Fashionista in training

Should I be concerned that my kindred fashion spirit is a four-year-old? In all seriousness, lately I have found that my wardrobe and current taste has a lot in common with the granddaughter of my boss… what does this mean? Granted she is four going on thirty-four, and is by far the most precocious child I have ever met, is often allowed to dress herself and pick out her own “costumes” as my boss calls them, and what can I say, this girl has taste!  Perhaps it is because a lot of her outfits are whimsy and dress up inspired, which is something I am currently longing for in my own wardrobe.

 I work in a garden store and farm, and though I am primarily indoors, my fashion has definitely started to reflect my settings. On non-event days, it makes no sense for me to show up for work in cute shoes, skirts, or pretty much anything I don’t want covered in occasional garden soil or olive oil.  Thus my daily uniform primarily consists of jeans, tee shirts, dansko clogs, and fabulous earrings.  Not that its all bad, I’m comfortable, and practical… but on occasion I get nostalgic for high heels, fitted skirts, lace camisoles,  and sexy cardigans.

The other day Ava, my four-year-old fashion maven came into the store wearing her bangs pulled back with a very chic barrett. Three black fabric roses were woven together, and with her very stylish 20’s bob haircut, I was totally jealous… I had been out accessorized by a child.

The Anthropologie Version of Ava's hair-clip

I could spend hours browsing the shelves of Anthropologie  and online boutiques planning my dream wardrobe. It involves a lot more pearls, boots, lace, ruffles, one shoulder numbers, sheath dresses, pencil skirts, blazers, blouses, embellishment, vintage, bracelets, sophistication, sparkle, sassiness. .. sigh… someday. Nevermind the fact that my current life doesn’t support such a wardrobe, monetarily  or socially, or the fact that this probably won’t change for a LONG time if I get accepted to graduate school. I try not to dwell on these factors though, and prefer to be distracted by the pretty things.

I think my boss has started to realize that Ava and I are on the same fashion wavelength as my outfits are sometimes referred to by my boss as “costumes”. Last week Ava wanted to wear a bird Christmas tree ornament in her hair to school ( can you see the style potential in this child? Four years old, and she is already channeling the fashions of Sex and the City… Think Carrie’s wedding dress/ veil ensemble in the movie). Her mother wouldn’t allow the ornament, but my boss did note “well you know, Tayler does wear feathers in her hair sometimes” though it is kind of a mystery whether this was an encouragement to Ava’s style, or a dig on mine… but I’m going with the former.

Here are a few items from Anthropologie that I am currently lusting after

  

 

  

All pictures courtesy of the Anthropolgie Website

go there to find your own fashions to lust after/ purchase

'Tis the season

….to be sicky. Yes it is that time of year where colds are running ramped, and despite my best efforts to avoid sickness this year, one still caught up with me.  Hello Emergen-C! It is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year, not the sickest! Thankfully I’ve had my flu shots, but I guess that gave me a false sense of hope… I will admit I’ve been a little less frequent with the hand sanitizer since I got my H1N1 immunization…. Silly me. On the bright side, it’s a cold and not strep throat. My tonsils seem to be a sucker for strep, so any time I start to feel a little under the weather I break out my family sized bottle of hydrogen peroxide and start gargling like there is no tomorrow. Fortunately this seems to be living in my sinuses, which is more annoying than anything else. Dripping, congestion, and plugged ears are not my favorite things, but I will settle for them if strep is the alternative.  Thankfully, I live across the street from the organic grocery store, so my first act was to stock up on Throat comfort tea, Echinacea, and homeopathic cold medicine.  Oscillococcinum is probably one of my favorite discoveries of this year.

                                                                           Photo courtesy of www.boironusa.com

I guess on the bright side of things, if I’m going to be home sick, I’m glad it is during the coldest week we’ve had this year. As if I wasn’t already looking for an excuse curl up on the couch with a cup of hot tea and a good book…

Olio Nuovo

Over the past few weekends the Willamette Valley has gotten is foodie on in a major way. The weekend before Thanksgiving has been emerging over the past few years as the “aficionados” weekend. It’s before the Thanksgiving rush, so it is generally less crowded, and its historically more of a buying weekend, where Thanksgiving is a tasting weekend.

The Oregon Olive Mill combined it into a little bit of both, giving many Oregonians their first taste of Olio Nuovo, oil fresh off the press. There are quite a few people out there who are skeptical about the olive harvest in Oregon, and to be honest there are still a lot of unknowns, but people were skeptical about Pinot Noir 30 years ago, and look at the valley now!
The Olio Nuovo is the first press of the year, and has incredible flavor. Imagine the best olive oil you’ve ever had, and punch up the flavor about ten notches. It has almost a creamy texture, due to the large amount of organic sediment still in the oil. Typically we let this naturally filter out of the oil before we bottle. Though the oil loses a bit of its intensely fresh flavor, this gives it a remarkably longer shelf life. Due to the large amount of sediment, Olio Nuovo only stays good for about 90 days, but oh what a delightful 90 days! The flavor is sassy, punchy, green and seductive & the color of the oil is unreal! (please note that the color of the oil actually has nothing to do with the taste and flavor profile… but if you are looking for a gorgeous oil, in both color and flavor, the nuovo koroneiki is a fabulous chartreuse!)

