Disturbingly Domestic

Listage

- I am a bit more sad about the passing of Billy Mays than I am about either Michael Jackson or Farrah Fawcett. I never wore the Farrah flip and, while I did make shallow attempts at moonwalking and crotch grabbing, Michael's music never moved me as profoundly as those long dead havemanaged to. I am an insomniac and I have fallen asleep many a night to Billy Mays peddling his OxyClean or other ingenious product. Now who do I have? The shrill early AM harpies on the home shopping channels and that creepy ShamWow guy. I have been trying to figure out which stranger's death would move me as others seem to be so affected by this week's slew of tragedy. Well, when I found out the Charlotte Bronte was dead (and her sisters!) I was absolutely stricken with grief. But that doesn't count, I was four. This was also around the time when I was informed that I could not marry Cary Grant (dead) and that Dick Van Dyke and Rob Petrie were not the same person so any delusions I harbored about him dumping Laura and Richie and running off into the ottoman tripping sunset with a certain klutzy kid. - I think I may qualify as the preppy version of a crack addict. What else would you call a person on the phone with J. Crew at 2am in search for last season's Wool-Cashmere Carrie Coat that I had in my cart but waited to pull the trigger on so some bargain shopping wench stole it out from under me. Pshaw! Size 8 or above, heather acorn, yes I am repeating the facts since I am scouring the internet for one. I know, I know, it is from last winter. I know, I know, I should have bought it but I was a bit preoccupied with life and have come late to this realization. Same goes for the Juliet midheels in bright peacock. I may just turn to [gasp] eBay. What is the world coming to? I am still not shopping but these are from last season and therefore don't count. Yes, I do realize how I sound. However, I have not been making my usual trips to the money pit that is my beloved Container Store or even Whole Foods or Sur La Table so credit should be afforded. - My birthday is in 15 days (14 July). I only know this because my mother informed me of the 16 day mark, yesterday. Meh. I don't quite care about my birthday as I should. I've never had a really good birthday, my mum never really paid any attention to it, no one ever remembers it (partially my fault, as I rarely tell friends of its existence, I don't want to, I suppose, look forward to it). I am a bit of a curmudgeon Eeyore. I just want to ski! And speak Spanish! And go to bed exhausted but full of some undoubtedly fabulous Argentinean fare. A crackling fire would be nice. It's just that, well, I thought that this year would be different. I would have been stateside for it, not a big deal but with someone I adore, and therefore infinitely better than my usual. I do wonder if this year is bound to be depressing by virtue of the fact that is adjacent to the entire heartbreak business. I hope that this won't forever be defined as the year that he and I were no longer, the year that I was crushed, the year of the big gaping hole. And here I thought that it was the Year of the Ox. Sigh. - Speaking of the zodiac, I realize that a lot of the people I tend to absolutely adore, even the bloggity people, tend to be of the water sign persuasion. True story. My mum is very big on the zodiac, I sometimes wonder if it holds any validity. There was once a study that showed the amount of sunlight and Vitamin D that a mother was exposed to directly influenced the temperament of the child in question. Kind of like Winter Birth Syndrome and schizophrenia. Well, not kind of like, exactly like, I suppose. - I hate it when the author's name is bigger than the title of the book. I just do. Even if it is V.S. Naipaul or Martin Amis or someone who likewise deserves it. - I am contemplating telling you all 100 things about me, but I've come to the conclusion that I am awfully boring. - When I see a man, or really anyone, wearing an Ed Hardy shirt the only thing I think is: self explanatory. Think about it. Man in his 40s: desperate (ahem, Jon Gosselin), in his 20s: douche, woman in her 40s: clueless. It almost makes me feel judgmental. Almost. - On to edit my pho post and wallow in gluten and lactose free pity. If you'll excuse me.

think the thoughts you'll be thinking ten years from now...

(Note: I went into the listy posty thingy to find my pho post that I still swear I drafted six weeks ago and found this.  I proceeded to edit it, adding things and being awesome, returned to this page and those things disappeared.  Typepad has it out for me and I'm just going to lean into it.  What can I say?)

