Monday, February 6, 2012

I Loved This Book Series! But That Other One, Not So Much...


I've never written a book rec before. Actually, I'm not even sure I know how, so bear with me...


It started on Twitter.

@sistersurf was persistent.

Read it! You'll love it! Try it - you'll like it! she encouraged (because that worked out so well for Mikey when someone proffered PopRocks and Coca-Cola - RIP, sweet Mikey angel). So I didn't heed her advice, for a long time. You can lead a blogger to book recs, but you can't make them read. So I read other crappy stuff instead. And I mean, deplorably wretched.

Let me take a step back: I had read about - and then heard an interview in the radio with - a young author named Amanda Hocking. If you don't know her story, she started off self-publishing teen paranormal romances on Amazon after being turned down by all the publishing houses (or something similar). As a result of a lot of self-promotion and word of mouth, she eventually sold over a million copies of her books there (becoming a millionaire in the process, natch) before finally getting a "real" book deal. I read a lot of reviews before I committed - they ranged from "So much better than Twilight!" to "JMFHF THIS IS AAAAWWWWFUL!!!" Sadly, I think the latter is more accurate, if not something of an understatement. In fact, her writing is dreadful, and makes Stephenie Meyer's body of work read like contemporary adult literature by comparison.

Sorry, she seems like a lovely young woman and I don't begrudge her the success she's achieved (much... score one for the underdog!), but it does leave me scratching my head a little bit after reading "My Blood Approves" - it was just painfully bad. Let me put it this way: I would read "The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner" again - twice - followed by a re-read of just the Jacob part of Breaking Dawn - before I would read another one of Amanda Hocking's novels. I'd throw some examples of her egregious prose in here to illustrate my point, but that would mean I would have to go back into the book and scan the text, and I refuse to waste another moment of my own short life on it.

But after I got my iPad and downloaded the Kindle app, I had a burning need to find a good, fun, engrossing read to dig into and distract me from all that RL nonsense. Something engaging but simple enough that I wouldn't have to reread passages for comprehension as I tried to read myself to sleep at night. I found it in sistersurf's rec, the Fever Series by Karen Marie Moning.


I'm currently on the fifth and final book in the series - Shadowfever - and while there are some maddening parts (aren't there always?), I haven't felt compelled to throw it across the room - much - the way I did when reading Breaking Dawn. So there's that... It's a a fast read - the author has created an interesting world - or worlds - that stick in my brain long after I stop reading for the night. I probably would have been done with this entire series in a few days if not for the fact Mr. Snarky and I share one iPad so I don't always have it handy. I'm pretty much ripping it from his mitts the second we are both home again, and I feel a teeny bit guilty when I don't put it down for more than ten seconds a day for days on end.

This isn't high literature - I don't even know if it's considered y/a or not, to be honest, but regardless, it's got a page-turner, hfs-what-happens-next?! quality that I've missed since Stephenie Meyer's Edward and Bella skipped off into their small but perfect piece of forever and Myg's Edward and Bella sailed off to Maui.

Plus if you get REALLY into it (and I am enjoying it but haven't went ape-shit like I did over Twilight), there is apparently a lot of extra info to be had at the official website, as well as a familiar-sounding rabid online community with message boards filled with speculation about who should be cast as the lead characters in the movie, and of course, a gallery of fan tattoo. Because if you really like a book, you should ink a fitting tribute to it on your skin. 

I know she has a chess piece on her somewhere, too. Probably.

Looking for something new to read? Give the Fever Series it a try! The books are pretty light on lemony goodness, although there is a good deal of sexual tension, and the author's other works are rumored to be more bodice-ripper-y and tawdry. Consider this series the February equivalent of a guilty-pleasure beach read. And if you hate it, don't blame me - you already knew I have questionable taste in books.

P.S. Who wants to head up the Very Unofficial Friends of Twitarded Kindle Lending Library? Because I spent forty bucks on this series (damn you, Amazon One-Click!) and would love to share or swap reads now that I am wrapping it up... My Blood Approves is just one request away from horrifying you, too!