                                                    Koroneiki Olio Nuovo
                                                           
I’ve been enjoying olio nuovo all week, and have tried putting it on just about everything. I would be perfectly content with a baguette and a bottle of oil, but my curiosity has lead me to try the oil on some less conventional things. Thus far I’ve discovered that it is quite tasty over scrambled eggs, broccoli, & savory French toast (sort of a substitute for syrup) Olive oil isn’t just Popeye’s companion anymore, and pairs with more than just pasta. It’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner… and based on the response Red Ridge Farms has been getting from the Oregonian Article, I think it’s a trend Oregon is going to be seeing a lot more of in the future.

 

Press!

http://www.oregonlive.com/environment/index.ssf/2009/11/it_worked_for_oregon_wine_now.html



The Oregon Olive Mill made the front page of Friday's Oregonian!

Maybe Oregon Olives aren't so awkward after all!

Christmas.....already?

Since when did it become ok to put up Christmas decorations before Halloween? Excuse me, people, what happened to the Fall? Why must we skip entirely over this delightful season? There are so many wonderful things about Autumn…. So why are people so fixated with Christmas? The only “holiday” gimmick I can get behind right now is the red holiday cups at Starbucks…. Lets be honest, who doesn’t love the red holiday cups? But I was appalled this week when I saw a giant tinsel covered Christmas tree at an outdoor mall.  Have we completely lost the ability to live in the present? I know it is great to have things to look forward too… but last time I checked there are plenty of things to anticipate before December rolls around. Granted, my list might be a bit different than others. November means graduate school applications, Olive Harvest, and Thanksgiving all have to take place before I’m ready to start thinking about Christmas.  I know it is only a matter of days before I stumble upon some Christmas music on the radio…. Can’t we just live in the moment people? Savor the fall… the taste of pumpkin, the gorgeous colors…. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about Christmas, but there is a time and place for everything, and I am going to argue that late October/ early November is not the place or the time for Christmas décor…. Give me bronze colored leaves, cornucopias… even left over candy corn…. But please can we just hold off a few weeks before we check into Christmas mode?

Pumpkins

October

I can’t seem to find my morning

the sun can’t seem to find my window

outside the air is crisp like celery

and I hide from the end of daylight savings

beneath my flannel sheets.

Post season baseball

and the idea of your touch

are the only thoughts allowed to linger

before coffee

To me the month of October is all about pumpkins, warm drinks, boots, and post season baseball. Sadly my team, The Boston Red Sox, didn’t make it very far in the Post Season this year, which left me in sort of a funk at the beginning of the month… (though to be perfectly honest it was one less thing distracting me from studying for the GRE.) As the World Series drew closer, so did Halloween and therefore pumpkin carving. Though my original plan was to carve my Red Sox pumpkin as a celebratory measure before the World Series, it turned into more of a “There’s always next year… and the Yankees can kiss my ass” pumpkin. The letters were tricky, and I definitely screwed up a couple of times, but in the long run, I was pleased with how it turned out. After much arm twisting and convincing, my brother, AKA Holiday Scrooge carved one as well. Though I wished he would have utilized one of the other designs in the Red Sox Pumpkin Carving Kit (and therefore a little creativity, as I chose my design first) he opted for the same design as me, which resulted in a little sibling rivalry. The end result: two stellar Red Sox pumpkins, and one irritated brother.

My next pumpkin adventure was culinary, inpsired by an interview I heard on NPR with Ruth Reichl: the food critic and editor of Gourmet Magazine.  I took a small pumpkin, gutted it, and filled the hollowed out portion with delicious ingrediants: onions, artisan bread, a medley of shredded cheese, chicken stock, and cream. I then put the top back on and popped the whole thing in the oven.  The product of this gastronomic adventure is a new Fall favorite of mine. The inside was rich an delicious with the heavy cream, the gooey melted cheese and the saturated bread and bits of pumpkin were scraped into every bite. The best part of the dish was the whole pumpkin, which served as multi-functiond ingrediant to the success of the meal. Not only did it add flavor, but it served as a fun and aesthetic tureen. I cannot wait to make a larger batch of this for guests!

Adventures in Fall: Quince

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
  - taken from The Owl and the the Pussycat by Edward Lear

Right now I’m reveling in the many delights of Fall. The smell of spiced cider & eucalyptus leaves has been floating around my office, and today I had my first pomegranate of the season! I find harvest season to be subtly seductive, and I’m constantly finding new aspects of the season to appreciate. My most recent discovery is the Quince.

Let me just say that there is no fruit that smells better than the quince. It has this wonderful ambrosia-florally- luxurious scent to it that simply beckons you to pick it off the tree. There have been several moments at work this week when I’ve found myself wandering aimlessly towards the quince trees, or in the kitchen with my nose next to the fruit bowl enjoying the aromas rather than working. If it were a perfume, I’d bathe in it, and when I close my eyes and go to a happy place, it smells like quince. It’s a cruel cruel joke then, that something this delightful smelling cannot simply be picked off the tree and eaten immediately.  The quince has often been thought to be the “forbidden” fruit from the Garden of Eden, due to its alluring scent, but bitter taste.

