Right now i'm sick & i'm achy & all I want is my favorite brown furry creature to cuddle with. If he were in my apartment right now he would come sniff me & then make whining noises & push his head into my lap. Oh, honey. Currently listening to: "Dog Like This" by Drakkar Sauna
I have some nice tobacco-free mint shisha in my little hookah, my Lyre of Orpheus 12" playing, a glass of red wine, and some fifty-some pages of reading ahead of me for anthropology. Ahhhhh. Maybe we'll go to bed around 1ish; fall asleep to an episode of This American Life again.
I'm going to make sure I enjoy this last semester of college.
Charles, Hillary, & I (the tri-fecta) attended a private opening ceremony at the 6th Floor Museum in Dallas, TX. You know that famous picture of Jack Ruby shooting Lee Harvey Oswald? That was taken by Bob Jackson, (for whom the whole exhibit was about), who happens to be Charles' father's old neighbor and best friend growing up in Dallas. And Bob invited us all, since Charles considers Hillary and I pretty much family. Unfortunately, we couldn't take pictures at the reception, but there was complimentary fancy cheese (!), wine (!!), and these amazing little crab quesadillas floating atop chipotle sauce in little shot glasses (!!!) that Hillary and I had over and over again until the horsd'oeuvres lady stopped visiting us with her silver tray of goodies. But, afterwards we ended up going to this dive bar, Lee Harvey's, of all places, that was in east Dallas. We had a drink, relaxed, and played a couple games of pool. Everyone kept looking at us like we were crazy because we still had on our fancy schmoozin' clothes. I don't understand how we have these amazing times together. I'm sure that its not normal for other groups of friends to do these things, and for this i'm glad, but i'll miss these guys when I graduate from college in May. It will probably make meeting up in a random US city next fall even more exciting, I bet.
Where am I going to be in four months? Chicago? Seattle? Boston? San Francisco? Zanzibar?
Currently listening to: "This Time Tomorrow" by the Kinks.
unexpected Valentine's day gift: a beautiful orange Man Man 7" with the song that I fell in love with, they one they did on the Take Away Show. remember?
i'm trying to figure out how to describe the rest of my night without sounding like a squealing teenager. i'll get back to you guys on that.
I know it's awfully lame, and I really hate to mush on you all, but i'm excited about having dinner with Mike on Saturday. Not excited because it's Valentine's day*, but moreso because it gives us an excuse to relax away from our busy schedules.
*For the past, I don't know, five years, when Valentine's rolls around, my opinionated-easily-offended-by-sexist-propaganda-side comes out...even more than usual. I definitely have my own thoughts on how corrupted this holiday is. I feel like the whole advertising industry is catering to morons who have girlfriends that overemphasize a completely fabricated holiday and need gift ideas to fool her into thinking they've snagged a winner for another year. One hideous example of this is an advert Mike and I saw on TV last night for "Vermont Teddy Bear Company".
I don't know if it's the squealing, cleavage-baring women that gets to me, or the line "where can I get a boyfriend like that?!" Ugh.
I was so livid at the TV (reason #41 I choose not to own one) I grouched for a solid five minutes after it was over and the Daily Show had already started. Mike's response to the whole nasty showdown: "i've got a bunch of masked bears to return". I bet it's antagonizing to be the boyfriend of a feminist, but he's such a champ.
Side note: I just ate an amazing cinnamon roll out of a batch I baked earlier that has been cooling in my kitchen for the past half hour now. Amazing. I got the recipe from this lady, who is spontaneous cook extraordinaire and has a wonderful blog that's especially yummy to read for kitchen geeks like myself. Mike's best friend Freddy is going to cook us a dinner this weekend (I think), and i'm going to be bringing a cherry custard i'll make tomorrow morning.
I just had another cinnamon roll. Oof.
Currently listening to: "Marmalade Fires" by Múm
Disquietingly yours, Amanda
P.S. I'll be happy if Mike agrees throwing down for Blue Fish sushi is a good idea for dinner. I dream about the tuna rolls and crab cakes there...
Mikey Napodino, my dear friend Hillary's boyfriend of a year now, has been throwing Italian day celebrations for more than a decade. It's basically a day-long feast of amazing italian food, the Godfather triology, and doo wop music courtesy of the band boys who make up the Fabulous Harmonaires. This year, it was at Scotty's little house off Greenville, where about 30+ people showed up to drink Italian red wine and get stuffed with chicken parmesean, chicken marsala, scallops diablo, portobello ravioli, homeade pasta, fresh garlic, sweet basil, and olive oil dipping sauce for the just-baked tomato foccacia... i'm drooling again thinking about it, my gosh. Here's a rough summary:
Noon-2:00 PM: the boys prepare food; first bottle of wine is opened.
2-4:00 PM: Late lunch, Hillary arrives/the tri-fecta is reunited; third bottle of wine is opened.
4-7:00 PM: Stuffed from italian food, shenanigans, party crowd reaches 35+ people, Mikey turns on A Bronx Tale; fifth bottle of wine is opened.