Sunday, February 5, 2012

Fashion: You're Doing It Wrong

It's no secret that I love fashion. I love pretty clothes and shoes. It's quite a shame that I'm not wealthy. I would buy myself such pretty things. Oh, and do nice things for humanity and whatever.

I have pretty mainstream taste in clothing. I see people in very retro looks or very couture outfits and think I would look like an idiot if I tried to pull that off. There are a lot of looks I would like to try, but don't because I think I'm too tall, too short, too old, too young, or just have a freakishly long torso. The key to pulling off an eccentric outfit is to own it and stare at everyone else like they are idiots for not wearing goat hoof revolvers as shoes.

Don't pretend like you aren't trying to imagine these on your feet.

There are some statements that can not even be called fashion. Some looks are always, always wrong. Let's explore just a few of these. I hope you have pen and paper ready to take notes.

VPL: The visible panty line. BAD! It is 2012. We have split atoms, explored other planets and eradicated diseases. We have the technology to fight visible panty lines. I promise.You need different undergarments or different pants/skirt/shorts. There are a number of websites dedicated to VPL awareness. Knowledge is the first step in defeating this evil.

 If there was a fashion court, this woman would be executed. 

Knit pantsuits: 1982 called and said they don't even want their knit pantsuits back. You know the ones I'm talking about. They have the saggy knit pants in bold colors and matching shirts, usually decorated with bold puff paint prints. Almost always they are accompanied by VPL. This is not a flattering look for anyone. No one who wears anything larger than a 4T can rock this type of outfit.

Stuffing Sausage: The opposite of the saggy pant is the super tight pant. A Swedish supermodel with 0.005% body fat is the only person who can make these look good. If I can see your cellulite, you need new pants. Getting dressed shouldn't require lube, a shoehorn and a small village. Opt for a straight leg pant or at least one that allows your knees to bend.



Whoever designed these pants should be shot. No one can wear these unless their knees bend backwards. 

Visible Undergarments:  I have never shopped in a store on online where the foundation garments were sold in the same section as regular clothing. There's a reason for that. They are not made to be seen in public. (Again, supermodels get a pass here.) I don't care how pretty your bra and panties are, please keep them inside your outerwear. I'm not talking about the unintentional mishaps Jenny Jerkface and I seem to always have where we end up with our skirts around our heads. This is directed at the people who make a conscious decision to wear pants four inches lower than their panties and believe a strapless bra is a myth. Please stop the insanity.


No. Just no.

Stocking With Sandals: This one has many categories. Socks with sandals and stockings with peep-toed shoes are all wrong. If your toes stick out of your shoes in any manner, please don't cover them. Seriously. God kills a kitten if you do.

I can't even address all the issues in this picture.

White Shoes After Labor Day: This is a tough one. They are technically allowed now, but not many designers are making them. Winter white is the preferred color, but most lay people couldn't tell you the difference between winter white and regular white. Bottom line: if you find a pair of fabulous white shoes, buy them, wear them and bitchface everyone else.

This is just the tip (TWSS) of the fashion faux pas iceberg, but it's a start. If we stick together, we can beat back the darkness that is bad fashion.

Friday, February 3, 2012

Reckoner Part VI [Twilight Fan Fiction]




Hey! Look what's back! 

Reckoner is brought to you by the kind donors of Fandom Gives Back, 2011. When it's all done, those special folks will receive an epub and a pdf of the entire thing. I think we've got either two, three, or four or maybe five installments left. If you donated to FGB back in November and you'd like the pdf or epub, shoot an email to me at mygdala (at) gmail and I'll put you on the list. 

Thanks for reading!

Love,
Myg


Reckoner Part VI

Before I killed the Kaine’s supplier in Boston, I’d managed to go close to sixty years without tasting human blood. During that time I’d become such a dedicated humanitarian I never even flinched when I caught the smell of it, as rare as that was. A child’s scraped knee on a sidewalk, a store clerk’s paper cut? I’d notice, yes, but that stirring inside, the blood lust had all but faded away. But not now. Now it was a fight every single day. And I was getting tired of it.

