get my fingers and toes all pruny and then adding more hot water.
Some days I’ll drink hot tea during, sometimes wine, sometimes a cocktail. Sometimes I’ll burn a candle, or add bubbles, or salts, or oils. Or maybe all of them.
Some days I’ll listen to music during, and sometimes all I want to hear is the rushing of the water. When I like accompaniment, it’s usually something light-hearted and girlie, like Life by the Cardigans or Youth Novels by Lykke Li (a new favorite).
And sometimes – embarrassing though it may sound – it’s the soundtrack to Something’s Gotta Give. 
Sounds horribly campy, and maybe it is, but it’s a fantastic mix of late 50s/early 60s pop and old French standards. And honestly, does it get any better than Louis Armstrong singing La Vie En Rose?
(There’s an unfortunate cover of the same song by Jack Nicholson at the end of the album. I generally try to forget that one).
For the most part I read during baths – my books and magazines are notoriously crinkly and water-marked as a result. But sometimes all I want to do is completely submerge my head in the hot water and hide from everything.
I’m not sure what it is that makes baths so comforting. Is it the sounds? The smells? All sensations combined? Enveloping oneself in such warmth is rather womb-like, I suppose.
But no matter the combination of accessories or additives, a long bath is an instant cureall to whatever ails me. Maybe that’s why the boy doesn’t complain when I disappear for hours at a time …
No Scents. No Scents At All. September 4, 2008
I feel the need to go perfume shopping. Things have been crazy hectic stressful around here lately, and typically when that happens I get a craving for a little retail therapy – more specifically the need to go shopping for something that looks pretty and smells good. What can I say? There’s a shallow little priss-pot hidden inside this girl.
I’ve written before about my fondness for perfumes, and my inability to stick with just one. I have two or three staples I stand by, and all of those bottles are currently empty, but I can’t decide whether I want to replenish one or go searching for something new – always an adventuresome prospect, though a bit complicated by the fact that I like for the boy to think I actually smell nice, so his opinion on such matters counts.
And something tells me that an afternoon of schlepping around Sephora would not be his idea of a great time.
When we first started dating, a little over two years ago, I decided that a certain body lotion I often wore in high school, that I’d always adored, would layer quite nicely with the perfume I was wearing then. It was the perfect variation on vanilla – I’m very picky about my vanilla scents – and I used to get nothing but compliments when I wore it back then. I got very excited about this prospect, and rushed out to the store to get some. Just my luck, it was on sale (one of those buy five get two free deals – I was stocked up for life).
We had a date that night. He was going to make me dinner at his house. While I was getting ready, I was thinking about stories I’d heard about grandmothers telling their granddaughters to dab a little vanilla extract on their wrists and behind their ears to attract men. Apparently this stuff is like flypaper for guys. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?
Cut to later that evening. We’re sitting on his couch watching TV after dinner. He puts his arm around me and snuggles in closer.
“Is that vanilla?” he asks.
Yes, it is. I’m feeling quite proud of myself at this point. Do you like it?
“My mom used to wear that when I was little.”
Er …
As I tried to think of an inconspicous way to scrub the offending product off my skin, I decided I would never buy beauty products in bulk again. You can’t mess with scent and memory; that’s a battle that can’t be won. And I’m not about to encourage that association. Needless to say the lotion has sat untouched ever since.
So yeah, maybe a joint trip to the perfume counter wouldn’t be a horrible idea. Would that make me an evil girlfriend?
Just Dandy August 22, 2008
It’s been quiet around these parts (the blog), ’cause it’s been hectic around these parts (life in general). Things are a little crazy, so I haven’t really gotten around to posting in a bit. But I did find something I wanted to share.
Ever had one of those days where you just wanted to get up in the middle of the workday, walk outside (nice weather permitting), kick off your shoes, and lay in the grass? Just boycott adulthood for a bit? (Personally, I made the statement the other day that I was going to pack up my things and move to the beach to start selling hemp jewelry by the sea. Yeah, I talk big.)
Well, next time you do, click here to enjoy a bit of whimsical escapism, if only for a moment. Sure, being on a computer screen makes it a bit more sterile than the real thing. But sometimes we’ve got to take what we can get.
And Stop Calling Me Shirley… August 8, 2008
My Jeep, Shirley, learned a new trick the other day. She’s typically a pretty quirky girl, but this one took the cake. The boy and I were sitting in the living room, chatting about our respective days (and hadn’t been near Shirley in about an hour), when she began sounding her alarm. Understandably worried, the boy went outside to check the situation. No one was near the car. Hmmm.