This was the advice that came with last evening's roast pork and steamed broccoli take out.  I would go retrieve and photograph the actual fortune for your viewing pleasure but as I am poised to be camped out in bed with mountains of work until Thursday, I'll just leave you with that thought. 

It is fun, isn't it?  All of today's troubles will eventually melt away and in ten years will be specks in our rearview mirrors.  I love that thought.  I love that I am curled up under warm sheets, AC cranked on high, thinking about the light at the end of the tunnel.  Thinking about Stephanie Klein tweeting the following:

There isn't just one love meant for you. We can each fall in love with 200 different people and love them in 200 different ways.

8:47 AM May 9th from Tweetie 

I find this thought to be simultaneously comforting and depressing.  Okay, I just watched The Princess Bride for the first time and am inclined to believe that we have a beshert.  Now, this belief goes against everything that makes me me, my years of being a wiseass cynic do not in any way support it but it is true.  Why?  Because I don't want to personally find out what it is like to be in love with 200 people, it would suck me dry.  Loving one person has left me in an awful state, can we imagine going through all of them?  Lord have mercy.  I am tired of being nomadic, I am tired of traipsing around, I want to not only know where I am going to wake up but who I am going to wake up with.  Not that Paolo et al haven't been amazing, but I am done with it. 

In ten years from now I won't have to think about any of this.  Isn't that refreshing?  Now think about what you were thinking of ten years ago.  I'll wait.  Doesn't matter so much does it?  Now think your thoughts of ten years from now.  [Sigh]  Much better, right? 

Things That Do Not Suck, by Charlotte Pants

William Maxwell.  William Maxwell does not suck.  Former fiction editor of the New Yorker and a writer of prose that manages to be subtle yet prolific, Maxwell truly is underappreciated in my not so humble book.  Seriously.  Maxwell was also quite the fox in that entire tweedy, writerly, midcentury way that makes yours truly swoon.  Yes, it is perfectly okay to feel that way about dead writers.  Let's  not even start with F. Scott Fitzgerald and Evelyn Waugh (minus the entire preachy, uptight, uberreligious thing).  (Sidenote: if any of you lovelies know how to use the u with an umlaut or other diacritics when doing this bloggity business I would greatly appreciate it if you shared the wisdom.)

 

This dog, yes, specifically this dog (photo courtesy of some a person who would never use this sort of language: Martha) does not suck.  In fact, if I could I would keep him as my own and name him something either pretentious (Charles-Henri) or precious (Cow, just Cow) and insist that he never leave my side.  Okay, let us all admit, it is impossible to view that photograph and stay in a less that stellar mood.  Ears!  Look at the ears!  Animal companionship does not suck. 

 

This specific photograph of Randy Jackson (a Birthday Slut over a Dlisted) does not suck.  Even though I do not watch American Idol nor do I have an affection for addressing people as 'dawg', this photograph has made my day.  Hoorah for day making!

 

Ayelet Waldman's booklog is fabulous.  I do not know how to photographically express the term "booklog" and I can't really do a screenshot because that would require technical knowledge of some sort (we'll get into the 'why Charlotte doesn't own a microwave or toaster' conversation later, promise) and I am sadly lacking in that department.  So, we'll call this a twofer as neither Ayelet Waldman nor her booklog suck.  She and I have startlingly similar taste in books and whenever I am hard up in the reading department and all of my friends seem to have caught the philistine bug and throw out recommendations that would require a lobotomy on my part in order for me to muster up even an ounce of appreciation, I flip through her archives and find something that hits the spot.  And!  She's married to a fabulous author in his own respect.  This list seems suddenly ineloquent.  Oh, well. 

Apple's Genius playlist.  I have never been and likely will never be a good playlist maker.  Although, if a man were to ever make me a mixtape I would faint of happiness.  If Genius made me dinner, talked about books with me and opened a jam jar, I would propose marriage on the spot.  Apple really needs to get on that. . .  