It was mid-April and beginning to get warm again, the days were getting longer and I was now hunting two and three times a week, up into New Brunswick and Quebec. Caribou, moose and the occasional wildcat kept me well-fed, but it wasn’t the nourishment I was craving. It was the distraction.

Every day, still, I thought of her—my dead fantasy girl. And every day it was the same vision. The same brown eyes, the same soft hand on my shoulder, in my hand. That small, shy smile. It was strange that I kept seeing it, but what really bothered me was that I felt no different about it. Time passed and I still felt all the anguish, the pain, the loss—the longing. The longing for something that would never be. 

“Try to see if you can alter it—the vision,” Mercy had instructed, after I admitted I was still seeing it. “You’ve got to will yourself to change it somehow. Make her a redhead, or change the color of the dress. Try to make the vision different in your mind.”

“What good will that do?”

“It will put you back in control, don’t you see?” she said. “You thought this was your destiny for so long—you’re stuck. You’ve got to realize it for what it is—a fantasy. And you are in charge of your fantasies, right? Sooner or later you’ll be able to change the girl herself, maybe even to someone you can actually date.”

“I don’t want to do that,” I said.

“Well, then.” Mercy threw up her hands in frustration and stomped across the room, away from me, her heels clacking on the wood floor. “You’ll just have to suffer indefinitely, I suppose. A helpless victim of your own mind.” 

Fine. That had already been my plan anyway and I was okay with it, because whatever I was or wasn’t doing, I knew Alice was better, and that was all I really cared about. Alice looked great, her hair grown out into long, dark waves. She’d been hunting and shopping and learning the guitar and scheming with Rosalie and Esme for a trip to Paris. She laughed more and started drawing again—she even drew me a decent picture of Reckoner for Christmas.

“Hang it on your wall,” she said. “So you can have her with you in the off-season.” 