We went back inside, and about five minutes later she did it again. This happened two or three more times, all the while we were scouring online forums looking for people who may have had similar problems. We found a temporary fix (so it seemed), and after a good ten minutes or so, I felt confident I could drive her to the gym without incident.
After about an hour-long workout I emerged, keys in hand, half expecting Shirley to have resumed her screaming fit in the LA Fitness parking lot with a dead battery as an end result.
Oh, how simple that would have been.
As I walked out of the gym and slowly approached the car, I noticed a weird sound. Upon further inspection, I saw it. Shirley, In all her glory. Lights on, A/C blasting, M.I.A. chanting about paper airplanes on the radio. As I stood there, wide-eyed, WITH MY KEYS IN MY HAND.
I’m sure there’s some sort of explanation. Perhaps she was bored and needed some music. Whatever the reason, she actually TURNED HERSELF ON. Anyone know of a good car exorcist?
She cranked up and drove fine, thank god, but when I stopped to get gas on the way home I learned that she also would not turn off, like an obstinate child refusing to go to sleep. I took the keys out of the ignition, yet she still sat there, singing along and shining on. Now, every time we get out of the car we have to disconnect her battery.
My old Infiniti, Yoko, was a cranky broad too – but her antics weren’t quite as dramatic. She’d spontaneously roll her windows down while I was driving, randomly choose when I would be allowed to view the dashboard at night, and announce herself with a dramatic growl from a 1/4 mile out. But she never TURNED ON by herself. Shirley, you have a talent.
I guess this is the tradeoff for having no car payment. A nearly 15 year-old car (what is that in car years, like 150?) with no warranty and cute little quirks like coming alive unprovoked and scaring the ever-lovin’ sh*t out of her owner.
I’m thinking it may be time for a scooter. I could rock the moped look.
(Shirley, if you’re reading this–as I’m sure you will, with your pseudo-Kit super intelligence and all–I mean no offense. And sorry about the name. It just fit at the time.)
Everybody Needs to Touch, You Know, Now and Then August 7, 2008
” The authorities had discovered the rarest and most pitiable of creatures: a feral child.”
I was reading one of my favorite blogs yesterday, and followed the above link to an article so tragic, with such vivid imagery, that I may never forget it. I felt compelled to share it here. I’m having a hard time describing the physical reaction I had while reading it; I’ve settled upon somewhere between wanting to cry, punch something, and throw up. (And if that won’t sell you on a read, then what will?)
It’s a heartbreakingly powerful story, beautifully written, but not exactly a pleasurable one. It certainly falls into the category of touch, as in WE ALL NEED IT. Please read…
‘Shrooms! August 6, 2008
No, not that sort of ’shrooms, silly. I just like to throw in random words every once in a while to see how they influence Google searches. The variety of ways people search for things using the word pleasure is quite amusing.
No, today I’m talking about the tame, grocery-store bound type of ’shrooms, specifically those used on THE BEST DAMN MUSHROOM PIZZA YOU’VE EVER PUT IN YOUR MOUTH. Swear to god. And this in spite of having enjoyed Little Azio’s wild mushroom and truffle pizza. On many occasions.
We began experimenting with making pizzas at home after sampling some of my brother-in-law’s (Hi, Yippie!) exotic creations. (Cauliflower and tandoori salmon, anyone?) The only thing I’d say we have left to improve upon our fabulous ’shroom pizza is that we haven’t yet mastered the homemade crust. The DeKalb Farmer’s market has a pre-prepared whole-wheat crust that we use, and we adore it. But I’m sure making one from scratch would be even better.
We also haven’t technically landed on an exact recipe yet – we’re always throwing in different varieties of herbs, cheeses, and ’shrooms – but this is the latest, and in my humble opinion best, incarnation yet. I also don’t measure anything – as you can probably tell by the below “recipe.”
Avoid the temptation to add too many toppings here – it’s perfect as it is.
THE BEST DAMN MUSHROOM PIZZA YOU’VE EVER PUT IN YOUR MOUTH
- 1 Whole-wheat crust, lighty brushed with extra virgin olive oil
- 1 layer of cheese – a combination of mozzerella, (or something just as melty) asiago (or something just as rich and nutty). and peccorino (or something just as sharp and salty – my new favorite being kefalotiri) work great
- 1 layer of mushrooms – a combination of shittake, oyster, and portabellos or crimini are my favorites
- One large, finely minced garlic clove, sprinkled on top
- Any combination, or all, of the following spices: salt (sparingly, based on what cheeses you use), pepper, oregano, basil, onion powder, red pepper flakes, and parsley
Stick in a 400 degree oven till cheese is bubbly and golden brown.
You’ll thank me later, I promise.
