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?

The Fruits of Someone Else’s Labor July 14, 2008

I lucked out. In too many ways to mention, but I’m focusing on just one here. My humble little house has oddly disproportionate yard — and it’s full of wonderful little surprises.

To the right of my house, next to my driveway, is a good-sized peach tree. (How very Georgia, I know.) I’ve been patiently waiting, and the fruit is getting HUGE, but is still green and hard. The branches aren’t able to support the weight of the fruit any more, and many of them are dragging the ground. Looks a bit like a weeping willow.

In the back yard, near two TOWERING pecan trees (great climbing trees – I would have killed for this yard as a kid!) is a lovely little pear tree. This fruit isn’t quite ripe yet either, but that hasn’t stopped a plethora of wildlife from snatching it up. Little half-eaten pears can be found all over.

Honeysuckle, though now beginning to dry up, blankets the bushes in the front and back of the house, the fragrance tempting me to walk around with trumpet-shaped blossoms sticking out of my mouth like a little girl.

Wild strawberries pop up here and there, dotting the green lawn with flecks of red.

This cornucopia of treats brings all sorts of wildlife to the doorstep. We’re constantly catching glimpses of bunnies dashing across the grass – something that made last night’s “hare” themed Iron Chef a little uncomfortable. (Honestly, who cooks rabbit with CARROTS? That’s just adding insult to injury.)

But the very best thing about the yard are the loads and loads of blackberries cascading over the fence.

They’re absolutely gorgeous. Big, fat, ripe blackberries just begging to be picked, tempting to weigh the vines down to the ground. Every time we go into the back yard we stop by the fence to snack on some, and the sheer volume of them guarantees there will be more for later. The boy and I were playing Frisbee on Saturday and we constantly took breaks to pop them into our mouths like kids in candy stores – our fingers stained bright pink.

Not wanting the berries to go to waste, we decided to try our hands at making jam (or preserves – is there even a difference?). I’d seen Jamie Oliver make it with strawberries, and it seemed simple enough. We bought a few jars and began the picking process. One for the jar, one for the mouth, one for the jar…

But tasting how perfectly sweet they were made me realize that adding sugar would only ruin them. As I was shaking the jar to squish them down and make room for more berries, they burst and turned into a beautiful thick syrup. That’s all I wanted. We ate it last night on vanilla ice cream. It was absolutely delicious. I’m going to try it on yogurt next.

This is just too easy. I think I can dig this whole get-your-food-from-your-back-yard thing. Though I suspect if I actually had to plant anything it might dampen my enthusiasm. Previous residents (and Mother Nature) did all the work here. I just lazily hang out on a blanket in the grass with the boy and the dog, reaping the benefits.

A Sun-Drenched Life June 17, 2008

My tiny house – everyone says that, but I seriously mean itty bitty – has an even more tiny kitchen, which judging by the exposed pipes, tubes, and wires upon moving in, once also housed a washer and dryer.

From what I could tell, there was a spot for a washer ONLY, and for months I tried to solve the mystery of how it all once fit. Was it a stackable unit, which someone later prohibited by building the shelves that are there now? (If so, thanks a lot.) Was the dryer installed IN FRONT of the kitchen doorway (where the hookup seems to be) causing prior inhabitants to leap over it upon entering? Honestly, I can only think that someone once kept a dryer on the back stoop.

Up to this point, we had been surviving on a combination of laundromats, friends’ washers and dryers, and hand washing our clothes – none of these the most accessible options, especially for those few months we were car-less. When you think of the slightly lazy taurean mindset the boy and I were born with, you could see how the mounds of laundry were about to overtake the house.

So, after nearly an entire year without a laundry room, I broke down and posted a cry for help under the “wanted” section of Craigslist.org.

—–

In my humble abode, I have room for a washer but no dryer, and am having a hell of a time finding someone willing to split up a pair. I’m on a budget, and do not need anything new – I just need something that works. This is your perfect chance to get rid of that old eye sore – I can even pick up! Help!

—-

Within an hour or so, I had 10 responses in my email box of people dying to practically give away their old washers so they could get new ones. Gotta love Craigslist.

I also had a response from someone looking for a dryer and asking if I found one if I didn’t mind delivering it to their house when I picked up my washer.

Yeah, um, no. But thanks.

So after a trek to procure our new appliance – including two flights of stairs and a borrowed hand truck – we got the brand new (old) washer hooked up snugly between my stove and refrigerator. I’m happy to say it works great and even created a little counter space, which was until now, non-existent.

There’s just one issue with my new set-up. I’m now line-dry girl.

I’ve got a good sized back yard with a privacy fence, so I’m not self conscious of the clothesline way of life. And honestly, with as hot as it’s been here lately, clothes dry in about 10 minutes. Plus, line drying saves more energy than using an electric dryer – not to mention running a dryer in my itsy bitsy house would make it so hot it’s unbearable.

I’m not complaining. There are perks. But I have to say, I went home on my lunch break today and felt as if I’d stepped into a different century. And I had a hell of a time finding the simple supplies one needs to dry their clothes outdoors. Clothespins for example. I had to visit three stores before I found them.

Another century, indeed.