 

Even though they aren't together any longer, the Smiths still do not suck.  While my musical taste tends to vary (heavy on the Sam Cooke and Charlie Parker lately, oddly) and through the years I have made quite a few missteps (I not only know all of the words to Oops...I Did It Again, I know the dance [hangs head]), I can at least say that I have good foundational tastes.  Robert Smith and Morrissey are still the only men who understand me.  That last tidbit does suck quite a bit, but the band doesn't. 

 

These candles are lovely.  Yes, they are pricey,which is offset by the fact that they have a 20 hour burn time.  That's an eternity for candles, to me.  I'm sure one of us is an expert and you are all ruffled and outraged at my ignorance.  "How dare she make such silly assumptions!  We must gather our torches and pitchforks!"  "The twenty hour torches, or the forty hour?" and so on.  

Waking up to rain does not suck.  Unless you've just gotten your hair done, or are prone to frizz (raises hand) or live on the side of a dirt packed hill or something like that.

Waking at this ungodly hour does not suck.  Being starving while you are up is.  If you'll excuse me, I must forage for a breakfast that does not include toast or Fage yogurt.  Class dismissed.

Things That Suck...Hard

Correction to last post: this lady cares what I have to say.  Which is frickin' awesome.  However, it's completely in my nature to start to question if I am sort of self absorbed by saying things.  Yes, I am very, very insecure.  Very.  Blame it on middle school.  I had a unibrow and a lisp.  It was awesome.  Lots of periods because I am pausing a lot as I say this, a la Barney Stinson.  He is awesome.  I wish NPH were straight or at the very least available for rent as a drinking buddy.  There, I said it. 

- Hotels.  I love hotels.  I stay at really nice hotels not because I am a snob (though I am) but because I cannot compromise when it comes to sheets and bathrooms.  [shakes head violently much in the style of a six year old]  How-ev-er, hotels do not like me back nowadays.  Argentinean hotels seem to all have a picture of my face hanging in the corporate office, where I bear a menacing look and threaten to cut them en espanol if they dare give me long term rate if I stay for anything less than a year.  Two months is a very long time, Argentina.  Very.  And Wisconsin, a month should get me a discount.  Just saying.  You are Wisconsin for crying out loud.  I want to eat cheese and be near Canada and be awesome but do not charge me what you charge everyone else.  If you haven't realized it I am fabulous.  Okay, not fabulous, but staying for a great deal of time and somewhat whiny and entitled.  Same difference. 

- I may be intolerant of lactose and gluten.  I am weeping into my croque monsieur.  What next?  Duck?  Am I allergic to duck?  Going for two week sans the culprits to see if my very Slynnro-esque problems resolve themselves. 

- I just deleted an entire run on sentence because I have decided to put the kibosh on relationship talk permanently because I'd rather not get found out.  Ditto for work.  Lord, I wish I were using a pseudonym as opposed to my real first name.  Can I do that?  Ponder. 

- Not shopping.  I love to shop.  I grew up with a mother who worked in corporate for a major luxury department store and got to go into work with her.  Actually, she would go to work and I would get to wander around the store as if I owned it.  It was kind of an Eloise goes shopping, in other words, fabulous.  I got to come home with a bag every day and get my clothes tailored.  Now I'm trying to practice restraint because shopping while sad is an abyss I'd rather not circle.  I do not want to weep into a pair of Manolos, clutching on for dear life like that sad girl.  Nuh-uh.  But have you seen the sales, here, here, here and here?  What about here, have you seen that?  Lord.  Have.  Mercy.  No, it is not a sale, but lingerie you can't live without.  If the lovelies at Journelle say that I can't live without it, should I not be a good little customer and obey?  Kate Spade had a sample sale, J. Crew brought in new summer arrivals, I keep telling myself that self control is a muscle that gets stronger the more you use it.  Over and over and over again.  And over.  That and you are no longer a former addict, but always an addict in recovery have become my mantra. 