I longed for May, when I’d put Reckoner back in the water and take an extended vacation. I thought about it every day. May 15th she’d be ready to go and I’d head out to sea, probably for the entire summer. Maybe six months or more. Maybe the solitude would help me get over my thirst, that mounting desire to kill someone. I hoped so, because nothing else seemed to be working.

~~~

The Saturday before I was supposed to leave, Reckoner was provisioned and I was packed and ready to go. Mercy, Alice, Jasper and Emmett had convinced me to come out to see Mercy play that night, despite my gut instincts telling me I was much better off staying away from anywhere public. But I wouldn’t be seeing them for a few months, and Mercy was already disappointed I wouldn’t be doing a summer tour with her. She’d wanted me to perform with her that night, since she was playing songs off the new album we recorded together, but I really just wanted to watch her one last time before I left. There was little else in the world that took my mind off of things as well as Mercy’s singing, and that was one thing I’d definitely miss while I was away.

We were all hanging out at Jim’s Bar and Grill at a table right in front of the stage waiting for Mercy to go on. I was trying to relax, to be cool, despite feeling rattled by all of the mental noise in that bar. It’d been awhile since I’d been around so many people, and Mercy had packed them in that night.

“Hi Edward,” a vaguely familiar voice said from behind me.

I snapped my head around to see it was that young college girl, Jules, that Mercy had brought home that night back in October. She was standing next to our table with a very tall red-haired guy with a gut the size of a truck tire, pounding a Budweiser. I didn’t like the look of him, the smell of him or the scattered, sketchy pattern of his thoughts. I stood up and looked the guy over and felt venom begin to pool in my mouth, and should have known right there and then how the night would turn out. I was suddenly in kill mode. I felt my eyes go black, my tongue twitch against my teeth, my body go rigid. 

What’s his fucking problem? I heard him think. 

“Hey Jules,” I said, standing up to greet her. “How’ve you been?” I leaned down and kissed her lightly on the cheek, glaring at her date, inhaling the scent of too much wine from her, the scent of the brute’s agitation as he glared back and clenched his jaw at me.

“Just came to see Mercy play,” Jules said, slurring her words, smiling a sloppy smile. Her eyes were drooping and there was spittle in the corner of her mouth. It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. “She’s got a new album coming out,” she barely managed to say.

“She does and it’s brilliant,” I said. “Like all of her albums.”

Who is that? Alice thought at me, scrunching her nose but then giving a small smile in Jules’ direction. I didn’t introduce them.

Mercy came to the stage and began to play and gave a funny look when she saw Jules, like she was trying to place her. Then she thought at me, Something’s wrong with that girl, but I’m not sure what. Keep an eye on her. 

But Jules and her ape of a date went to the back bar and I just thought, this asshole with Jules just is not my problem. I don’t even want to know what he’s up to. And I definitely don’t want to think about how his blood might taste, just in case he was up to something, and I sure as hell didn’t want to know if he was up to something. Let it be someone else’s problem. 

I tried to forget about it, focusing intently on Mercy’s performance, blocking out everything else as I concentrated on her voice. But I found I was still swallowing venom for the next twenty minutes, until the urge to strike out was so strong I just had to get up and leave. Mercy looked perturbed, almost upset as she saw me jump up from the table and make my way to the door. Alice frowned at me. 

“Be right back,” I said. 

Alice rolled her eyes slowly to the ceiling and held them there for a minute as she tried to see my immediate future. But all she saw was me smoking a cigarette against the side of the club, since that’s was all the plan I had.  

I leaned against the brick wall in the alley and lit a Camel unfiltered and took a deep, long drag. That felt better. Then I took another, and smoked the entire thing in about three minutes. Then I lit another. And then I saw Jules, being dragged by her sweater sleeve down the sidewalk by her ape-date. She was half-arguing with him, slurring her words even more and that’s when I realized that he’d drugged her. I followed them silently and his thoughts came clearly, methodically. He would take her to his red Hummer. He’d bind her and drive her to the woods. That’s all I had to know.

There was no deliberation, no consideration, no hesitation on my part, though maybe I should have weighed my options a little first. I just found myself on top of him in the alley behind the club and Jules was slinking down the wall, into a pile of cardboard boxes, slurring, “What are you doing? What’s happening?” One light crack of his nose against the sidewalk and I was enjoying the bouquet of Budweiser-laced Type O Negative, ready to kill.

“Edward!” Alice cried from the back door of the club. “You nearly relapsed!” Emmett and Jasper pulled me off of the guy, right before I sunk my teeth into him. “And you missed the last part of Mercy’s set, too.”

“She’ll get over it,” I growled. 

“What the hell is with you, man?” Emmett asked. “You’re not getting back into that decree hunting crap, are you?”

“No, of course not.” I said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Edward?” Jules whimpered from the ground. “What’s going on?”

“You have shitty taste in guys, that’s what,” I said. “And you are too young to be out in bars or hooking up with people you barely know. And another thing…”

“Edward,” Jasper said, cutting me off as Alice helped Jules to her feet and whisked her out of the alley and back into the bar. “You have to let him go, you know.”

“What the hell are you people?” The ape gazed up at the four of us, his eyes watery, his mouth open, his stale beer breath disgusting me as he heaved under the weight of my knee on his lungs. I crushed into them a little and he panicked, his heart pumping blood furiously, my rage and my thirst nearly blinding me. 

“Remember how lucky you were tonight and know this,” I said. “The next time you even fantasize about drugging and raping a girl, I will most definitely kill you.” I pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and took out his driver’s license. “I now know where you live, asshole. I’ll be watching.” 

Emmett and Jasper’s eyes went wide and then narrowed in disgust at the guy. I let him get up, and Emmett grabbed the guy by his neck and pushed him into the brick wall. “We’ll all be watching you.” 
Then he let him go and the ape ran, staggering, taking out two garbage cans before breaking into a full tilt drunken gallop down the block.

“Jesus,” Jasper said. “That was close.”

“Edward?” Mercy appeared in the back door of the club, admonished me in a single utterance with that disappointed, all-knowing tone in her voice.

“What?” I said, lighting another cigarette and taking a deep, deep drag. “That guy was a rape in-progress.” 

I exhaled a gust of thick smoke and it hung in the night between all of us, a cloudy veil draped over a whole heaping pile of attitude. Mercy was pissed, but she didn’t say anything else. She just turned and walked back inside the club without a word.

“You’re not turning on us again, are you?” Emmett asked. “Because that would really suck.”

I didn’t answer him. I just flicked the lit cigarette into the garbage can, willing it to catch on fire, disappointed when instead it began to rain.