For the past few weeks I’ve been trying to figure out what the heck I can do with a quince. It is such a perplexing little nugget of a fruit. This vibrant yellow, squatty, and oddly shaped fruit, somewhat resembles a cross between a pear and an apple, but is much more sassy. Personally, I like my food to be on the playful side, and I find unusual fruits to be much more enjoyable to eat. Quince is the epitome of a playful fruit, and kumquats, pomegranate, and persimmons are a few of my other favorites. Typically quince is too bitter and acidic to eat raw, though I’ve snuck a few bites here and there. Thankfully the tannins that fill the fruit with its bitterness tend to calm down a bit when the fruit is cooked, and this week I’ve been trying a few recipes to see if I can coax out something delightful.

 Quince, little nuggets of fruit

And so began my quest to find something delicious to make with quince. Apparently it makes a wonderful addition to apple pies, and produces a rather heavenly jelly… but as I am still getting settled into my new place, I don’t feel like undertaking a large baking experiment just yet (give me time), so I decided to do something a bit more simple, and promptly decided to poach the fruit.

 The skins in simple syrup

I read through a few recipes and then began to improvise. First I blended water and some brown sugar and began to simmer. I then skinned the quince, and put the peelings in my simple syrup mixture, since I wanted as much of the quince flavor as possible. I added a cinnamon stick and a few cloves, and let the chunks of quince simmer for about 45 minutes. The end result was like applesauce to the nth degree. The complex flavors of the quince added the perfect amount of tartness. It’s tangy yet sweet flavor kept me coming back for more.  I’ve tried a few different variations, one with red wine (so good), one with less sugar, which I then blended into a quince “butter” and paired with manchego cheese.

                                  Poached Quince

                                   Quince "Butter"

Mere moments ago, I stumbled across a recipe that I know will be on my table in the near future.  Quince with rosemary pine nut topping, and Rum Lime glaze….  Yes please.

It seemed like a good idea at the time...

Moving is sucking the very life out of my soul… Ok, so maybe that is a little melodramatic, but some days that is how I feel. In my mind, moving next door was the best possible moving scenario… no maneuvering furniture up & down the stairs, no renting of u-hauls, no coercing relatives to let your borrow their truck & muscle for the afternoon. I simply had to move from point A to Point B, easy peesy.  This was of course slightly unrealistic.

My first mistake was not getting a wagon or a wheelbarrow to haul countless boxes, food and knickknacks between the two apartments. Typically a move is judged by car or truckloads “oh we only have about two loads left” however, when you are walking things from residence to residence, the outcome is not as optimistic. “Oh only about 307 armloads left”

On the bright side, my goal was to be 100% completely out of Apartment A last Thursday, and I was! On the not-so-bright side, I’ve been living in the chaos of Apartment B for almost a week. Yes, progress is being made daily, my bathroom is settled, books are on the shelves, the kitchen is mostly done, I have a place to sleep, and the internet finally works! But I’m finding that I am far too easily distracted. I start to put away one thing, then see something else & move to that, I shuffle boxes from one room to another, move pictures from leaning against the wall, to leaning against the couch.  It’s like my living room is a giant puzzle, and rather than just working on one section I’m bouncing all over the place.  I have nesting ADD. 

I’m also making lots of interesting little discoveries about my new abode. Firstly, my new bedroom is roughly 6 inches smaller than my previous bedroom. Though six inches isn’t a lot, it is just enough to completely throw off the arrangement, and now I’m forced to put my full length mirror in my living room.  I’ve also discovered that showering with my bathroom door open, results in setting off the smoke alarm in my bedroom, unless the ceiling fan is on high blast, and mere moments ago I discovered a small hole in one of the windows. It’s a very small precise whole, most likely from a rock, but I’ve already started to refer to it as the bullet hole.

Alright, break time is over… who has time to blog when there are pictures to be hung & boxes to break down? Looking forward to the next week or two when things get put away, and I can focus on other things like grad-school applications….

Special Delivery

I opened up my mailbox yesterday and was thrilled to find my latest on-line purchase happily awaiting me.  Though I certainly don’t have an aversion to real-life shopping, there is something quite wonderful about having access to millions of stores without leaving the comforts of your own bedroom. No need to put on clothes or shoes, or even get out of bed when almost anything you could ever need could be delivered to your doorstep.

Though typically I enjoy the experience of trying something on (unless of course it is jeans… no one likes to try on jeans) there are so many moments when clicking a button and waiting 5-7 business days is just so much more enjoyable. I don’t get a lot of catalogs, and I’m not on many mailing lists, so I love days when I open up my mail box to find something other than bills and junk mail.

Shipping and Handling can be kind of a bitch, and if I lived in the city I probably wouldn’t indulge in on-line retail therapy quite as much. But as it is, I don’t always have the time to make a trip to Portland, and even when I do there is always the off chance that the stores don’t have quite what I’m looking for.  Currently I’m in the market for a shower curtain. I’ve shopped around, compared prices, and when I finally made an executive decision on which design and color I liked the store I went to didn’t have it in stock. I should have saved the time, put my gas money towards shipping, and called it a day.