Picture Perfect July 30, 2008
It would be a bit disingenous for me to start waxing poetic about analog vs. digital technology. Hypocritical in fact, coming from a girl with a blog and a Flickr account. But there is a lot to be said for analog, specifically in photography.
I do not own a digital camera. I never have. This isn’t necessarily a philosophical stance; I am not opposed to them by any stretch of the imagination. They’re convenient. They’re fun to play with. And they’re damn affordable lately. But still, something in me still likes the feel of a film camera. I love the weight of them. I love the sound of the shutter (digital cameras and even some camera phones play recordings of that sound, which makes me giggle.) And I like actually receiving physicial printouts of my photos, because I know myself, and I will never print them out and frame them if I have to go through an extra step.
I used to be much more interested in photography as a hobby, but my interest has been piqued again as of late listening to the boy talk about his design projects. He found a few articles on lomographic cameras, and we’ve been researching them a little bit, specifically the Diana models. Lomographic cameras are basicaly a throwback to really inexpensive cameras manufactured in the 1960s, integrating the quirks and flaws of those cameras (light leaks, over-saturated colors, darkened corners) into more modern models.
The resulting photos appear to have an imperfect, almost nostalgic, dreamy quality. According to the web site, “A blurry-soft and dreamy-toned Diana image is more an interpretation of reality than a correct representation of it. In a way, it’s somehow more accurate to compare the Diana to an oily vintage typewriter than to a megapixel machine of today.” The examples I saw reminded me a bit of the poloroids I remember from my childhood.
This all just sounded too fun to pass up, so today we took a trip to our local Camera Doctor on our lunch breaks and picked up a Diana F+ (above). Isn’t she cute?
Will be experimenting quite a bit in the near future. More to come …
Stung. July 20, 2008
Have I ever mentioned that I’m not the outdoorsy type?
The boy and I have taken to playing games of Frisbee recently. I’m (slowly) making progress, but my skills are lacking. The more accurate way to put it would be to say I suck, though it hasn’t stopped me from trying. It usually takes me a good 10 or 15 minutes to get warmed up, and then I’m flinging the thing around like a pro. Or at least in a semi-straight line.
I do enjoy being out in the sunshine, though — outside in the nice weather, barefoot and running around like a little kid. And we crack ourselves up, laughing at my lack of athletic prowess.
So this afternoon we were in the middle of such a game, taking “beer breaks” every time one of us would send the other into the woods to retrieve the errant Frisbee. It was during one of these retrieval missions that I stepped on what I thought was a thorn.
Ouch. Ouch. Ow… ow ow OW OWWWW OH MY GOD OW OW OW OW OWW!!! I hobbled around a little at first, then rather gracefully flung myself to the ground as the pain grew in intensity. MOTHER F*CKER OW OW OW OW OW!!!!
As the boy came over to investigate all the drama, I looked down on the bottom of my foot and pulled out a very large, spiny stinger attached to a miniscule, now sufficiently squished, little insect.
How can so much PAIN come from such a little bastard?!?!
I haven’t had many bee stings before. None in fact. I’d dealt with wasps once or twice when I was little, but I certainly didn’t remember them hurting this bad. And I wasn’t prepared for the fact that the pain kept getting worse. It didn’t help that the stinger had been lodged on the bottom of my foot, right on that tight little tendon on the inside of the arch. You know, the one that hurts like hell when you step on an oddly positioned pebble or a particularly large clump of sand? Yep. That’s the one.
I pitifully hobbled inside, clutching and squeezing and EEE!ing and OUCH!ing while the boy looked up bee sting remedies.
Ice?
No! It hurts too bad!
Toothpaste?
That cinnaBURN gel with the sparkly tooth whitening SMART BEADS in our bathroom? Not on your life!
I eventually popped some tylenol and reluctantly wrapped a cold pack around my foot while he tried distracting me with a Family Guy episode. He doted on me, and even brought me back calomine lotion after he went to the store to buy food. I have a feeling this will soon disappear into my neverending hallway closet of first aid supplies and won’t be discovered for another five years when someone mistakes it for Pepto Bismol.
After we ate I decided soaking in the tub would be nice, not thinking about the fact that HOT WATER probably isn’t the best thing for something you’ve been treating with ICE. Genius, this one.
So I spent the remainder of the night hobbling to and from the freezer switching out lukewarm ice packs for actual frozen ones, and watching a DVD of Gilmore Girls reruns — also known as my entertainment equivalent of comfort food and a warm blanket.
Yeah. I’m a wimp. I like her and all, but I have a feeling that Mother Nature and I have a ways to go before we’re bosom buddies.
Or perhaps I should just learn to keep my shoes on.
