I wanted to make pretty potato stamp "art" but I only had a sweet potato and it was really hard to cut flat so my stamps had warbly bits and then I also can't make straight lines and I really need to start working and not have crafts be the only thing I do all week.
I am pleased with the ombre. Thank you pinterest, for making me obsessed with ombre.
Supposedly if you draw with sharpie on porcelain then bake it, it'll become permanent. In my experience, this is false. However, any accidental bits of shmutz that got on the plate will stay on long after you've stopped scrubbing away the sharpie.
But as long as they don't need to be washed, they make nice jewellery or key holders, or a fancy ash tray if this was the 1950's and people still smoked inside.
In any case, this is a great craft to do in a non-ventilated room while watching the Katy Perry documentary. Such a great film. What a nice girl. What a smokin' hot ex-husband. (Real talk: I think he's unbearably attractive. And that's not just the sharpie talking.)
I started by collecting chestnuts and little apples from the trees in front of our building. I gave harsh eyes to the crazy man feeding the rat birds (pigeons) and stuffed them in my purse like a crazy woman. Zero irony here.
Cut to: googly eyes on sale at junk store in Chinatown. We (mostly not me) glued them on everything, alternating sizes and placement, so each one had its own little personality. Sew coot!
Then we took crumpled paper bags (that previously held scones from the farmers market outside my window, because apparently I live in Stars Hollow) and glued them onto empty tin cans. Insert candle: instant mood lighting!
Add miniature gourds, candlesticks and mason jars for that farmhouse, shabby chic look.
Perogies, with traditional Ukrainian family recipe involving Cheeze Whiz.
Hot ham water...
Our turkey, Fredrick, mid carnage.
Everything, all on one plate.
The gang's all here!
Old friends, travelling all the way from Alberta, Montreal and Wisconsin, plus old friends who now live in Toronto and new friends. So many friendssssssss! So happy everyone came came and indulged my love of hosting slash micromanaging dinner.
Then the traditional, post-dinner Mean Girls viewing...
...with a pie intermission. The best kind of intermission.
So happy! What a kick off to fall and holiday season! Can't wait for Halloween now!
On my way out of a job interview, after working for a half hour "test period." (about another girl, not me) "Well, she wears mascara and some lip gloss, but I just think she could use some more colour on her face, so we'll give her another week or so to see." What a waste of my lady suit.
I was schlepping all my worldly possessions home from the bus station
a TTC employee helped me carry my package all the way to the subway
platform. And he might not have even been hitting on me! So nice!
saw Ben Mulroney, of Canadian political royalty (?) and eTalk Canada
fame (admit it, you've seen it). He was coming out of the arts
section of Chapters in all his chin-y goodness and no one paid
attention to him (just like on his show, BA-zing!).
Ben gets stuck early on in a rendition of Head and Shoulders, Knees and Toes.
you're basically a vagrant and have no proof of address, the public
library will mail you a postcard so you can get a free library card.
I'm going to get mail! Yay!
night a ghost stories walking tour came through our bulding's
courtyard. Apparently the church burnt down a long time ago and now
it's haunted (allegedly). We chatted through the window, someone
asked if they could come up for a beer, you know, it's Canada.
you find tomatoes on sale, go ahead and pick up a big bag. Even if
you're not going to use them right away, they can sit in a bowl on
the table until you're ready for them. Instant centrepiece! Martha
would be proud. Hers would look better, but I think she'd still be
they're not the most gorgeous, ripe, heirloom tomatoes you've ever
seen, just chop them up and throw them in the oven to roast with
salt, pepper, and a big whack of garlic (whack being the collective
noun for garlic).
Chop an onion and get it sauteing, then add
the tomatoes and garlic once they're roasty. Add chicken stock and
water and let it bubble away for a bit. Give the tomatoes a little
mush with the potato masher every once in a while. Once everyone's
gotten acquainted, give it a blitz with a blender. Leave some chucks
though and don't bother putting it through the sieve. Chunky =
rustic. Add a touch of milk or cream at the end.
made some little grilled cheese sandwiches with sharp cheddar and a
baguette. If your baguette was as old as mine you'll end up with more
of a crouton than a sandwich, but it's hard to talk semantics with
your mouth full.
one: after eating delicious sandwiches, take a trip with your friend
Larry to Lion's Bay. While he and your boyfriend jump from ridiculous
heights into the freezing pacific, you pick blackberries by the train
tracks. Wear a cute dress for whimsical effect. Ignore the thorns,
thorns are not whimsical. Later, after nursing your scratch
wounds, buy some puff pastry. I accidentally bought the little
pre-cut puff cups, but you could just roll out the regular flat
sheets for a full sized pie. Sprinkle with sugar and toss in the oven
to pre-bake for a while. Then throw half the blackberries in a pot
with a lot of sugar. Like a lot. Wild blackberries are tart, to say
the least. Mush them up until you reach a substance that could be
described as a compote.
Take the puff cups out just after
they pouf, but before they start to brown. Pull out the cup tops with
a fork and save them for a little snack later. Spoon in compote, top
with a few whole berries, and pop back in the oven until they're
golden brown. Be sure to try one while they're still scalding and
burn off a few of your taste-buds.