 Though I’m all about shopping locally, and do so whenever possible, even the best small communities have their limits.

The other great thing about on-line shopping is the anonymity.  I’m much more inclined to impulse buy things online than in an actual store because there is no one to pass judgment on your purchases.  Sure, sometimes we need that extra filter, and I do have a few regrets about on-line purchases I’ve made in the past (so maybe I didn’t really need the Red Sox M&M’s…) but impulse purchases aside, we all have a few items that we would rather not parade through a check out. An item from a previous blog post comes to mind…

My most recent on-line purchases, (the ones that arrived yesterday)  were two pair of leggings, and a Red Sox pumpkin carving kit. Yes, I’m a nerd, but I think it is well justified. I’m constantly telling my brother he is all dead on the inside (I mean it in the best way possible) since he is never one to participate in any sort of holiday tradition. It is impossible to get him to play in the snow, dye Easter eggs, decorate the Christmas tree, or partake in any sort activity that lends itself to the nostalgia of our childhood.  Thankfully, my sister-in-law is the exact opposite so we try to guilt him into various activities. It seldom ever works and he tends to sits around like a scrooge, so this Halloween I am enticing him with baseball pumpkins… I am admittedly more excited about it than he is, but who wouldn’t want a Red Sox themed jack-o-lantern?

A few of my online- faves.

www.Etsy.com   Bliss in a website. I could spend hours browsing through its endless boutiques. It encompasses everything that is good and wonderful about on-line shopping, limitless selections and it can be local!

The Sundance Outlet - Thought I don't purchase from here often its my favorite for accessories. 

http://www.basbleu.com/ a fabulous independent book seller.

http://www.chowdaheadz.com/My source for bosox gear.

www.victoriassecret.com –There are always way better selections on line. Trust me, after my skirt incident this was the first order placed.

www.sephora.com  Make up mecca.

Hooping

This summer I’ve been hula-hooping. It’s such an odd thing to take up, especially in my mid-twenties, but like so many other good things in life, it started on a whim. I was at work one day, and a co-worker looks and me and asks “have you ever hula-hooped?” My mind instantly flashed to my first (and up to that point only) hula-hoop at the age of five. It was purple and white stripped, purchased at a Toys-R-Us in southern California. We were helping out with and attending my Cousin’s wedding, so I’m sure the hula-hoop kept me pre-occupied and out of the way. I don’t remember playing with it much as a child, and I’m sure it went by the way side at some garage sale.

“Yeah, a little bit” I replied. It seemed like a random thing to ask and I had no idea where she was going with it. Apparently she had some random hula-hoops in a closet and arbitrarily enough, one her participating WWOOFer’s (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms… check out the website for more details http://www.wwoofusa.org/) was actually a “professional hooper.” I don’t know entirely what that entails, but apparently she could do some pretty amazing stuff with a hoop, and now my co-worker was hooked. She showed me battle wounds, bruises, even talked about how she made her own hoop the correct size and weight. It was blowing my mind. I had never once considered hula-hooping outside of a playground or back yard setting, and I was mildly intrigued. Who makes their own hula-hoop? It struck me as something above & beyond, and not for me, but the idea of hula-hooping in general had peaked my interest.

Like most passing conversations, I tucked it away in the back of my mind for a while, until one day I was at Target, and saw hula-hoops for sale in the summer fun section. It was a $1.50, so I figured why not? I felt slightly dorky as I rolled my hula-hoop through the store… no one else in the lipstick aisle had a hula-hoop, but I figured for an impulse buy, it was at least a unique one.

I got my hoop home, and quickly discovered the probable reason that my childhood hoop had met its demise. I sucked. Like, really, really sucked. How could something that seemed so elementary be so hard? I twisted, I turned, I flailed my arms and my hips in every conceivable way, and still could only manage to make the hoop stay up a matter of seconds. I felt slightly better, after making my entire family try, and discovered that we were all as equally un-coordinated. That is, until I passed the hoop over to my sister-in-law, who in ten seconds flat, put the rest of us to shame. She could walk & hoop, start it on her neck and get it all the way down her body, one leg, one arm, you name it she could do it with a hula-hoop. I was crushed. I mean I know she’s athletic, but I took fourteen years of ballet, one would think that would be somewhat of an advantage, no? I resorted to my fall back “well we were homeschooled so we never had recess” excuse, and started practicing.

It was a little pathetic… a twenty-four-year-old thrusting & flailing, (and not in a good way) but eventually, I kinda-sorta started to get the hang of it. What I really would like to know is who’s bright idea it was to put the little noisy beads in hula-hoops? Fun for a child, yes, but an adult, the most irritating thing in the world. Especially for the people around you who are not quite as enthralled with learning how to hoop.

Irritating noise, irritating noise, crash

Irritating noise, irritating noise, crash.

Any change in this clatter pattern, and people would look up from whatever they were doing, because this meant that I had managed to keep the hoop in motion a little longer. Progress! It was a slow and noisy battle, but slowly I improved.

