Man.
I don’t feel very well. It was super-painfully cold today, so I have that flushed-face-cold-feet thing going on, and I’m sleepy. Also, I’m all queasy from dinner. Mah seester asked me to come dine with the siblings tonight, as the parents are out-of-town and football was on (meaning she couldn’t leave the house for too long lest she might miss some deep, probing insight from John Madden). Anyway, they wanted to order out, and there are a couple chain restaurants in suburbia that offer a gardenburger option. So that’s what I ordered. Turns out it was a Boca burger, which is the fake-meat product most highly engineered to reproduce a hamburger. Now, most vegetarians will tell you that when they get a gardenburger, they’re not out for an item that offers the full meat experience without all the dead animal; they mostly want a good protein source, since it’s something we have to be mindful of. I don’t think of fake meat as fake meat, I just think of it as food. I call it fake meat because that’s what everyone understands. So I was halfway into my Boca burger, which was seriously reminding me of the hamburgers they used to serve us in school lunches (we used to call them soyburgers in a disgusted way; looking back, I wish we could have been so lucky as to have been fed soyburgers), and I was starting to wonder if they screwed up and maybe it was really meat. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I might not know for sure, at least until the commencement of the puking. I don’t remember what hamburger tastes like, and for all I knew, it wasn’t Boca’s pseudo-version at all. That was enough to make me want to puke anyway. I stopped eating and walked around groaning for a while, even after Stephanie inspected and assured me it wasn’t meat. I knew it wasn’t, it was just the too-much-time spent conjuring the memory of hamburger that grossed me out completely. Paralyzing meat-paranoia! I’m a barrel of monkeys. And now before I go rig up my electric-blanket, it’s apartment tour: the sequel! bedroom 5I was too embarrassed to post my desk yesterday, because its abject messiness was in such contrast to the rest of the place that I felt it might upset the balance. Today it is clean(er). There’s the start of my dad’s xmas hat, and my half-finished bathmat falling out of my knitting bag. Sam is once again helping gravity do its job. Surprisingly, I do not ask my cats to pose in each and every photo, they’re just there. Omnipresent. dining room 3
The other half of the dining room I mentioned, with maneki neko and weinermobiles and the saddest fish and a tin truck made of incestide cans from Africa. Also, I know you wanted to see the giant pocketknife again, because you love it as much as I do. Luckily, I own it. Not you. Please note that I wish to be buried with it. front door with festiveness
My informational sign still reads ‘contents under pressure’, only because I couldn’t find the letters for it until yesterday. The box on the floor is all the artwork and old photos I didn’t put up, destined for storage. That white panel on the door is begging for something, something! Something that is not decoupage, but definitely something other than the bulletin-board it used to be. front door 2
Even more festiveness. I stopped short of having a ‘let it snow’ doormat like Laura across the hall. The apt-number is partially obscured so that only those with excellent deductive-reasoning (or counting) skills can find me. chili
I don’t cook much, but when I do it’s an event. I made the largest pot of chili I’ve ever made before. Or will ever make, unless I get a much larger pot. So much chili I’ll be eating it til I’m 40. knitting porn
A closeup of the fabulousness that is the mohair throw. That’s Rowan Kidsilk Haze, for the knitters amongst y’all. Oh, here are a few poor-quality phone-photos from this weekend, too. There’s something about the poor quality that’s charming. nutritious, and the other kind
hard to see, but about a million birds at sunset
me in a fog That’s it. Go to bed!
Jenni