Living to Eat

Don’t forget the drawing for the books. I figure you can have them all if you win. Comment on any of these blogs until Sunday evening and get your foodie and other interesting friends to visit, they can enter too. See Saturday’s entry (Haslam’s) for more details.

 

Some women prefer clothes, some jewelry and some cars. I prefer to spend my money on food and drink. Having a list of possibilities with me when I go grocery shopping puts me in a high mood. I feel hopeful and creative and without restrictions (unless I am baking.) It’s like an artist going into an art store and seeing all the canvas and paints, clay and beads and feeling the elation that comes from anticipating endless possibilities. That is where my money goes. And it shows, since I don’t have the latest trends in my closet and dress a bit down or sometimes on the edge as my ankles will allow. Even when I am tightly restricted as I am now, there is still the opportunity to try something new and not bust the budget. It is all a game, and I love playing it.

What keeps me going on the trips to the grocer is the incredible food blogs that are out there. I am so impressed with the variety and style that float on the Web like tiny planets illuminated by the need to eat. With a society so focused on “Eating to Live” and looking down on those who appreciate food, it is nice to see so many average Joes and Joannes out there Living To Eat, thinking about the next meal while enjoying the one on their plates right now. I would love to be a food blogger as my job, what a wonderful time that would be.

With this as my philosophy, what I need to learn now is more about portion control, self control and getting myself to the gym, then I can eat more to share with you. Yummy!

Here are some of my favorite food blogs:

Noble Pig

I just love this blog. The recipes are incredible and fun, the writing is witty and I love her realistic and unpretentious photos.

The Food Librarian

A great resource for resources. I love the recipes and she had me hooked with cake.

The Bitten Word

I love the premise of how it got started and with shelves drooping from the weight of so many cooking magazines, I can understand the undertaking. I like how they choose the gourmet-est types of recipes (not your average fish and chips), showcasing the elegance that can be draw from simple pages of paper. Love it.

Grumpy’s Honeybunch

The sweet ode to cooking and love. She has developed food blogging into a social network and loves every minute of it. I really appreciate that she peruses all the magazines and books and comes up with some great ideas. This helps save me research time. Plus reading about her adventures gives me some great ideas.

BrokeAss Gourmet

Oh how I love thee, let me count the ways. One is that the name is perfect; very funny and yet so apropos. Second, they really do some cheap ass, yet gourmet delights (though they have a Trader Joes so they can get a decent bottle of wine for about $3). Third, it’s also part sex column with ads for Good Vibrations and such. Fourth, it’s a consortium of sorts and not just one person’s point of view. Love it.

Goodbye Julia and Julie

Today I had to return my books to the library, both Julia’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking and Julie Powell’s documentation of her quest to cook the entire book (The contents not the book itself.) And actually, Julia’s book was due 3 days ago, but I just was too lazy after work to got those extra 3miles out of my way to return it.

There is a sense of emptiness about losing these friends. I have perused Amazon for Julia’s tome, but they have strategically listed it at $24.95 making it just under the $25 free shipping bar. One day I know I will add this to my collection which has been growing at an alarming rate lately. Not only do I have two shelves of bound cookbooks covering everything from the latest Food Network stars to cheapies from the 70s that I picked up at garage sales and thrift stores mainly for the kitchy pictures. Underneath these weighted pieces of particle board rest almost 10 years of cooking magazines that are like porn to me with succulent pictures and empty promises of quests unconquered. In addition to all of these, I have shelves of papers in my den with recipes freely printed from a host of Web sites and waiting to be categorized and bound.

But I miss this book. And I miss Julie as well. Her prose and way of speaking about food as if it is the little voice inside my head have been a friendly reminder of my passions. I can see how she, and Julia, saw food as a representation of sex in a way and this has made me in my single-girl time willing to wait for the good stuff over the fast-fling! It has also reminded me of the power of cooking and the lusciousness that each step holds for those willing to put the time in. Chopping, fondling, rinsing, kneading, eating with my fingers and washing away the mess with warm soapy water, all hold sensations that I have been missing lately.

It seems that the impression these books has left on me filters into many other things in my day. For instance, as I was catching up on True Blood (spoiler alert) I watched MaryAnn slice a human heart she had extracted from one of her minions and use it to make a soufflé. I thought of Julie and how brave she was to touch, cook and eat kidneys, livers and such, in fact relishing them. I don’t think I could do that. Then when MaryAnn served her guests Tara and Eggs the Hunter’s Souffle as she called it, they ate it up like animals starved for ages. Very gross in a way, and I thought I had a very open mind.