After a few days of utterly sucking I began to develop my “technique.” I spin to the left, and found that I have the best luck keeping the hoop aloft if my feet are in “Fourth position.” This is a ballet stance that involves your feet being about a foot apart, your front heel roughly aligned with your back toe, but for hooping I prefer parallel foot position, with both toes pointed to the front. It’s an open, stable stance, and I’m not sure what makes it work, but I’m pretty sure it’s the secret to my hooping “success.”

I took a slight hiatus from hooping (and so many other things) at the end of July when I came down with a freak staph infection in both of my legs. It was hard enough to get out of bed & stand, let alone flail about willingly in the name of fun and exercise. Surprisingly enough, once I was back on my feet, my hooping skill level remained the same. I was by no means “good” I wasn’t even average, but I was encouraged by the idea that maybe I was getting some muscle memory. If I wasn’t getting worse, maybe I was getting better? My friend Elizabeth confirmed my musings when I was visiting her in Montana. She had a hoop tucked away in her living room, and we quickly whipped it into action. I certainly wasn’t good, but I was so much better than I had been, and we laughed our asses off as we spazzed out about the dining room hooping it up. Let’s just say, I was cautiously optimistic that the practicing was starting to pay off.

photo by Elizabeth Prather

When I started to write this, I got curious about “hooping” so I started to do a little research and stumbled upon www.hooping.org .Though I am not surprised there is a world-renowned website dedicated to “spread the joy of hooping to all and build a world wide hooping community” I found myself once again blown away… this is not the passing fad of the 1950’s or your play ground hula-hooping. Or is it hoola-hooping? I’ve seen it both ways…

So I was inspired. I looked up instructions, and headed down to Lowe’s, bound and determined to have my own custom-made hoop by the end of the night. Yes, the GRE is a week away, my apartment is in pre-moving shambles, and there are a million other things I should be doing… but that is beside the point. I purchased one-hundred feet of irrigation tubing, (which is slightly excessive, but it only comes in large coils… and now I am prepared to outfit all my friends, should my love for hooping spread) one insert connector, and headed home to assemble my hoop.

I’m not sure why I thought it would be hard to make a hula-hoop. Tubing and a connector, and voila! There you have it, my first hand-made hoop. Cutting the tubing was a bit challenging, and of course I didn’t invest in any sort of PVC cutters (which were recommended) but I was able to improvise… Sure using a Cutco bread knife was a little unconventional, but it got the job done. Heat the ends of the tubing with a hairdryer, and insert the connector, and there you have it.

I immediately took the newly constructed hoop next door to the empty apartment—which will officially be mine on Friday—and tried it out… The difference is unbelievable! I had no idea that using a hoop that was the “correct” size and weight could really make such a difference! I’m no longer flailing and spazzing! Though I haven’t had a ton of time to play with my newly created hoop, I can say that the movement is much more graceful, and much less awkward, and the best part is that it is noiseless! No more irritating beady noises and hopefully far less crashing to the floor. Though I haven’t had the time or the motivation to decorate the hoop yet, it definitely has some creative potential…and I’m now more than cautiously optimistic that this new hoop is going to be a really fun distraction… at least it’s also burning calories.

For complete instructions and visual aids on how to make your own hula-hoop visit http://www.jasonunbound.com/hoops.html

The “Mother”Lode

A continuation of my “Murphy’s Law” Summer experiences…

I got strep throat on my birthday… Though this should not come as a surprise… This is in fact the 6th tonsil infection I’ve had in the past 12 months. It’s predictable. I don’t get enough sleep, I have a little too much fun, and 2-3 days later POW, I have tonsils the size of golf balls. For reasons unbeknownst to me, my tonsils are constantly trying to ruin my fun. I’m not sure why they care so much how late I stay up, how many beers I drink etc, but my tonsils are bound and determined to serve as my conscience on crack. Hind sight is so much more poignant when your glands are swelling shut…

I know, I know, I should learn from my mistakes… but that is not the theme of this post…. I’m mostly bringing up the strep to set the tone… I was, as you can imagine, thrilled about my tonsil’s little outburst. It’s rough when you are constantly disgruntled at your tonsils… I suppose the feeling is mutual, which is why my resistance is so low, but come on, to get strep on your birthday? Ok, Ok, I might have stayed out late the night before… I may have had a bit to drink… did I mention it was my brother’s wedding? I was feeling no guilt about kicking up my heels and celebrating the nuptials and my birthday in one fell swoop, but my tonsils of course had other plans. To sum up, I was peeved, I was ill, and overall not in the highest spirits.

I found myself, two days after the wedding, the day after my birthday, once again doing laundry at my parent’s house (why do all these stories start with the laundry?) I was also making myself some chicken noodle soup in attempts to appease my raging tonsils. My mother, out of the kindness of her heart was sorting my laundry while I was in the kitchen chopping celery. No, I didn’t ask her to sort it, but I think she was feeling some sort of empty nest syndrome after my brother’s wedding & she wanted to feel needed. As I was in the throes of my illness I didn’t complain. Sometimes you just want your mom to take care of you. As I diced the vegetables and browned the chicken, I heard a startled noise in the next room, but didn’t think much of it. I figured she had discovered some of lacy underwear that I purchased after my wardrobe malfunction…. If only.