~~~
Emmett, Jasper, Alice and Mercy dragged me back to the Cullen House and kept me cornered in Carlisle’s study until they’d told him the details of my altercation. He listened, that heavy curtain of concern about his eyes, glancing up at me now and then, and I tried to shield myself from the guilt of disappointing him. He didn’t even try to conceal his thoughts.

You’re very frustrated, Carlisle thought to me after sending the others out. I understand. But if you’re going to be a Cullen, you can’t hunt humans. I don’t care if they’re rapists and pedophiles. I can’t have you tempting the others. Think of Jasper—he’s still so vulnerable out there.

“I know,” I said, my attention drawn to Carlisle’s shoe as he tapped it, uncharacteristically agitated. Then he began to pace rapidly from one side of the room to the other, and I realized he was thinking, but he didn’t want me to make out his thoughts, the movement nearly hypnotizing me into silent focus. Then he stopped in front of me.

“You’re coming back to work with me at the hospital,” he said definitively, his hands tucked neatly behind his back as he spoke out loud. 

“But… I’m leaving. I’ll be on Reckoner for at least the summer. I won’t kill anyone at sea—I won’t even see anyone.”

“You need rehabilitation, Edward,” Carlise said. “You’re losing your empathy. Can’t you see that?”

“I had a lot of empathy for that poor girl who almost got raped tonight, don’t you think?”

“That’s no excuse for murder.”

“Well, maybe some humans aren’t worth…”

Don’t you dare say it, Carlisle got right in my face with his enraged stare, defying me to continue my sentence. “Don’t even think it.”

But I was thinking it. Some humans are such scum bags, they are a waste of the air they breathe. Not many humans, but there are some, yes, some—too many—whom I believe need to just not be here. If I could choose to not know who they were, to not hear some of the grotesque things these monsters think about, I would. But sadly that hadn’t been my luck.

I waited for Carlisle to launch into a lecture about compassion, not doling out judgment and the self-destruction that kind of power would cause, but he spared me. We’d been there. I knew it already. It just didn’t seem to change much.

“You know, we could use a new pediatrician,” he said. “Art Guildenstein is out on family leave and I have no idea when he’ll be back.”

“Kids? You’re going to make me work with sick children?”

“You are wonderful with children,” Carlisle said. 

“I can’t stand watching children suffer. That’s why I quit the pediatric unit at Mass General. All that fucking polio…”

“It’s 2009, Edward. You’re not going to be treating polio,” he said, his eyes softening. “And if you don’t do something drastic to keep your teeth off of humans, you’re going to become one miserable son of a bitch.”

“He’s already a miserable son of a bitch,” Rosalie said, leaning in the doorway of Carlisle’s private study, sneering. Her long blonde hair was loose down her back and she wore a navy blue cashmere cardigan, the first few buttons undone revealing the enormous diamond pendant Emmett had gotten her for Christmas. 

“He’ll get worse—and why are you here?” Carlisle asked, annoyed. “Don’t gloat right now. It’s unbecoming.”

“Esme needs you,” Rosalie said to him, keeping her eyes on me. “There’s trouble with Allston Kaine again. He’s complaining about territory infringement.”

Carlisle glared at me and I shrugged my shoulders. 

“Look, I didn’t take the guy out, all right? Allston has no reason to claim foul. I just scared some drunken mutt off a college girl.”

“How many are with him?” Carlisle asked.

“It’s just him,” Rosalie said. “Mercy is talking to him now.”

Carlisle straightened out his tweed vest and smoothed his hair down. “Edward, we’re not done here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

After Carlisle excused himself, Rosalie came into the room and closed the heavy oak door behind her, and then perched on the edge of the chaise like a cat on a branch, waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting titmouse.

Were you really going to kill another rapist? I thought you gave that up, Rosalie asked, her voice somehow eager and tentative at once. I didn’t answer her, didn’t even look her way and it didn’t matter because I knew where she was headed. “Emmett said you almost had the guy. I was sorry to hear they caught you in time.” She gave a small half-hearted laugh and then was quiet.