It was also Julie’s book that opened up the conversation that Farida and I had on the plane to NYC and who knows what else. But like all things bookish, it is time to move on and find another writer to absorb. And of course, I have plenty of recipes to explore. And like Julie, I have a few adventurous friends to share them with making it good for everyone involved.

What’s your favorite cookbook??

Routine for Routine Sake

I thought it was sort of cool that the prompt today was about Routine. I figure that topic had already been shared, so no need to rehash and break my routine.

A Writing Routine

Have topic discussion with everyone’s two cents,
Research topic for hours on end,
Write outline from what next editor suggests,
Research some more on a different path,
Coerce interviews with one word answers,
Scatter expertise among the paragraphs,
Rewrite and self edit,
Turn over to editor.

Get their two cents and bite tongue,
Research with a topic stretch,
Write another outline per suggestions,
Research exhausting Google,
Finagle more interviews,
Make them sound articulate,
Rewrite again and self edit again,
Turn over to editor.

Another excuse to rewrite,
Put back in what was replaced,
Write my suicide note,
Research other job opportunities,
Rant to my cube mate,
Rewrite again skip edits,
Turn over to editor.

Next editor has his opinion,
Like a**holes we all do,
Chief asks why I miss deadline,
Next rewrites article,
Since I suck as a writer,
Let it go with Friday,
Read his rewrite and give up,
Ask for next topic to suck on.

The Eagle Has Landed

One of my most dramatic outsider moments was in a gay bar. Now I have been going to gay bars for years. In fact, Georgie’s is one of my favorite places in St. Pete. This one was different.

The Eagle was part a local resort called Suncoast. Since torn down to be replaced by a never-constructed Home Depot, Suncoast was not only a ratty hotel, but a multifaceted venue which housed a plethora of shops and a cornucopia of bars to suit all different kinds of tastes. There was a dance bar where people could just hang in Florida casual attire, a posh nightclub to suit those of a more well-dressed persuasion, a lesbian club for lipsticks to butch and a leather bar, which I later learned was a “no girls allowed” establishment.

Usually gay bars don’t frown on hags tagging along with their fags, but the Eagle was different. My neighbors (two biker bears) convinced me to go with them one Saturday night and I dressed for the role in a vinyl corset, school girl plaid and knee-high boots. I left my hair down and flowing, and would have made Chrissy Hynde proud with my eyeliner application.

Dale, Dan, Max and I sashayed our way among the burly, leather-clad clientele and I noticed the distinction this did not share with the other clubs. There weren’t any women. In fact, instead of getting a smile or wink from gays who just can’t help but flirt with anyone, I was met with scowls and once-overs that hinged on hate. Later I would flash back to this moment when I went to my first tranny bar, but that’s another story.

We got our drinks, vodkas all around, and made our way around the close confines of the crowd. Max kept begging for me to protect him, which was humor in itself since he is about 6’6” and strong as an ox. The grinding forwardness of some of the men really had him acting nervous, though I knew this was all an act to seem virginal.

In the back room, I lost my bearings since it was incredibly dark with even darker corners and a few tables. Men in various states of disrobe lingered with their eyes upon my companions and used their hands for more meaningful self-gratifying exercises. Some were helping each other out and I couldn’t help but stare at such live porn. I told Dan I didn’t mean to stare and he said, “Honey that’s what they want you to do. Well maybe not you per se, but they want to be noticed for the next fuck.”

After getting an eye full, we went back to the main room where a little twink was doing his best to strip raw. He offered Dale the option of doing anything he wanted for a dollar. He really didn’t need another dollar since the bulge in his tighty whiteys revealed more than a bank roll, but I think he had the hots for Dale’s long mane. So Dale asked me what I wanted him to do for a dollar. The barely legal boy expect a demand for a quick peek at his package or maybe the disquieting reveal of other said anatomy pieces, but I decided on doing my dishes.

Not amused, the stripper gave me a dirty look and went back to dancing for the men more than three-times his size and twice as old. That’s OK, we got our laugh and went about exploring the outside options of the resort, finally ending up at the neighbors doing a West Side Story sing-a-long which annoyed the hell out of Dale, but that’s also another story.

An Original Written Piece

I thought what may be fun, since I think in prose more than poetry, is to take the Poem-A-Day prompts to write a blurb in my blog. So today is origin.