- America's taste in books.  There was a short period of time where the best seller list reflected the cream of the literary crop but now it is just an embarrassment.  Twilight?  TWILIGHT.  We are grown women.

- Vampires.  In more way than one. 

- Aunt Viv writing a tell all, fifteen years later.

- Summer television, although Don effin' Draper is making his triumphant return this August (while I am away) and my TiVo quivers in anticipation as I write. 

- The rain going away.  Bring it back!  Bring it back!

- People who complain about said rain for reasons like "flooding" and "mud" and "children who need to play" (yes, I did say all of that in my mocking 12 year old bully voice, I also called those people chowderheads under my breath and if I could I would kick them in the collective shin and run away)

- Knowing that moving is on the horizon.  That sucks. 

- The fact that in the next 24 hours I will be writing my Things That Are Awesome List (hint: item number one is Legen-wait for it- dary).  

Yes, yes I do have a blog

Care to hear about what has been going on over at Chez Charlotte for the past month or so?  No, me neither.  It has been its usual parade of suckage and I've made a vow not to drink or shop until I feel better.  Why?  Because I happen to be an idiot who is really big on the entire "self improvement" thing.  I know, I know.  It's just that I don't want to get dragged in to bad habits like solving the sad with the gin (oh, Lord, the gin.  Why did I have to give up the gin?  I would kill for a Hendrick's and tonic, or a Hendrick's martini, or a Macallan 18, neat, no, Macallan 25 or a nice shiny pair of Louboutins [sob]) or the shopping so I'm just going at it dry.  Yup.  Reading books, redoing apartment before departure for skiing and general Argentinian merriment. 

I've been trying to read the early pages of blogs that I enjoy to see what things started out as and get a feel for how they got into the rhythm and I am coming up at a loss.  Why?  Easy: they can talk about all that stuff.  By "stuff" I mean relationships and product recommendations and their general lives.  I have this looming, lurking feeling of "why would anyone want to hear about any of that stuff from little old me?"  This is an honest, pressing question.  I do not think that blogs are the height of self indulgence, but they are when you don't blog well.  Sigh. 

I owe you all a pho post (mmm, pho) and will manage to peel myself away from thinking about my impending birthday (14 July) and the general state of affairs (which I wrote as state of fears, ah, Dr Freud).  Deal?  Deal. 

Oy vey.

Downside to being practically comatose for two weeks?  Work, of course.  I am wondering if I can just say, "Masters of the Universe, I am dreadfully sorry that I cannot present my views on the current situation in Ciudad Juarez and its impact on the regional and global financial markets and the rise of the cartel system because I have spent the past two weeks listening to Motown and self medicating with carbohydrates.  Lo siento!   I love you, though! Charlotte."  That won't go over very well, right? 

I need 50 pages of awesome put together and typed by tomorrow.  I also need to look presentable and say smart things about said fifty pages of solid gold.  And where exactly is the gin? 

No extension possible.  Also, I would hate to own up to the entire 'dumped' bit even though it may buy me an extra day or two.  I don't enjoy pity outside of bloggity goodness.  

SIGH.  Still alive.  More posts to come.  

Good. God.

I need goals.  I want goals.  Now.  I love punctuation.  I swoon over periods, I heart commas.  No one ever uses enough of them, you know.  I rue the day I ever learned the way of the appositives because I look at my comma peppered posts and wonder if I've gone a little punctuation happy.  I just wrote sentences on punctuation and am not backspacing.  Can I have punctuation related goals?  