I’m kind of liking it so far, though. I like how my clothes smell after being dried in the sun, and I feel like I’m channeling a prior life when I’m out there barefoot in the grass, drinking up the sunshine. I have to say it’s not bad. Not bad at all.

Then again, ask me after it rains.

Stir Crazy May 15, 2008

I’ve been thinking a lot about travel lately. With two friends vacationing in Budapest, and another two beginning their indefinite global trek in Indonesia, the view from my office on this rainy Thursday is looking a little bleak.

Sure, I can brew my coffee at my desk, clutch my mug between my cold hands and close my eyes, imagining I’m really sipping cafe au lait at a sidewalk cafe in Amsterdam. But soon the dull whir of the overzealous air conditioner and the incessant tapping of my coworkers fingers against their keyboards snap me back into reality.

At lunch, I’ll make a trip to the Farmer’s Market, with it’s strong smells of spices, coffee, and fresh herbs and produce, and its cafe that serves up everything from Asian vegetables to curried lentils to goat stew (no, I haven’t sampled that yet, though I’ve heard rave reviews). And while the diverse clientèle and flags from every possible country decorating the vast building may let me escape for a while, soon it will be back out to the sterile, concrete parking lot – back to the congestion that is DeKalb Industrial Boulevard. Back to the real world.

Later, when the business day is over, maybe I’ll put on my iPod, turn up some Brit Pop, and stare our through the rain. Maybe then I’ll be able to pretend I’m visiting London.

But for now I’m here, and I’m having an anywhere but here moment. Like I’m homesick for a place I’ve never visited. I want to see something new, and right now I’m feeling so dull, so monotonous, that I can’t even daydream of anything exciting.

I believe this is called ennui, no?

Snap Out of It! April 10, 2008

After writing that less than joyous post, I happened upon this:

Giggling hurts like hell right now. Still feels good though.

My Cup Runneth Over. Sort of. March 19, 2008

I’m back at work after a very LOOOONG two-week, um, vacation.

Yeah.

Anyway, I’m finding it difficult to get back into the swing of things, and have been relying more than a little on my soy lattes to get me through the day. I found this the other day and had to repost it. Just call it my serenity prayer.

Coffee is my shepherd; I shall not doze.
It maketh me to wake in green pastures, It leadeth me beyond the sleeping masses.
It restoreth my brain, It leadeth me in the paths of consciousness for it’s name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of sleep,
I will fear no artificial sweetener for thou art with me; Thy cream and thy sugar they comfort me.
Thou preparest a carafe before me in the presence of my zzz’s, Thou anointest my day with sunlight;
My cup runneth over.
Surely richness and flavor shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of Cappuccino forever…

Let us sip… or whatever…

Mmmm … Kissable … January 21, 2008

I’ve often told the boy that if I were ever to leave him for another man, it would be Burt.

As in Burt’s Bees. The only other man who puts me in a kissing mood.

I’m addicted. Absolutely addicted. Not only is the lip balm wonderful (feels all tingly and not overly waxy, and it smells and tastes just slightly minty), but I’m beginning to experiment with the other products the company offers, and they are equally as fantastic.

Everything is completely natural, and whether or not you think those other products on the market containing mineral oil/petroleum jelly/what have you will one day prove detrimental to your health, it’s always good to be the safe side, right?

I fell pretty hard for Burt a few years back. And the more I learn about their company and their green initiatives, the harder I fall. For example:

~~~~~~~~~~

“Burt’s Bees maintains its founders’ green philosophies. Employees’ bonuses are based in part on how well the company meets energy conservation goals, and there are prime parking spaces for staff members
who drive hybrid cars or carpool. It buys offsets for 100 percent of its carbon emissions and is working toward a goal of sending no trash to landfills by 2020.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The above was taken from a New York Times article called “Can Burts Bees Turn Clorox Green?” (http://tinyurl.com/37xn2x)- a very intriguing, well-written article about the history of the environmentally-friendly company and its recent sale to Clorox. Go read, and decide for yourself what the answer to the title’s question is.

There’s also a cute little picture of Burt at the top. He seems to have been somewhat shafted in the various money-making moves of the company. But I’m still a Burt convert. Turkey coop or no.

It’s Snowing! January 16, 2008

WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!

I’m a Closet Oenophile January 16, 2008

Ok, so I’m not a closeted oenophile as much as I’m a fiscally-challenged one. I have a tiny little wine rack, not a wine cellar, and as of late it’s been filled with nothing but bottles of Two Buck Chuck.

(Don’t event try to knock it if you haven’t tried it …)

I watched Sideways again the other day, which embarrassingly causes me to over zealously swirl my glass of wine and sniff between each sip while I watch it. Yes, I’m THAT person.

But I once again took notice of a monologue in the middle of the film which I’ve always loved. It’s a response to the question “Why are you into wine?”

~~~~~~

I like to think about the life of wine. How it’s a living thing. I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing; how the sun was shining; if it rained. I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes. And if it’s an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now.

I like how wine continues to evolve, like if I opened a bottle of wine today it would taste different than if I’d opened it on any other day, because a bottle of wine is actually alive. And it’s constantly evolving and gaining complexity. That is, until it peaks, like your ‘61. And then it begins its steady, inevitable decline.

… and it tastes so fucking good.

~~~~~~

In vino veritas.