My origin as a writer. I was an early reader with my mother encouraging me to sound-out the earthly fringed words of National Geographic books. As I got older I wanted to do my own thing so I started my own newspaper for the neighborhood kids. Using reams of computer paper my dad had stolen from work, I would write and rewrite (not even a mimeograph machine) synopses of TV shows (Happy Days and Charlie’s Angels), my original works and copied Peanuts cartoons (I was addicted to them.) No one took my writing seriously, including me, and the paper faltered after only 3 issues.

By high school with my best friend, I had found the power of the letter, specifically as an outlet for words, as well as art. Even though we only lived a few miles away and spent countless hours on the phone each day, our creativity never allowed a dull moment as we penned letters back and forth with stories of our imaginary lives as rock-n-roll princesses. In these double-sided pages filled with marker drawings and Rolling Stone photos, we drew on our lusts for The Who, Spandau Ballet, James Dean and the Police. I still have these letters saved for posterity, as well as the journals where I confessed my teenage angst.

Tedious tasks like book reports never stopped me, as I convinced my teachers throughout high school of my writing genius and instead of writing traditional book reports or term papers, I wrote my own stories. I even got away with writing epic poems about works such as 1984 and Animal Farm. This would later come back to bite me in the butt.

In my teens, I was allowed to play with this side of me entering numerous poetry contests and winning a few awards along the way. My creative writing teacher didn’t believe I had too much to offer, but her drab Getty Lee hair and wardrobe left me cold for what she called originality. I convinced my father to send me to a two-week workshop at a local college in my junior year. This was my first time living away from home and also experiencing a more mature form of literature (sex). I wrote openly for class some of the things I only shared in my postal confessions and was not chastised, but instead revered by teachers and classmates alike for my wit, intrigue and honesty.

This is when I finally felt like a writer and plugged myself into the yearbook and newspaper staffs at school my senior year. I continued on with letters, but life got in the way with boyfriends, dances and Friday night football games. I wanted to fit in as an average kid, missing my own charm of pen and paper. I was told I was too smart since I used big words and this continued on into my late 20s. It hurt me to not have an outlet, and when I did express myself I was distracted by being too different.

The ease that my high school English teachers allowed me to flow through their classrooms put me in remedial English in college. My entrance test wasn’t written in proper form with a subject sentence through a close. My freeform wasn’t appreciated, though my teacher saw I knew what I was capable off and even asked if I wanted a pass. I declined letting this be the time to hone my skills and learn more about the rules of grammar, as well as the creativity. This suited my personality and helped me grasp the intricate workings of my language making me appreciate it even more.

I spent my time writing for the college paper critiquing music and journaling in my own books. By this time, I was alone in my quest for writing companionship and delving deeper into my lust of men. The poets and authors of my younger days just weren’t flesh and blood enough to suit my tastes as I delved into other valleys.

Upon graduation and after, I explored my own style and wrote everything from horror to expressive fiction to erotica. Work and life got in the way and every time I set about to write the “Great American Novel” the weight of such an endeavor stung my sensibilities and I shut down. I took on the task of becoming a marketing writer for fashion and jewelry and loved the chance it gave me to learn and to express myself to more than a million readers.

Now I am here, writing by day about technology and using my creative talents to change the world, one computer at a time. By night, I currently am taking the time to share with you my musings in said blog. MissChris inspired me to write this blog, again prompting wandering compositions all these years later. My hopes and dreams of the novelist persona aren’t dashed, just put aside as I discover more about myself and you about me.

Nine Jobs to Ponder

This week’s Writer’s Digest challenge is to write an essay about what you would do if you were laid off right now. Instead of getting upset and panicking, what job would you do if you had the freedom to do it. I had this thought when I was laid off and played with ideas for things I would like to do if money and time were no object. I never acted on them, but for an hour or so it was nice to dream. So today at my one year anniversary at this particular stop in my life, in no particular order, here are 9 jobs I would love to attempt if I got laid off today:

*Ghost writer---A couple years ago, when I was laid off, I got addicted for a week to bad autobiographies, my favorites being Pete Burns and Jodie Marsh (both recent attractions from Celebrity Big Brother 4.) Both books definitely had the sound of the “author’s” voice, but I knew that neither of these D-List celebs actually took the time to put pen to paper. Jodie’s especially sounded like her with an airheaded tone and self-absorbed condescension in each word that I imagined her collagen bursting lips. But wouldn’t it be fun to get to know these people and showcase their “talents” as writers? I would love some low-level starlet or has-been rock star as the topic to poke and prod with questions crafted from lame Internet articles. To quietly live their lives in the background for a week or so (I figured it wouldn’t take long to get 200 pages down) and then watch them on the talk show circuit saying how they slaved as I got 20 percent.

