Hope everyone had a nice Easter. I just finished editing and uploading the pictures to my photo gallery. And although I didn’t bring home any eggs, the Easter Bunny delievered a basket to this 22 year old — filled with dark chocolate and candles. Man, that bunny knows me all too well.
Abigail’s post about Valentine’s Day cards got me thinking about my particular card-making process back in the day. In my school, either everyone got a Valentine or you weren’t allowed to pass out cards. There were only a couple times I made my own, as it was cleaner and easier to buy the pre-made Valentines. But either way, I spent what seemed like hours preparing the cards.
The Valentine Card Rubric ensured that underlying messages of like or dislike were passed underneath the sheath of fairness. The kids I didn’t really like got my least favorite–like the ones with crooked doilies, visible glue and the cartoon character rejects who were included for pity’s sake (Piglet, Goofy, Jasmine’s dad, etc.). And the boys I liked got the more suggestive of the bunch. Prep time was lost here as I would dream of the two of us as Ken and Barbie, sharing an oversized malt with two straws in a pink ’50s diner. And to my best friends I gave my favorites. It was like designating VIPs on My Super Sweet Sixteen, but on a much smaller scale. I would put special glitter inside and write their names in Denelian. You know, cursive’s cousin from third grade.
The Valentine’s Day rubric also applied to the receiving of cards. (Don’t even get me started about my decoding of the subliminal messaging going on in conversation hearts.) I would get a little upset when a good friend gave me something with Piglet on it. He was a wallowy loser, so that must have meant I was a loser in her eyes. The boys would give me football players and I couldn’t decipher which player was the best. For all I knew he could have been traded or injured.
But then there was Meghan. The “h” didn’t bode well for her in my book because it was weird. I tried my best to get over her (parents’) flagrant disregard for letters and phonetics. But then, she gave me the ultimate snub: she wrote my name with a lowercase e. emily. My mind was in a flurry as I frantically looked around at my friends’ desks. Sandy. Brittany. Rachel. Megan. Why was I the only one who was lowercased? This was so much worse than Piglet. Capitalization was standard; she had crossed the line.
As much as the school tried to bolster everyone’s self esteem by making sure everyone had an equal amount of cards, I was left feeling like a lowercase loser by Meghan. I mean, megHan.
I finally posted my pictures from New Years at Vegas. And if Vegas taught me anything this time it’s 1. To trim my bangs so they won’t wilt 2.5 seconds after styling; and 2. Invest in gel insoles for heels. I seriously think I’ve had a breakthrough in heels–my feet don’t feel anymore.
Oh and I have another: 3. Sleep is important. So important, in fact, that a lack of it over several days lead to a cold. Boo.
And as for our paparazzi shots:
Jared Leto
Nick Lachey
So check out my Photo Gallery for the rest.
So people are making fun of me via the Internet. It’s probably not the first time, but it is the first time I found out about it. Trying to think of a good comeback turns my brain to mush and all I can come up with is “Don’t you know that the word Internet is capitalized?!” Since it’s late, and I have better things to do than devote time to making fun of other people’s hardships, I’m going to blog for myself, and not for someone’s mindless entertainment.
For all those coming from that site, I had a fabulous holiday; as evidenced by these pictures which give me warm fuzzies:
The warm glow of the HD Holiday Log
In this area you’ll find a different family coat of arms
Christmas was good. Actually, I can’t really remember it being bad. Maybe only disappointing when new clothes wouldn’t fit. This year can be summed up with the holiday log, double meals, A to Z, fritata, and of course, family.
Yet as I listened to my Christmas music for the last time tonight, I was struck by a song that I usually can’t stand. It’s by Barbara Streisand, called “Grown up Christmas List.” I remember Christmas when I was younger and all the excitement and surprise that came with it. Thankfully mine were pretty carefree and easy. And during that song I couldn’t help but realize that real life is increasingly seeping into this special time–death, worries, fears, consequences, lies.
And as much as I want to say the hard times help make the good times that much better, I’m not so sure this time around. I know things change and life goes on, but I guess now at the ripe old age of 22 I foolishly wish things like Christmas could be so simple. It’s not that I had a bad Christmas or that I hate change. More like the thrill is fading and I don’t know how to bring it back.
Or maybe it’s just because this is my first Christmas without several weeks of vacation following. Who knows.
I’ve been promising you a glimpse into our ever-growing Christmas decor collection. No words I could put together could do it justice. Instead I offer you a photo essay.
The usual suspects
Not your typical Christmas village display
Have a very Sassy Christmas!
Two convertible lowriders cruised down Powell Street, blasting different songs with heart palpitating beats. The drivers, obviously friends, were calloused to the onslaught of naysaying. Instead they soaked up the fear oozing from the tourists who were stopped agape. Am I going to be mugged like all my friends said I would? This really is the land of fruits and nuts!
All the while, an old Japanese man plays a stringed instrument a couple feet away. Salvation army bells ring in the distance. Up the street, a non-painted guy stands in oridinary poses on a crate holding a cup he vigorously shakes as people walk by. Next to him is a singing, tap dancing penguin with a Santa hat. And manning the street corners are nicely dressed men who shoot out church tracts at a machine gun pace.
It is in this blur of massive twinkle lights and locust-like swarms of people on sidewalks that I think, man I love Christmas in San Francisco!
Practice was canceled. And thus two hours of my life–not to mention gas–are gone forever. While managing to get five Chipmunk’s Christmas songs in my head could be considered ample revenge, I decided to make the non-informant pay.
And by pay I mean pay for a slice of candy cane pie at Baker’s Square! Just imagine the mint chocolatey goodness:
This favorite begins with a dark cookie crumb crust. Next is a soft, light brown chocolate layer. The principal layer is a white ganache filling with peppermint chips. Next is a thin chocolate coating topped with whipped cream. The pie is decorated with red and green confectionery chips and two mini candy canes.
Amazing. I just want to know how many elves they’ve got working back there squeezing all that is good about Christmas under all that whipped cream! Revenge has never tasted so festive and sweet!
Alive. Stinky. Annoying.
Yet I do feel bad for the guy. He’s obviously peeved at his downgraded real estate. Twice now, as I’m getting to the blissful, finally asleep feeling, he jumps or something. I wait for the thud of doom or the splash of life. Neither. As I get up out of bed, which is quite a spectacle groggily falling from my loft onto my couch. And both times still alive. Annoyingly alive.