Moments later my mother steps into the kitchen holding my “personal massager.”

If you could will yourself to stop living, I would have died in that moment. Pass me the cyanide capsule, beam me up Scotty, let me be at any moment in time besides this one. My face was ashen, and mentally all I could think was “no,no,no,no,no, this is not happening” clearly my brain waves were not as strong as I needed them to be.

“I’m not even sure I want to ask what this is!” she exclaimed, wielding the vibrator around the kitchen… “Well then don’t ask!” I screamed! Of course I couldn’t think of one logical explanation… I could have said anything from gag gift, to bachelorette party favor, but instead all I could do was yell at her not to ask.

Up to this point, I had been living under the code “don’t ask don’t tell” when it came to any matters relating to sex and, thus far, it had been working out pretty well. They didn’t ask, I didn’t tell, and I thought we had an understanding of how the system worked. But as they say, all good things must come to an end, and this ended with a bang. There was my mother in full on confrontation mode waving a sex toy around the kitchen. Did I mention that my dad was sitting at the counter working on a Sudoku puzzle? Insert “F my life” here.

There is a list of things you hope one or both of your parents never discover in your laundry basket. On a scale of one to ten I would say a vibrator ranks somewhere around a 6. Yes, there are hundreds, probably millions of things I would rather be discovered in my clothes hamper: tubes of chap stick, loose change, business cards, push-up bras, the list is endless. Certainly if given the choice, a vibrator wouldn’t make the top nine-billion, but out of the top ten worse things to be discovered, I think it ranks about midway. I can think far worse things to discover than a vibrator, and in retrospect, I guess I can be thankful the situation wasn’t a more incriminating one.

“Where did it even come from?!?” she asked a few minutes later. Clearly the dread, embarrassment and note of finality in my voice had not come across as clearly as I had hoped. “MOM!” was all I could muster. Again, another opportunity to explain it away, and my creativity had been shut down, so much for thinking on my feet. All I could do was chop the celery and wish I was dead.

Fact: There are not many things in this world that are more of a turn off than the mental image of your mother wielding your vibrator around the kitchen.

What I’m still trying to figure out is what possessed her to bring it out into the kitchen? Did the shock value of the discovery completely trump her sense of tact? Whatever happened to discretion? Granted, it wouldn’t have been as mentally scarring, but it still would have been just a poignant had she left it on top of my laundry. I would have much preferred a silent gesture of “look what I found” rather than the “I just want to curl up in a dark cave in the fetal position for the rest of eternity” situation. And what possessed her to brandish it around in front of my father? And why, would a confrontation be beneficial for anyone? Maybe if I was a 13 year old, living at home a discussion would have been justified, but as it is, I’m an independent, self sufficient, single, twenty-four-year-old woman! Why do we need to discuss what it is or where it came from? If the situations were reversed (and I hope to god they never will be) I certainly would not feel compelled to confront my mother (or anyone for that matter).

Needless to say, I am now extremely diligent in sorting my own laundry… I still haven’t figured out how, or why it was in my hamper in the first place… probably the result of a mad cleaning of my apartment…

Thankfully, the situation hasn’t been brought up since, but the potential is lingering. Though I like to pretend it was a figment of my imagination, I know I’m not that lucky. I’m waiting for that perfect awkward moment, driving to coffee, or on our way to the mall, when she thinks enough time has passed to broach the subject. I hope it doesn’t happen until I’m 45…

Sympathique

Some days, today being one of them, I just want to come home from work, put on sweat pants, pour a glass of wine, and dance around my apartment while listening to Pink Martini. Though this activity might not be alluring to many people, I find that it is one of the things that keeps me sane after a 10+ hour work day. I get comfortable, relax, indulge, and yes, sometimes I sing to myself in French… it happens.

Pink Martini has been one of my favorite bands since 11th grade, when I did a solo in ballet to their song Sympathique. I wore a red velvet leotard, and donned the most ridiculous fake eyelashes, put on my pointe shoes, and exercised my flair for the dramatic.

At the time I only knew Pink Martini as “that one band that sings that French song” but thankfully my music repertoire has expanded a little bit since my high school days..thank you iTunes, the wonderful Portland Music scene… and also my college roommate CoCo, who’s musical collection blew me away, and made me a much cooler person. Since those days, which I now tend to refer to as my musical dark ages, I have discovered the rest of the genius that is Pink Martini…

With songs in English ,French, Italian, Japanese, Croatian, and Spanish, the bi-lingual talent of the group is undeniable. Their sound is garden-party, old Hollywood glamour, mixed with modern global rhythms and perspectives. Group founder Thomas M. Lauderdale says . “We bring melodies and rhythms from different parts of the world together to create something which is new and beautiful.”

Much to my delight, Pink Martini calls Portland its home, which means I’ve had the opportunity to see them in concert a number of times. Never a disappointment, the twelve person ensemble puts on an amazing show. Every member of the band seems to embody finesse and charisma and one can tell they are passionate about performing. They always seem to have a great energy and connect with the audience in a unique way. I attribute this not only to the home-town appeal of the group, but also to the fact that their fan base is as diverse as their music.