7-10:00 PM: Doo wopping out on the porch with the band boys, being goofballs, shit I missed Hillary and Charles so much; seventh bottle of wine is opened.
10:00-11:00 PM: strolling down Greenville to the liquor store for whiskey.
11:00 PM-1:00 AM: Accordion playing and doo wop harmonizing, my throat is still sore from singing for hours; whiskey has replaced wine.
1-3:00 AM: The tri-fecta wrestles in the backyard, I throw dirt on Charles, Hillary bodyslams me, we come back into the kitchen filthy and yelling to snack on portobello ravioli in alfredo sauce, I count eleven empty bottles of vino in the kitchen, some guy on the front porch hears me singing and asks me to join his Neil Diamond cover band... six times. We all go home and pass out.
Currently listening to: "Mack the Knife" by Louis Armstrong... what did you expect?
I'm curled up on the futon with a record playing, eating rosemary-olive-oil triscuits, drinking homemade lemonade, and surfing Ebay for cheap dresses. Since I quit smoking two months ago, i've been amazed at how my apartment smells fresher! Well, considering all the antiques I have, I suppose it still smells a little like grandma's + my favorite Marc Jacobs perfume. Tomorrow night is karaoke with the ladies, and Friday night is dinner with the boyfriend. Life is pretty good, guys.
Oh- and that dress project turned out great! Remember? I'll be sure to upload full-length pictures sometime this week, I left it in my darkroom locker. For now, here's a picture I took of when it was drying.. over my bathtub.
Currently listening to: "Alligator" by Grizzly Bear... on vinyl!
When I was a kid, I never minded getting dirty. And I mean sticking-your-feet-in-the-mud-and-the-grass-dirty, dirt-under-your-nails-dirty. It's a different kind of dirty than forgetting-to-take-the-trash-out dirty, or picking-your-nose-dirty. The latter two I do not care for. Which is funny, because there is a fine line between good dirty, and well, filthy, in our society. I'd rather be rolling around in mud than rancid milk, thank you, but to each his own. Personally, I like getting dirty making art. I like the feeling of accomplishment when I see charcoal smears up my forearms, ink marks on my cheeks, or paint crusted onto my elbows and knees. My hands are my tools, and I see no reason why they shouldn't reflect that any more than paintbrushes that need a good cleaning. When I had my three-hour art foundations class all freshman year, it came right before my italian classes, and I quickly learned the phrase, "mi dispiace, Teresa [my teacher], sono davvero sporche" (Basically, "sorry i'm dirty"). Lately, blue stains from cyanotype developer all over my hands have been my forte. When I start Van Dyke prints in a couple weeks, peeps are gonna think I've got a skin disease.
I miss my dearest darling dog so MUCH.
Right now i'm sick & i'm achy & all I want is my favorite brown furry creature to cuddle with. If he were in my apartment right now he would come sniff me & then make whining noises & push his head into my lap. Oh, honey.
I'm going to make sure I enjoy this last semester of college.
Noon-2:00 PM: the boys prepare food; first bottle of wine is opened.
2-4:00 PM: Late lunch, Hillary arrives/the tri-fecta is reunited; third bottle of wine is opened.
4-7:00 PM: Stuffed from italian food, shenanigans, party crowd reaches 35+ people, Mikey turns on A Bronx Tale; fifth bottle of wine is opened.
7-10:00 PM: Doo wopping out on the porch with the band boys, being goofballs, shit I missed Hillary and Charles so much; seventh bottle of wine is opened.
10:00-11:00 PM: strolling down Greenville to the liquor store for whiskey.
11:00 PM-1:00 AM: Accordion playing and doo wop harmonizing, my throat is still sore from singing for hours; whiskey has replaced wine.
1-3:00 AM: The tri-fecta wrestles in the backyard, I throw dirt on Charles, Hillary bodyslams me, we come back into the kitchen filthy and yelling to snack on portobello ravioli in alfredo sauce, I count eleven empty bottles of vino in the kitchen, some guy on the front porch hears me singing and asks me to join his Neil Diamond cover band... six times. We all go home and pass out.
When I was a kid, I never minded getting dirty. And I mean sticking-your-feet-in-the-mud-and-the-grass-dirty, dirt-under-your-nails-dirty. It's a different kind of dirty than forgetting-to-take-the-trash-out dirty, or picking-your-nose-dirty. The latter two I do not care for. Which is funny, because there is a fine line between good dirty, and well, filthy, in our society. I'd rather be rolling around in mud than rancid milk, thank you, but to each his own. Personally, I like getting dirty making art. I like the feeling of accomplishment when I see charcoal smears up my forearms, ink marks on my cheeks, or paint crusted onto my elbows and knees. My hands are my tools, and I see no reason why they shouldn't reflect that any more than paintbrushes that need a good cleaning. When I had my three-hour art foundations class all freshman year, it came right before my italian classes, and I quickly learned the phrase, "mi dispiace, Teresa [my teacher], sono davvero sporche" (Basically, "sorry i'm dirty"). Lately, blue stains from cyanotype developer all over my hands have been my forte. When I start Van Dyke prints in a couple weeks, peeps are gonna think I've got a skin disease.