I glanced up and saw she wasn’t even looking in my direction, but somewhere out the dark window, her eyes hollow as she imagined the scene. Rosalie’s own brutal rape and agonizing near-murder that brought her to us all those years ago was the reason I stalked rapists when I first broke with the coven charter. Though I’d never told her that.

“I let him go,” I said. 

Next time, take me with you.

“So you really do want me out of the coven.” I laughed at her absurd suggestion. Rosalie would hardly set foot in the same room as me, let alone decree hunt with me.

“Can you imagine, Edward? The two of us kicked out for hunting humans together?” Rosalie said, joining me in a sardonic laugh.

“No, I can’t,” I said. “At all.”

We sat there quietly for a few moments and I tried to stay out of her thoughts. Her memories strayed further and further back in time and I shifted mine elsewhere but it was difficult. Why she chose to go there then, I really didn’t understand at the time, but it was damned painful even as an outsider looking in.

I crossed the room and took her hand for a moment and she looked at me like I was nuts, but she didn’t draw away. Then I put the driver’s license of Jules’ would-be attacker in the palm of her hand. She looked at me, puzzled.

“Happy early birthday, Rose,” I said. “Now don’t say I didn’t get you anything.”

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Audi Goes Vampire Crazy!

Super Bowl commercial spoiler warning!!

I know I tortured you all with my Super Bowl post the other day and I'm sorry, really [note from STY: No you're not.]. But who wouldn't love to get inside the head of the advertising executives and be a witness to their incredible thought process when trying to come up with a suitable and memorable commercial for the Super Bowl? This year a 30-second television commercial within the confines of the big game will cost a national advertiser upwards of $3.5 million. That, my friends, is a whopping $116,667 per second for a commercial with no guarantees on how many eyeballs will actually see it. We gotta go pee at some point!!

Who doesn't love the Coca-Cola bears??

So you can imagine that these companies that are ponying up this type of dough want to fucking WOW the viewers. Working at an ad agency, I'm always very interested in the ads (as much as I am about the game even!) and we usually spend the next week at the office criticizing or commending the final idea that hit the airwaves.

What I love about this day and age of Facebook and Twitter and YouTube is being able to get a sneak peak of the spots before they air. And the car companies have hit it out of the park this year. For instance, VW has incorporated a Star Wars theme again -- if you haven't seen this year's spot yet (click here if you want it), I won't spoil it for you but I fell in love (despite my extreme loathing for VW). They even put out a teaser (see below) for the spot that was almost more entertaining than the actual spot!


And Honda's spot featuring Matthew Broderick, reprising his role as Ferris Bueller, promises to entertain based on the previews floating around the interwebs. And Toyota looks to have gone way outside their comfort zone with a hilarious "It's Reinvented!" theme for the new Camry. Fucking nearly pissed my pants laughing at this one!

But so far, my favorite has to Audi. Leave it to the German car company to latch on the vampire craze and create one amazing 60-second spot. One website says "If you like classic emo and Twilight, with a funny twist at the end, you should love this ad as much as we do." The spot highlights Audi's new headlight technology... and that's all I'm going to say. I'll let the spot do the rest of the talking.


So what do you think? Will the promise of clever advertising get you to watch the big game?

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

My Kitchen: A Culinary Warzone

I'll cut to the chase - I suck at cooking. Having spent a large portion of my adulthood thus-far sharing apartments in a college-esque manner has pretty much left me with the ability to make a kick-ass bowl of Ramen Noodles (.25 cents for 32874690 mg. of sodium) or locate the takeout menu at 2:30 in the morning while drunk.

Unfortunately, there are so many Fat Cats a person can eat and as I got older I realized I couldn't exist off of Tostitos, peanut butter, cigarettes and wine without getting scurvy or some other horrible disease that would make my hair look lifeless. Or kill me.

 This mythical beast of a sandwich is known as a Fat Darryl. They are delicious and disgusting, all wrapped up as one in a gigantic hoagie.