Their debut album Sympathique came out in 1997, and twelve years later it is probably the most adaptable CD in my music collection. There is a song for every mood, every occasion, whether I am dancing around in my sweatpants, or throwing a sit-down dinner party, Sympathique is my CD of choice. Their two subsequent albums Hang on Little Tomato and Hey Eugene, are every bit as unique, delightful and charming.

Now, years after my first exposure to Pink Martini, I find I can relate to the French lyrics of Sympathique a bit better than I could in 11th grade. The English translation might not roll off the tongue quite as nicely, but the overall meaning and mood of the song transcend the language barrier. I come home from work and know exactly what China Forbs is feeling when she sings

Je ne veux pas travailler

Je ne veux pas déjeuner

Je veux seulement oublier

Et puis je fume

I don't want to work

I don't want to lunch

I want only to forget

And then I smoke

To find out more about the members of Pink Martini, hear samples of their music, check tour dates, and get a better feel for the band as a whole, visit their website at www.pinkmartini.com

Bouquets of newly-sharpened pencils

Don't you love New York in the

fall? It makes me want to buy school

supplies. I would send you a bouquet of

newly-sharpened pencils if I knew your

name and address.- You’ve Got Mail

There is something indescribably delightful about the imminent arrival of fall. Though I am devoted fan of summer & all that comes with it, I find myself to be looking forward to fall more and more.& really, what’s not to love about Autumn? Sure in the Pacific Northwest it gets a little rainy… but let’s be honest if we didn’t secretly love that (even if it’s only on a subconscious level) we wouldn’t live here. Maybe I find fall so appealing is because of the tangible excitement that surrounds it, or at least surround its main actives…. going back to school, grape harvest, post season baseball… Or perhaps it is change I’m craving more than anything, whether that be a change of address, change of outfit, or change of season, I’m ready for something new, something different, and Fall seems to bring this in the perfect small doses.

Everything. Colors, the climate, the couture, are practically exploding with change this time of year. Leaves cycle from green to vibrant shades of yellow, orange and red. What was once verdant and lush is starting to become neon and electric. Harvest is upon us in the Willamette valley & the age old question of “to pick, or not to pick” is on the edge of every vineyard manager & winemakers minds. The evenings and afternoons are becoming cooler, breezier, & summer footwear is starting to be traded in for closed toed options.

Though I may not be ready for a huge life change, I am ready to start cycling my cooler weather clothing into daily use. What is it about this time of year that makes scarves and boots, and light jackets seem so delicious? I know, full well, that two months into the rainy season I will be longing for these dog days of summer back, but right now I have a menagerie of accessories waiting to be released into my everyday wardrobe. Like the foliage my attire is starting to make a gradual shift from grassy greens and blues, to richer tones of chartreuse, orange, umber & ash.

Along with layering of clothing and addition of accessories, also comes a nearly uncontrollable urge to spend copious amounts of my latest paycheck on “school supplies.” I’m not even in school, and yet September rolls around, and all I want to do is stock up on composition books, mechanical pencils, highlighters, post-it notes, and rainbow sharpies. It doesn’t matter that I’m not enrolled in any classes, I’m a student of the world, and damn it, I want new pens and spiral notebooks! Of course I realize this whimsical desire for school supplies isn’t entirely practical. I don’t have an actual use for twelve different colors of highlighter, a handful of notebooks, and a years supply of pencil lead, let alone a place to store it all, but I want it just the same… bouquets of newly-sharpened pencils.

The Wardrobe Malfunction

Anything that can go wrong will go wrong- Murphy’s Law
S*** Happens. It’s a cliché. It’s also been the underlying theme of my life over this summer. This is not so much a complaint as it is an observation. I’ve spent hours contemplating my karma, but in the long run, the events of the past fifteen weeks have given me a long list of fodder and personal anecdotes.

Hello Granny-Panties, Goodbye Dignity

It all started on a Tuesday in early June. Tuesday’s are by definition my Saturday’s and are often spent running errands, doing laundry, & playing catch up. I packed up a large hamper full of laundry and hauled it down the stairs and across the street into my vehicle. Though my building does have a communal coin operated washer and dryer, I often choose to do my laundry at my parents house, since they don’t charge me $.75 a load. I tend not to think of this a freeloading, as I often add their laundry to the mix. As I was loading up my car, I got a phone call from a client, and as I was getting ready to run some errands I opted to pace up and down the street rather than sit in my car. Though it is not a particularly busy street, it is adjacent to 3rd street, the main street in the heart of the downtown and is one of the many factors that make apartment ideal. I’m located mere feet away from the organic grocery store, a stone’s throw from multiple coffee shops, gourmet restaurants, dive bars, and a book store, all I could ever need is within walking distance of this apartment. It was around 1:00 in the afternoon and there were a handful of people eating outside the grocery store, and people walking to and from offices etc. I paced outside my apartment for a good 10 minutes, answering my client’s questions, and when I was off the phone I jetted around the corner onto 3rd street and down a block to the bookstore. I passed several people on the sidewalk, smiled, nodded, made eye contact, and went on my way. As I browsed through the day-planners at the bookstore I brushed up against a shelf and suddenly it came to attention that the jersey skirt I was wearing was, and had been the entire time I was outside, tucked into my underwear.