*Cook for a small café---Perfect case scenario: I get hired to help out in a small café downtown doing lunch and dinners for local foodies and the occasional tourist who adores food. I start crafting some of my own delights, cooking for the throngs and bargaining with the suppliers finding only the best products for my customers. It would be whatever attracted me, soup today, salad tomorrow and muffins. Plus comfort foods, casseroles, roast chickens, exotic veggies and chocolates. I would pick the wines, beers and cocktails all with no respect to cost since the owner would be raking it in with a full house every night. I would be the Cinderella story with no professional background, just doing what I love. I could score a cookbook deal from it and maybe even a guest shot on the Food Network. And maybe a date with Tyler Florence.

*Purse designer---So far my designs have been appreciated by friends, but I have thought of expanding to include the general public, but for now the cost isn’t too effective for selling, even in the finest boutiques. Each purse takes about 15 to 20 hours to knit and then the sewing and inspiration take time as well. I would love to spend my days knitting, but after 8 hours a day I know I would regret this choice. If I could sell one or two a week, maybe I would appreciate this expression inside of me. I yet have the pull to make one for me since now other projects are coming to light, but soon.

*Massage therapist for cancer patients---I started thinking about this when I was in massage school. I thought about how nice it would be for those afflicted with cancer to receive a gentle touch after all the poking they usually get when they receive treatment. There are a few forms of therapy that are used for patients and a local hospital, Morton Plant/Mease, is one of the most esteemed cancer centers in the world and they have therapists who use therapeutic touch for cancer treatment. I have been thinking more and more about it since the regular massage field is so oversaturated that it is almost impossible to make a decent living (unless you provide some happier endings than other therapists.) It is still a thought, with the emphasis being now on getting the training which isn’t too cheap. Why does it always come back to cash?

*Party planner---This is a fantasy job, though from watching the witches on TV, I don’t think my kinder sensibilities would help me excel. But I do love planning a party. I love picking a theme, making a menu, doing invitations and decorating. Of course as a professional, I would need to hire a staff, get some PR rolling and deal with divas. On a smaller scale, would be birthday parties for spoiled brats, Sweet 16 parties to rival coronations and, of course, debutante-like soirees for Botox-enhanced, figure-altered trophy wives. But then again that could be fun. Maybe I could interest them in “penning” an autobiography I could write.

*Porn film writer---Being that I am only one county away from one of the hottest adult-film industry locals, it is a thought that crossed my mind. Pasco County has its share of “stars” and “starlets” and it seems ripe, even in this economy to take my pick in the industry. Of course, I wouldn’t want to do the average “movie.” I have thought about writing films that stimulate both men and women with lots of hot sex and action paired with romance and story. What a novel idea. I figured it would suit both minds and make a new field for the industry. Sort of like a historic romance novel meets the Happy Hooker. As a huge fan of well-written (and not so well-written) erotica, I could see this catching on. Add to it cookbooks for the dinner before and novels to go along with 3 or 4 page chapters, I think this could work. But where would I begin?

*Wine store clerk---Take another love of mine, well make that two or even three, and let me sip as well and I could be very happy. I used to study wine with vintages, varietals and tasting notes to share with my friends in a wine club that we had created. I would research the wines and write notes on them for every one to enjoy and even considered doing a Web site (with Mich’s help), but the group fell apart and my tastes changed when I no longer really had a pal to wax poetic about wine with. But I did think it would be great to research and teach others all while pairing the wines with food and meeting new folks to hang with (never know who could be there????) There is a local shop that I used to frequent weekly getting to know some of the other patrons and staff, but as my wallet got lighter so did my tastes, plus I felt like a desperate single chick going there alone with all the old men and couples.

*Travel writer---I love to travel. I love to write. So what could be better? Plus I could get it paid for. I would write about the locale, the food, the experience and take notes for a variety of travelers to enjoy. I jotted down notes in my journal while on my various trips, but never spent the time refining their style. Yet I would love to share my food experiences cooking in Tuscany, the plethora of things to do in Portland, eating cheese and wine on a train from Amsterdam to Brussels, walking around Paris alone and loving it, sitting on the cabin porch in the woods listening to nature speak, searching for the perfect shell on Sanibel Island and so much more. Though I would get tired of not being home, especially with my new addition, I could maybe cut paths for dog lovers in the travel world.

