Do not foot race on a first date.

So there's this guy I've been seeing. He's just, well, he's great. But after a little while we hadn't really gone on an official "I'm wearing makeup" date yet, so we decided to plan and execute a hot date.

There's this thing though. We're pretty awkward.

We don't feel awkward or embarrassed around each other, and I have to say he's definitely the smooth one of the two of us, but we're two pale, gangling, freckly kids, and that can make for situations that would make an onlooker just cringe. Like this one.

We were leaving a movie theater last night and on a whim decided to have a footrace in the parking lot because, well first off, why wouldn't you? And secondly, we were both fairly confident that we were going to be the winner. Tensions and expectations were high as we addressed the boundary points and started stretching. He expressed concern over my attire (converse chuck taylors, tights, and a jean skirt) but I laughed him off, saying it was only going to help my speed and accuracy.

Taking our marks, I came up with the secret and brilliant plan to start running on the count of 2 instead of 3, giving myself a 1-second advantage, delightfully taking him off guard, winning the race, and then adorably denying that I cheated as we playfully punch each other and then start making out in the middle of the parking lot and thinking about how great we are together.

Oh how I wish that's the way it went down. Oh sweet god's of time past, why can you not make that be what happened?

Instead, I took off a second early and my giant, sprawling torso and over-sized head went much, much faster than my slow legs and slipping feet went and I lost my footing, almost falling over, catching my balance, starting the all-out sprint again and then losing my footing and falling straight to the ground in a loud slap, then sliding on the concrete a few feet while he yelled "NOOOOOOO!" behind me.

The damage? My entire left side is covered in road salt and gravel. My tights are ripped open at the knee and I'm checking for blood. He tries to help me stand up, but the combined force of two awkward, embarrassed, panicking bodies stumble not once, but twice, on the way back up to standing, almost falling two more times. I hysterically laugh at myself, humiliated, as his concern grows for any potential wounds I may have gotten from the scratchy gravel parking lot. I peer over at any potential onlookers, thinking that witnessing an event of this magnitude would be one of the biggest gifts of hilarity that I could give a stranger. Only the KSTP camera man and reporter 20 feet away from us could have seen the fall but if they did, they turned their heads away in disgust.

In the car, mortified, I ask him if he's still attracted to me after that atrocity of unparalleled depths, and he dutifully lies, saying he's even more attracted to me if that's possible.

Back at my apartment Dr. New Manfriend cleans and bandages a bloody, rectangular wound on my knee, and as I reflect on one of the most awkward situations of my life, I balance my crushing shame with my swooning new crush.

We will footrace again. And perhaps I will win. I can't imagine my chances are all that good though as we have mandated an official uniform for me of running shoes, socks, elbowpads, knee pads, a helmet, wrist guards, and snowpants.

But I will try. Oh I will try.

I'm really, really good at making lunch.

Goo!

Gleee!

Haroom!

Aoogaaoooga!

Blaaaard!

Ooooo baby!

Bleeeeeeeep!

Surbleeburblee!

Yummer City!

Yoweezowee!

Loopsiedoopsie!

Yammers!

Healthorama!

Blitzenburpen!

Deliciousnacity!

Cheeseorama!

Hey-o!

Featuring: banana, peanut butter, pretzels, blackberries, wrap, grapes, strawberries, avocado, pepper jack cheese, summer sausage, apple, pickles, string cheese, rice cake, salami, lettuce, blueberries, baked cheetos, luna bar, mac and cheese, cheese curds, cucumbers, carrots, peppers, hummus, pasta salad, olive bread, broccoli, cauliflower, melon, olives, peaches, cheddar cheese, granola bar, cinnamon apple sauce, crackers, butternut squash soup, provolone cheese, mint brownie, raspberries, cottage cheese.

I didn't say it was healthy. But nothing short of delicious...

Marching for Pansies

Yesterday was one of the most beautiful days in the whole wide world here in Porty Pants. A cloudless blue sky with that big bright thing in it and a suspicious lack of moisture in the air. To top it all off, it's that magic time of spring when the flower have started to bloom but the allergy gods have granted me a glorious reprieve. I think I have about three weeks before my face falls off, so I took the mister on a forced march to hunt for flowers. Aren't they pretty?











Oddly enough, our walk led to a very magical garden by the name of Pix. Check out this patch of a unique and exotic flower that the locals call "St Honore":



Adjacent to the St. Honore we found these equally intoxicating specimens lined up all neatly as if they had been planted by the gods:



And then, a giraffe decked out in St. Patty's gear. Don't hate; he's just doing his part to keep Portland weird.

Not cool winter. Not cool.

The other day to be able to drive my car not only did I have to scrape off every inch of outside window, but every inch of INSIDE window too. How is that fair?

My first commentary!

Last week, the host of the show I work on was out of town so another producer and I took the show hostage and made it ourselves. The theme is "Living without...".

I put together an audio commentary on this theme, sitting cross-legged on my apartment floor. It appears in the podcast at 15:30. If you're eyeballing the play bar, that means you can hear it at a shade earlier than the halfway point. Enjoy!