This is one of the downsides of living alone, there is no one to tell you to fix your skirt before you go outside & inadvertently make a spectacle of yourself. At least if this happens in a public restroom there is usually a woman kind enough to let you know before you expose your cellulite to the world that your skirt is in fact tucked into your skivvies. I was actually disappointed in the community as a whole that no one had taken the time to let me know that I might be feeling a draft. I would like to think that I am the kind of person that if I saw some spastic girl with her ass hanging out, I would double check with her to make sure it was indeed a wardrobe malfunction & not just a bold fashion statement. Granted, I typically am not the type of person who tells random strangers if they have lipstick on their teeth, or something in their nose, because let’s face it, these are minor daily instances & often it’s more awkward to bring this to someone’s attention then to pretend you don’t see it.But I draw the line at ass exposure. This is something that no matter how awkward should be brought to the person’s attention. When the situation begins to border on indecent exposure, I feel as though the community should feel an overwhelming sense of obligation to tell that person & save them from further embarrassment.

My first thought after discovering that my skivvies were exposed to the greater downtown area was “Oh God, what underwear am I wearing today?” Though at the time I couldn’t remember, but since I had just loaded up about three weeks worth of laundry in my car, I knew that the odds of having cute ones on were not in my favor. Not that it really matters, but hey, if the entire downtown is going to see your underwear, wouldn’t you rather they see the cute pair edged in lace than the pair that you would deem to be unsightly?
After hearing the story for the first time, many have tried to make me feel better by saying “well it could have been worse, at least you were wearing underwear.” At this point I have to remind them that had I actually been going commando, there would have been no material for my skirt to get stuck in, so really, I wished I had had the foresight to forgo the underwear that day.

Later that week when I was recounting the story to my coworkers we began to discuss the contents of our underwear drawers. The main conclusion was this: If we were suddenly hit by a car and killed instantly, what would sort of underwear would we want to be discovered in? If you even own a pair of underwear you aren’t willing to die in, or at least be wheeled to the ER in, then the fact of the matter is they shouldn’t exist in your underwear drawer… not at the front of it anyway. For me the exception is going to the gym. Personally I don’t think that cute or sexy underwear have any place in my exercise routine, and so clearly a few pair of bland workout panties must be kept somewhere in your undergarment repertoire. But just because they are there is no excuse to be parading around town with your skirt tucked into them. Needless to say, I impulsively bought new underwear the next day, all of it in striking colors and mostly lacy…Sure I hope that this was an isolated incident, and though I certainly don’t plan on unknowingly showing the downtown my unmentionables again, I want to be prepared! If my ass insists on making a second appearance without consulting me first, the least I can do is stack my dresser full of things I would want to be discovered dead in.

A week or two went by, and as more time passed, I had resigned myself to being the mysterious townie with the granny panties. At least it made for a good story (at least people seemed to enjoy it when I told it) and I imagined it would make a fairly good anecdote for some of the people I walked passed “Last week I was eating lunch at Harvest Fresh, when a girl walked by with her skirt tucked into her underwear…. Now that is something you don’t see every day, it really made my lunch I almost choked on my salad” I was ok with being the mystery girl, no name, no face, just a story. Of course my hopes of staying somewhat anonymous were crushed, when I was outed by a co-worker.

“Oh so I met an acquaintance of yours the other night…..” She started. I already knew by her tone what was coming…. “I asked if she wanted to hear a funny story about you” Wonderful. Let me just say for the record that this underwear story is one I am comfortable telling to close friends and total strangers (It’s a good ice breaker), but the level of mortification is just high enough where it’s not something you just toss around casually to people you sort of know. At least not sober anyway.

I grimaced at the idea. I mean, sure it’s a funny story, but did she have to go into a place that I frequent and tell this person that I had been prancing around town in my underwear? It seemed like a violation of trust. If she had taken it out of the community I wouldn’t have minded. She could have told it at a party or restaurant in Portland, but instead went blocks from my home into a place that I go on a regular basis and put my trauma right out. What made it even worse was that before my co-worker even had the chance to elaborate my acquaintance said “Oh let me guess, she was walking around town with her skirt tucked into her underwear, right? One of my friend’s saw her, but didn’t know who it was”

Goodbye anonymity. In one fell swoop I went from a faceless nameless wardrobe tragedy to a tangible embarrassing moment. There was no deniability now; a friend of an acquaintance could place me at the scene. I no longer had visions of being someone’s anonymous lunch time anecdote. Rather than being the ambiguous star of a chance observation I was now headlining in my own awkward moment. “Do you know Tayler? Yeah, well I was grabbing a coffee downtown, and she was bopping around with her ass hanging out, totally oblivious.” And what really gets me, is that this friend of my acquaintance didn’t have the gall to tell me at the time that I was parading around with my ass in full view…. Up to that point I could at least cling onto the smidgen of denial that the reason no one stopped me was because no one had actually noticed. Hello Granny panties goodbye dignity.