*Photographer---I have been taking pictures as a thrilling hobby since I was 13 and I am pretty good at it. I have been told by two separate photogs that my work is extraordinary and rivals some who have studied, with a natural sense of seeing and a simple lack of too much technical knowledge. Even with the advent of digital and the fun and ease it provides, I still love my 35mm Minolta and film. Those little mistakes are genius sometimes and I always saw the photo in my head perfectly before it was ever developed. I am trying to fall in love with my digital, but it isn’t the same, sort of like a first love-though I had to move on and I appreciate the simplicity of the newer model, there isn’t anything like the first. “The First Cut Is The Deepest.”

What would you do??

January 28 - in 1,000 words or less

My first foray onto the Internet this morning brought me to Google and a tribute to Pollock. As a fan of the mixed-up masterpiece artist, I loved the rendition they used on the Web site. It spurred me on to investigate what else significant happened on this day, January 28.

Death of Henry VIII in 1547. I recall spending days learning about Henry and his liasons and frequent alternatives to divorce. Never having been married and subsequently divorced, I really don’t understand the need, but my Catholic-school upbringing made me truly dislike this man who seemed to have a greater desire for turkey legs than human rights. But that said, his name did make a great tune for Herman’s Hermits and inspiration for such movies as “Lady Jane.” That was my initiation into lust for Cary Elwes and the beauty of Helena Bonham Carter.

An along those English period-piece lines, “Pride and Prejudice” was first published on this day in 1813. I have yet to read this Austen novel, but I have attempted to put in on my book club list twice, to no avail. I guess I will just have to read it on my own.

In 1985, the U.S. rode the red coat tails of the British once again with USA for Africa’s “We Are The World” a not quite as hip version of “Feed the World” (my fave), but their heart was in the right place. Michael Jackson, when he was normal, Lionel Ritchie, Cyndi Lauper, Bruce Springsteen, Stevie Wonder and many others lent their voices to this one-hit wonder and raised funds to help the starving in Africa. I just don’t get why Dan Akroyd was there.

A year later, I was sitting in my Home Economics Cooking class when my teacher with tear-stained eyes told us that the space shuttle, Challenger, had exploded on take-off. Death wasn’t something new to me, but this really stunned me since I still was unaware of true mortality. We kept the lights off, all 30 of us sitting heads down at tables listening to the radio announcer tell us that all the astronauts and one teacher had been killed in the blast. When I left class, I bumped into a friend who had been at lunch and hadn’t heard. “The space shuttle blew up.” I said. “No way.” She doubted. In anger I repeated myself, “No it blew up, they all died.” My voice stunned me. Why did I care so much? What really drew me to this sorrow? A group of friends and I converged at Stephanie’s house and watched the accounts over and over again. CNN was new and they milked it for all they could. I recall that there was an After School Special I was supposed to watch that day for my Child Development class about teenage pregnancy staring Renee Estevez, but it was postponed do to the tragedy. Nothing stirred me like this until September 11, 2001, but then I realized there was a true threat and my fear was justified.

Let’s move on to something more uplifting: Birthdays.
Today is the birthday of the French writer, Colette. One of my favorite writers, Colette was more woman than most could handle, at the time. Sexually free, she loved the vigor of life and seemed to live each day fully. Artist, actress, performer, writer and ahead of her time, Colette penned the classic “Gigi.” I visited her grave at Le Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and even have a picture of the site in my den.

A few years later came Pollock. I don’t know much about him, but I did like Ed Harris in the movie, plus I have a puzzle of his work and I have yet to attempt that feat.

Other notables: Barbi Benton, Playboy Bunnie, Hugh’s GF back in the 70s and lingerie model and sales person on the Home Shopping Network; Dave Sharp from the Alarm, which used to be one of my favorite bands in that whole New Romantic phase in the 80s and opening act to the first concert I went to headlined by The Pretenders; Mo Rocca, satirist and “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me” personality, I just love his wit; Chris Carter, member of the bands Throbbing Gristle (very industrial), and Chris and Cosey (very ethereal), worth a listen if your haven’t already; and Henry Mortensen, son of actor Viggo Mortensen and X singer Exene Cervanka who was rumored to have a sister living here in St. Pete, but when I asked Nancy Cervenka if she was related she laughed and denied it, though I wasn’t the first to inquire.