Was feeling so bummed about the job hunt that I almost bought a pack of motivational notecards. Thanks for preying on my vulnerability and love of typography, Chapters. I'll be back tomorrow to buy the vintage inspired porcelain egg holder and wildfire scented candle that I did not even know you carried.
make this sandwich, you should first visit your friend Larry's house.
Larry just made a soundproof room in his house so he can practice
guitar without disturbing the neighbours. Talented and courteous and,
ladies, check the pic for a little sample of his biceps.
sandwich was a the result of a refrigerator ransack. It's gotleftover
chicken breast and
mayo, sprouts, tomato, avocado, garlic havarti, woah. Smash all that into an only partially torn pita and you are in business.
Served with Miss. Vickies balsamic vinegar chips and a little vino that Larry had lieing around. Classy, ladies. Classy.
Larry tore his pita a lot. Too much. But he doesn't give a frack; he just pita on either side like bread. He's innovative, ladies. Just like all the billionaires.
les ingredients: - peaches - tomatoes - onion - garlic - lemon juice - green onion - s & p Take two peaches, the ones your mother says aren't sweet enough, cut them in half, brush with olive oil and grill. Both sides, just a couple minutes each while you're chopping the onion and mincing the garlic. Step outside to flip the peaches, then pick through the tomatoes in the fridge. Take the ones that are gushy, that lack the integrity for, say, being sliced onto sandwiches. Chop them up and introduce them to the onions and garlic. They've met before, but the tomatoes will need to be reminded. Smoosh them up a bit to get them to relax if need be. When the peaches are still too hot to be handled, rub the charred skin off and chop them into little bits. Throw into the tomatoes and onions with some lemon juice. As a poor substitute for cilantro or parsley, chop up some green onions and toss them in too. If you have a spicy little pepper lying around, now's the time. Salt and pepper. Done. Serve with chips, toss it on your tacos, burgers, eggs, you name it. Salsa's been there.
Some people have mansions with too many rooms to count and luxury cars with foot massagers on the pedals and suits lined with the best silk that round-the-clock silkworms can supply. Other people don't have room in their apartment for a drying rack. Those people have a spool of thread, some bobby-pins, and the will to have dry undies for work though.
Yes, that does say Santa is my Homeboy and yes, he is.
Pray to the real estate gods that I never have to live in a place this small again.
I'm standing on my desk right now to get a complete shot of the floor space. As you can see with the chair pulled out it is reduced by over 50% to a mere 1 square foot.
Here I am attempting to access my closet. I have to first crawl over the bed and then the door only opens part way before it hits the bathroom wall. If I wedge my butt in door opening and crouch instead of bending at the waist I can almost access my clothes. And when I'm in the bathroom I have to sit at an angle because the toilet is too close to the wall for my butt.
Apologies for that last bit of venting. Time and perspective tell me that I'm actually fine. My stomach and foot are well and good, and fortunately I have enough savings that money is just numbers in the bank. I'll pretend I lost it in the stock market, or something else grown ups do, when they're busy not getting robbed in 3rd world countries.
And now, back to photos of beautiful places and cute children:
I got poisoned by shrimps. Our bungalow had a toilet of the water-pouring-instead-of-flushing variety so the smell of previous bathroom trips was close at hand all 6 (or was it 7?) times I vomitted. The mosquitoes had no mercy and filled up on me while I was busy purging. The power went off at 7am and without the fan the heat went from opressively fucking hot to OPPRESSIVELY FUCKING HOT. My one bottle of water ran out around the 3rd puke or so, so for the rest I could just shish and spit the non-potable tap water and dry heave and be dehydrated until the shops opened up in the morning. But now I'm better.
It was a wooden sish-kebab skewer, dirty, and lieing flat on the ground. And then it was, somehow, stuck inside the top of my foot. It was dangling there under my birkenstock strap and it didn't hurt until after Kyle pulled it out and he agrees it was in there about a half centimetre. Now I can't bend my toes very much, and my shoes rub it, but I think it's just a dull stick being inserted into my foot meat kind of issue and not infection issue.
They were buried under 20 ob tampons, the kind without the applicator. I'm not saying if there were applicators it would have changed anything, but I want you to know he (or she) was up to his (or her) wrist in vaginal cotton swabs before they found the roll of bills. I won't tell you how much...well, fuck it. It was around $600. That's not including the $15 Canadian I've been carrying for the last 2 years, which was hidden in an entirely different part of my bag. They did have the luxury of time, I suppose, to rifle around through my things since I had, as the sign at reception suggested, left my key with them so as not to be lost or stolen elsewhere and accrue a modest fine.
Anyway, I laid down to sleep after a 15 hour bus ride this morning and there was hair and jizz on my bed. So when we went to see a statue of the largest reclining Buddah later I just wanted to take pictures of garbage and shit. Maybe that's allowed though.
Everyone said not to go to Cebu City. Oh, but it's just for one night on the way to the islands, it'll be fine, no worries. Then a street urchin pushes you into oncoming traffic and all of a sudden going straight from the airport to the ferry terminal seems like such an obvious choice.