(Plus, you'll get to hear me talk about taking my pants off. So. You're welc.)

I can't not share this picture with you.

It started with me (arm with puppy temporary tattoo) throwing M&M's into Josh's mouth. It moved on to Skittles. It moved on to fun-sized Snickers bars. And it ended in the glorious culmination of a fist-full of nerds. Straight into his face. Yay Valentines Day!

Boeuf'd

I wanted to do something really special for my beloved for what some call the most romantic day of the year: President's Day. I consulted with Taft's ghost for a good long while and came to the conclusion that only one thing would do for such a special occasion. Julia Child's Boeuf Bourguignon.

I had received Madame Child's chef d'oeuvre Mastering the Art of French Cooking this summer during one of my bouts of selfsame literary obsession (immediately preceded by Marie Antoinette and followed by fundamentalist Mormons), but had yet to try one of her delicious dishes due to rabid fear and self-doubt... and an affinity for my arteries.

But lo, twas time.

I dutifully went to my grocer and picked up the exorbitantly expensive ingredients with nary a complaint. I spent the afternoon reading and rereading the recipe and mentally psyching myself up. When the time came, you better believe I made sure that the beef was dry as a Sahara so as to ensure proper browning. Julia only knows I simmered those pearl onions in their herb bouquet and broth until the liquid had reduced properly. And those mushrooms. Those sinfully buttery mushrooms. Don't worry; I merely browned them lightly, just like Julia wanted.


During a lull in the simmering and stewing and sauteing, I started on a luscious and light dessert suggested to me by my m'ma via that other culinary goddess, Lynnn Rossetto Kasper: honeyed figs with marscapone. I first presented this dish to rave reviews at a pasta party on Friday night, so I knew Julia would approve of its pairing with her boeuf.


Five hours later (I shittake you not), everything was ready. The table was set, the boeuf was bourguignoned, the figs were honeyed and soon to be marscaponed, and I was all Betty Drapered up in my best dress, heels, and a pink and white half apron with Eiffel Towers on it. I even did my hairs all nice!


Taft, Julia, and Lynn would be proud, for the boyf pronounced this the Best Thing I've Ever Made, a distinction he does not give lightly.

And now, with my fears of her tome evaporated like so much Cotes du Rhone, I am ready to plow through it to find even more buttery fulfillment in her pages! March on!

Creepy Valentines by Neenuh (TM)

It was a dark and stormy craft night five days before V-day. I had some valentines to make, and I needed to make them clever and I needed to make them creepy (like I like my men). Thankfully my hostess Erin had some Halloween stickers just aching to make me reverse my middle name (Ruth--->Ruthless).

Drunk-cooking not advisable.

Come along with me, to a snapshot of my life:

It's 2:30 am on a Monday night. (Yes, I know, technically it's a Tuesday morning but shh I'm telling a story.) A 24-year-old girl shuffles home from the bar, up three flights of stairs to her apartment, and smiles as she gazes dreamily upon a stew that has been dutifully crock potting itself for the last six hours. If she can depend on nothing else, my good people, she can depend on this delectable vat of turkey chowder.

She feels a little cloudy-headed as one in her situation would, and is mightily amused and distracted by her phone buzzing with messages from her sentimental pals with the desire to giggle and delight over the antics of the evening. She boils some water, throws some egg noodles in, and starts transferring the stew to a hefty 3-gallon pot.

The noodles finish! She stirs them into the potato/corn/turkey/carrot concoction and tells herself that this stew is one step away from perfection...and that step is named "a generous dash lemon pepper". She shakes the lemon pep over the top of the stew - but wait! - something is amiss. She immediately feels confused about the texture and look of the ingredient. Upon closer inspection, she realizes that she has just covered her stew in...CINNAMON!

And instead of scraping the cinnamon off and salvaging the taste of the soup, she, in her unreasonable state, stirs it in. All the way in. Thus dooming her future sober self to roughly two gallons of cinnamon-flavored turkey chowder.

Stupid, stupid girl.

Let's talk doppelgangers.

I just have to say that I am fascinated by all of this doppelganger business! People posting pictures of their friends, significant others, their old selves, celebrities...all people they think they look like. It is just supremely interesting to me how people really see themselves physically.

Recently, a friend of mine had to get her photos taken for work and out of maybe 30 or so, her roommate and I picked the same photo as our favorite and the one we thought looked most like her. But the one she picked I have to tell you looked absolutely nothing like her and I don't think it showed how truly beautiful she is at all. The one we picked, to me, looked like a model shot.

Why do we see ourselves so differently than other people see us? And why do some people historically look fantastic in photos and others can't take a good picture to save their lives?

I was nervous to jump on the celebrity doppelganger bandwagon because for the last two weeks I've seen people post photos of celebrities that are a thousand times hotter than them and I did not want that to be the case with me.

So I put it to my coworkers to pick one for me, and this is what they came up with. A young Catherine Keener. I wouldn't say that I'm sold on the resemblance, but at least it's not Pippi Longstocking or Punky Brewster, which is honestly what I was expecting.