Lastly back to those who left us and who still hold a place in my heart, in one regards or another. Head of the Holy Roman Empire, as well as France and Germany, Charlemagne is one of those leaders you hear about repeatedly in school and can never get the full scope of until later in life. My fascination with him erupted as I pondered his statue outside of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. The morning was rainy and I had the day to myself. I followed the nuns in for mass and gave in to my Catholic upbringing even accepting communion. After the service, with the rain still spitting down, I paced in circles around the kings statue and let the true feeling of history enwrap me. Being American, our sense of history is pretty short, unless you bring into account all the non-whites that have a lingering history of a few thousand years or so (this is something I have been looking to more and it is truly fascinating.) My hour spent at his statue seemed probably like a crazy persons as I talked to myself about the realm of his might. But then again, Paris, like other big cities I have come to discover, didn’t seem to notice me or find me crazy since there are always those a lot more loony than moi. I got a children’s book about Charlemagne at one of the book stalls along the Seine, along with “Cinderella”, both in French, so I could learn the language and have yet to put my nose in either one. (This is one of my goals for the new year, improve my French and learn Spanish.)

This was also the day the world lost a great poet, William Butler Yeats. I had my Yeats phase in college when I came across a drawing of him from the early 1900s. He seemed thin and sad, the perfect person to adore for a goth kid like me. I read all of his works that I could find and longed to be the cute young thing that he adored enough to marry. I was a heart-felt romantic, as was he and his Shelley style of slow poetry touched me deeply. This period only lasted about 3 months when I moved on to stalk other dead romantics. Yet writing this, I long to read some more of his words and ponder his life, perhaps when I am done penning this piece.

Lastly another writer of note to honor in this long babble, though she used her words perfectly, Zora Neale Hurston. “There Eyes Were Watching God” is one of my favorite books (and another on my list for a second read). Being from Florida, she is also a local icon with her place in the Harlem Renaissance. She is buried in Fort Pierce on the east coast and that makes me think that a good day trip is in order. Maybe Renee will want to join me for Zora Fest in early April, sounds like a plan.

Well this really filled a need for the history buff inside of me. It’s interesting when all these thoughts and things collide. I hope no one got hurt.

Pick an Excuse

Keeping up with the blogging babble hasn’t been at the top of my list lately. I’ve been too bogged down (gently however) with other ways to spend my time. Pick an excuse:

Thanksgiving –
Planning, executing and recovering took almost a week. I hosted two gatherings; one on Thanksgiving and one the following day with ten people at each, 16 different recipes, and friends and family coming and going. Highlight – Both of my sisters made it over; Cricket on Wednesday night to help me cook all day Thursday and Cathi on Thursday to help enjoy the foods. I really couldn’t have done it without Cricket’s help and I am so glad I hosted my first Thanksgiving Feast with both of them in attendance.

Ronn’s Surgery –
Ronn had surgery on his arm on Wednesday pretty much knocking him out of commission for a couple days, though he did his best to help. Taking care of Ronn, my sisters, the meal and myself kept me pretty tied up. Highlight – He let me drive his truck all day and I loved it, feeling tall, having power and maneuvering all kinds of tight spots helped me overcome my fear of this beast.

Last minute campaigns –
Thinking the week would be slow, I was dumbfounded as I was dropped two new last-minute ad campaigns at work to be turned around within a few days. When I get stressed I shut down a bit and have to talk myself out of the hole I dug do to my fear of failure. Highlight - I got them written and to the designer. We are brainstorming other ideas for a big shot who has the money to have something really cool yet is providing us with no real time to craft something that great.

My time –
Split into two, my time has been filled with reading (The Friday Night Knitting Club) and actual knitting. I have been reading the book for a while and felt spurred on to finish it since it is really good (loved it when I finished) and also to keep up with the other readers at work who have drank the Twilight kool-aid. Not one to normally ride the trendy train, I am intrigued since it isn’t only my younger co-workers who are captured by this tale of “my boyfriend’s a vampire” but also the more mature pals, who like myself are pretty well-read and still can’t put it down. Highlights – finished book number one, started book number 2 last night, have three knitting projects going to be completed by Christmas and watched a great three-hour documentary about Warhol’s Factory People.

So there you have it, my life in a page. I thought of providing substantial paragraphs and entries into this past week and struggling with numbering the wonders of my lovely town, but I just can’t do it right now. One friend said that when my blog becomes work, then I will walk away, but not forever. As a writer, I do find that jotting down even exciting prose all about me can be tiresome and not something to tackle on my off hours. But if you just hold on it’ll be like an infomercial – “But wait there’s more.”