It was around this time, in my late twenties, when I met ML, whose culinary tastes couldn't have possibly been further from mine if we tried. He's a vegetarian. I like my meat stuffed with meat. He thinks tofu is awesome. Tofu makes me violently projectile hurl.

Meal times were kind of strange for us because our habits differed. Neither of us are exemplary cooks (I'll grudgingly admit he's a better cook than I am but more on that later) so dinner was usually us nibbling on sandwiches or him cooking something vegetarian while I fried something delicious and bloody and once-alive.

It's a symbiotic eating relationship. Our kitchen is itty bitty but we've got the groove down by this point and have managed not to accidentally stab the other one while we're cooking (there were a few close calls).

 It's exactly like this but miniature and with more, "get the fuck out of my way" and potty humor.

Food fights are not that unusual either.

However, there is one thing that ML does that makes me, how shall we say, TOTALLY FUCKING STRAIGHT-UP HULKING ENGRAGED. No matter how much I try to designate a space for him vs. a space for me, he still somehow manages to use every counter top, utensil and goddamn pot and pan we own when he cooks.

 Our kitchen after ML made pizza. Fucking broccoli pizza...

Even if he's just making eggs.

So far, the only thing I've figured out that works is that I have to rub my raw meat all over whatever I want to use - cutting board, pan, etc. It's like the adult version of licking the last cupcake so your sibling won't eat it. Unfortunately, I usually forget about this because I'm knocked senseless by the disaster he makes in the kitchen and have only remembered to employ this strategy once or twice.

I just don't understand. When I cook, I take out exactly what I'm going to use, wash shit or put it in the dishwasher as I continue to cook and clean up after myself. ML is like a whirling dervish of ingredients and utensils when he cooks. He has zero concept of "clean as you go" and for-the-love-of-all-that-is-holy he leaves chunks of food and egg shells in the sink and then is totally baffled why I go apeshit because, duuuude, we don't have a garbage disposal. We've never had a garbage disposal. 

 How the kitchen looks when I'm cooking (not my kitchen, because this one has a nice dishwasher and mine is ghetto as all hell).

Anything that hits the kitchen floor apparently falls under a forcefield that renders it invisible to him but not to me.

I don't want to chalk this up to one of those "men vs. women" things but I have to wonder - is it? What possesses him to use four cutting boards to cut up one pepper and a zucchini? Is it because he has a dick or he's being a dick? I'm assuming the former because, honestly? ML is a pretty awesome guy.

Does anyone else's husband/boyfriend/person with a penis do this? And more importantly, if you remove his penis, will it stop?

Then again, if that's the only option, I think I'll deal with the cooking warfare.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

I'm Stupidly Excited for Superbowl Sunday

**dances around wildly flailing all appendages**  I'm sure you all know what a huge sports fan I am -- I may have mentioned once or twice here or on Twitter. I pretty much live for the Red Sox and Patriots, and wouldn't you know, the Patriots have made it to the Superbowl once again! (My apologies to you fans of Denver and Baltimore...um, not really.) This makes me very happy for more reasons than just Tom Brady's pretty face greeting me every time I turn around.


I have been in fucking football heaven this week with my favorite morning sports radio talk show covering every aspect of upcoming battle between the New England Patriots and (evil) New York Giants. The betting line gives the Patriots a slight edge on the spread, but on paper, the Giants look unbeatable. I've been down on the Patriots' horrible defense all year, and though they've made it to the big game, every player on that team is going to need to have a career day to take down Big Blue.

Eli Manning might be having one hell of a playoff run this year, but Tom Brady doesn't suck two weeks in a row and in the AFC Championship game, he sucked. Hard. But even at his suckiest, he still gets the job done. And I still wouldn't kick him out of bed. Even if he does wear Uggs.


You're probably wondering where the serious trash talkin' is? This is how I roll... I'm ridiculously superstitious when it comes to my sports teams. Let me tell you, trash talking is the biggest way to jinx your favorite team. Kind of like when a pitcher is tossing a no hitter -- you never mention the no hitter. And if one of the announcers even utters the words, say bye-bye to the no-no.