Just kidding, I crashed a motorbike. But now it seems better, right? It's all about perspective. Especially when you're lying in a pile of gravel when a motorbike on top of you.
Also in the Philipppines:
Got stopped by the police whilst driving a scooter (pre-motobike whoopsies daisies) with an expired drivers license. Blabbered an explanation, was told that Filipino police are very kind, agreed, heartily, and went on my way.
Visited a prison, watched inmates dancing, had an awkward conversation with a guy the same age as me who's been in jail for 7 years (with 4 more to go), dealt with my white, middle class, first world guilt.
Met a monkey named Kieko. Kieko had to be kept on a leash because he learned to make fire by watching people light cigarettes and then started lighting matches on the bungalow roofs.
Got sea and land-sick.
Vomited into the ocean while swimming, fully clothed, to a deserted tropical island (*see above).
That's about all that I remember right now, but I might be having heat-induced amnesia.
I had intended to write an 'end of Korea' wrap-up post. It was meant to be a nice thing about the old man who sells potatoes around the corner from my house. About how, after passing him nearly everyday for 2 years and smiling, bowing, and saying hello in the most honorific form, he would occasionally grunt and nod at me in response. About how this could perhaps be a witty metaphor for my time in Korea.
Then I thought of writing about all the things I'd never done until I moved to Korea. Teaching English, learning a non-roman alphabet, living in a Confusious society, getting food poisoning, being a racial minority, having expendible income... About how these things had affected or changed me, but written in a light, pithy way, not a Chicken Soup for the Soul kind of way.
But now I'm in Indonesia, after three weeks in the Philippines, and already those things seem so far away that already I'm hardly the right person to accuratly comment on them anymore. Furthermore, the heat has cause my wit to escape from my body via my sweaty armpits. And lastly, but not leastly, the television downstairs is blaring what sounds to be Indonesian muppets and I'm super curious if Miss. Piggy is wearing a headscarf. I've got to follow through on something eventually, so maybe this will be the one.
There's only 16 days left before I leave Korea, so I'm really trying to savor the moments. Moments like finding a little turd on the floor of the school bathroom. It's precious, you know? Not that floor pooping isn't a totally common thing; it's hard to line everything up properly, I respect that. Shit happens, and sometimes it's to the back, left or right of the squat pot. But this particular turd was standing straight up. Just standing there, perpendicular to the floor. I don't want to suggest that it was, say, planted that way, but I am saying I've never seen a little poop log stand at attention by itself either...
Then there was the precious moment of watching an elderly man struggle to get up the stairs onto the bus. I felt a little sorry for him because the stairs are quite steep, but then he stumbled and turned around and so everyone could see that actually he's drunk. So drunk he peed his pants. And then he doesn't have money so he has to get off the bus. So he struggles back down the stairs and gives the bus a 'pat-pat' to see it off but the bus still doesn't leave. The driver's looking in his rearview mirror so everyone turns around to check out what he's looking at and it's the old man, of course. He's fallen down, passed out, half on the sidewalk, with his legs dangling out in the street. And then, after I've imagined each of the 100 ways he could die,the bus pulls away...
Yesterday I got my vaccinations for travelling and the translator was explaining which shots they were giving me, yadda, yadda, yadda, oh and don't shower today. Shmexcuse shme? She looked at me, confused by my question, and tells me again, slowly, not to shower because I don't want to get an infection, do I? Umm, yeah, totes. But...do you know what I do with the same water that comes out of the shower? I put it in my mouth and drink it. For breakfast. So if you think the tap water getting through a band aid, into the literal pinprick in my arm will cause an infection then you should take a look at my hard, hard insides...
2012 is year of the tiger. Wanna know why? Cause I'm going to scratch it's fucking eyes out. I'm going to call it year of 'le tigre' and use a Mexican accent while I kick it's ass for twelve whole months. Think that's racist? Think again hombre.
In 2012 I'm not taking shit from anyone. If you've got something to say to me, it better be important. And you should probably make an appointment. But you better bring a magazine, cause you better believe I'm going to keep you waiting.
And if your appointment is re: my fingernails then you best keep moving or you might find yourself on the receiving end one of my bloody stumps in your eye. Be glad I don't find your face as appetizing as my fingers and shut your hot-dog hole.
In 2012 I'm not going to cry even once. I'm removing my tear ducts and replacing them with real ducks. Then if I feel sad I'll just punch them and they'll quack and I'll LAUGH.
If I get a single yeast infection this year I'm going to tear out my vagina and put in a mini-mall. End of story. I am the boss of my ladyparts and they will not cross me.
I'm going to stop apologizing for my phone being dead all the time too. Chances are I wouldn't want to talk to you even if it was on, so you can just go suck rocks until the battery is charged.
Right now I got to get back to being the boss of this office though. Probably use the paper cutter a bunch. Yell at the space heater for being shitty at its life. Maybe turn on the lights cause it's getting dark and I'm pretty close to the light switch. Bring it the fuck on 2012.