Okay, I am very, very lucky.  I uprooted my plans to drape my life around someone and now have no intention of going that route.  I cannot move to that city, I cannot take that job because even though he'll be thousands of miles away for work until next year I cannot bring myself to walk those streets.  It's a big city, I'll inevitably return, I had always wanted to live there, but right this very instant I can't do it.  Why am I lucky?  I have time and money to float myself over for a long while.  Yes, quite the shitty thing to say in precarious economic times and I know how fortunate I am to have options and I relish the option to run.  I just want to tear out of town and leave all of the hurt, the pain, the memories in a cloud of dust behind me.  I won't.  You see, running is what I do best.  I am an awesome runner.  Before I went and tore ligaments and got banged up I did awesome running of the literal variety.  Nowadays I just hop on planes and trains and get the hell out of Dodge City.  I do not want to do that.  I want to stay and feel it.  Not forever, but for at least a few months.  I do not want to waste these few months.  I want to do things, to tackle projects, to rock it in ways that have yet to be seen.  Going down as the wounded woman is quite simply not on the agenda.  

I have never been hurt this way.  From what I understand the best way to go about things is to look outside yourself.  Huh?  I'm pretty self absorbed.  This will be hard.  I intend to head down to the Southern Hemisphere for two months and (literally) ski my ass off.  Until then, project time.  Rebuilding.  Maybe I'll stop listening to Jeff Buckley and Wilco, both of whom (which?) make me kind of want to shoot myself in the mouth.  Maybe I'll start to sail again.  I have options and am childless, husbandless, obligationless.  Well, I have obligations that can quite easily be shirked and I intend to become a master shirker.  

So, that's it in a nutshell.  Onward and upward.  Brushing myself off, picking myself up and making it all better.

Am I permitted to throw myself at these people and beg them to let me lead a discussion?  I am willing to grovel and bring snacks.  Also, I read between five and nine books a week, even at my very busiest.  What?  I read in transit, before bed, with astonishing speed.  I want to nerd it out.      

Break-up Banana Bread

or how I peeled myself off the couch and decided to cook.

I hate bananas.  I do.  They are the most loathsome fruit.  I even hate the word.  Bah-nah-nah.  Bah-nan-nah.  To-may-to.  To-mah-to.  Just shoot me.  Please?  Somehow they made their way onto my counter.  One of the fringe benefits of going to mandir (Hindu church) is that a bunch of elderly people stroke your cheek and send you away with bags of fruit.  Or is that just me?  Anyway, they just sat there on the counter and got really ugly, really quickly.  When life gives you ugly you lock yourself away and question your will to live.  Or you bake bread.  Either way. 

   Recipe:

2 1/2 cups AP flour

3 disgustingly ripe bananas, peeled and thoroughly mashed

2/3c sugar

3/4 teaspoon salt (healthy pinch and a half)

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

4 oz softened, unsalted butter (I used 4 1/8, lord knows why)

2/3c buttermilk

2 eggs

Cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, ginger, vanilla to taste

- Preheat oven to 350F.  Butter and line 9x5 inch loaf pan with parchment going width wise.

-Combine all dry ingredients, sift.  When measuring your flour for the love of our dear country I need you all to please, pretty please, spoon the flour into the measuring cup.  Set aside.

 

- Beat butter and sugar until the butter is a pale fluffy yellow.  Add eggs one at a time.  Add mashed bananas.

- Add vanilla to buttermilk.  Add the dry mixture and the milk alternately, beginning and ending withdry.  I always fold in the last bit of flour by hand so as not to overmix.  It works.  I promise.

- Bake for around 70 minutes or until a skewer inserted comes out clean.

  

Aaaannnddd...we're back

sort of.  I know.  You're thinking to yourself, "how is she sort of back?"  Let me employ my beloved bullet points to outline it for you.  Kind and generous: party of one. 

• Boy meets girl.
• Girl has never allowed herself to fall, is reluctant.
• They fall...hard.
• Boy wants to marry girl.
• Girl is famously emotionally guarded.  Doesn't care, is in love.
• Boy dumps girl in horrendous manner and leaves girl in shock and limbo. 
• Two weeks elapse.  Haagen Dazs stock goes up, evidence seen on girl's ass. 
• Girl starts blog, again.

So, my gorgeous bloggity denizens, remember when I said I was too happy to blog?  Problem.  Solved.  Welcome back.