I find that if I go into a Superbowl (or any big game) that the Pats are playing in with a completely pessimistic attitude, they do much better. It's probably just me, but I sort of think they're trying to prove me wrong by winning. The one game I didn't go into feeling all glass-half-empty was the infamous Superbowl of 2008 -- the first meeting of the Pats and the G-Men. The Patriots came into the game virtually invincible having not lost a game all season. I was cocky as all shit going into that match-up.  The Giants had squeaked into the playoffs and there was no possible way New England could've lost that game. But they did. I was devastated. Crushed. Inconsolable.

So I will keep my trash talking to myself. I will cheer my team on wearing the same Patriots sweatshirt I wore for the last game. And maybe the same jeans, t-shirt and underwear too. I'll let Mishka the husky handle the Superbowl predictions.

GO PATRIOTS!

Monday, January 30, 2012

Mind of a Minimalist, Heart of a Hoarder

I like watching "Hoarders" because it makes me feel like I don't have "stuff issues" - even though I do, a little bit. It's like when you watch "Intervention" and are content in the knowledge that your alcohol consumption is totally normal (if I start stashing airplane bottles in the toilet tank or downing mouthwash with the intent of catching a buzz rather than freshening my breath, feel free to call Dr. Drew). But I've always been a very sentimental person...I get attached to things and don't always let go.

 If Barbie was a hoarder  - the Dreamhouse overfloweth...

When my parents were downsizing about six years ago and moving out of the house I'd grown up in, my mom called me one day to ask if I knew anything about all of the random pieces of pine trees and scraps of paper she was finding in various pieces of pottery and pewter in her china hutch. Well of course I did - those were pieces of the our Christmas trees I'd saved when I was a little kid! It still makes me sad to see Christmas trees on the curb after the holidays but I've stopped short of trying to save them all. There were also notes to pets who had went to that big dog park in the sky. I didn't even bother telling them about the things I'd squirreled away under the built-in beds in my old bedroom - let the new owners (or their kids) scratch their heads at that collection.

In theory, I like minimalism. I like clean lines, uncluttered surfaces, and mid-century modern design. The reality is a liiiitle more complicated...  Look in my house and you'll see that Mr. Snarky and I do pretty  well when it comes to keeping things superficially clutter-free. But take a gander behind closed doors (basement, pantry, closet,  whatever - any closed door will do) and the facade is shattered: it's just a big mess up in there.

I realized when I was adding tatty t-shirts to the "bag of rags I'll use someday to clean some unforeseeable dirty object" that it might be time to just start tossing some of them in the trash. I'm not good at throwing things out or determining - with finality - that something has come to the end of it's useful life.


Not here yet, thankfully - once it goes in the trash, it stays in the trash. Almost always. OK, fine - I have gotten some really cool stuff on the curb. I ADMIT IT!

I mean, I have nail polish older than KStew, and that's not a brag. My pantry could use a massive overhaul, and while I'm at it, I might want to empty the contents of the freezer and get rid of anything unidentifiable (the fridge portion was cleaned out of necessity - top to bottom - a month or so ago during what I call "The Great Pickle Juice Disaster").

Someone had labeled this random not-my-refrigerator pic "astonishingly messy" - er, maybe I do have problems???

So while I've stopped making New Year's resolutions for the most part, I think that this will be the year that I get de-cluttered. I've been inspired by things I have seen online, in magazines, and at friend's houses... I know it won't be easy, and I'll definitely will have to change the way I accumulate things (or don't...). Like not stocking up on random items I don't need at the grocery store, only to find myself  putting them all away into my pantry like I am playing a game of high-stakes Jenga - one false move and that third can of tomatoes is going to break a toe! I don't want it to take renting a dumpster one day to come and rid my house of three tons of antiquated Twilight gear and 1,267 random mostly-full bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and lotions that I used a couple of times before deciding I didn't like them and stashing them away for an "emergency."

 Not my pantry but this looks familiar and will give you the general gist...

What are your decluttering tips??? Any websites or books that you found particularly motivating or inspiring? Either mail them to me so that I can add them to the other piles of paper and magazines and clippings that I have stuffed everywhere or leave them in the comments!